The Captain's Tutor Girl

JAYCE

I was awake before Rory opened my door, but that didn’t mean I was getting up.

My alarm had already gone off twice, and both times I’d shut it off without opening my eyes. School started in less than an hour, and unless someone had turned first period into soccer practice, I didn’t see the point in moving.

My room was still dim, the curtains barely letting in any light, and for a second I thought maybe if I stayed still enough, everyone in this house would forget I existed.

Then the door creaked open.

“Jayce?”

I dragged a pillow over my head. “Go away.”

Small footsteps crossed the floor, followed by the sudden weight of my little sister climbing onto my bed like she paid rent here.

“Mom said if you don’t get up, Dad’s coming in next.”

That got my attention.

I shoved the pillow off my face and squinted at her. Aurora—Rory to everybody—was sitting on my bed in pink pajama pants and an oversized shirt, her braid half falling out. She looked way too awake for a four-year-old.

“Traitor,” I muttered.

She grinned. “I’m helping.”

“By ruining my life before seven?”

She nodded like that made perfect sense.

From downstairs, I could already hear my dad’s voice. Not yelling exactly. Worse. That low, sharp tone that meant he was already irritated and I was probably the reason why.

Rory leaned closer. “You should get up before he gets mad.”

“A little late for that.”

She patted my shoulder like I was the one who needed comforting. “You’re in trouble again.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“I heard Mom say your grades suck.”

I stared at her.

She blinked back, completely serious.

“Rory.”

“What? Dad said it.”

Of course he did.

I sat up, rubbed a hand over my face, and checked the clock.

6:42.

Great.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and Rory immediately reached for my hand like she’d been sent on an official mission and completed it.

“Mom said now,” she reminded me.

“Yeah, I got it.”

She dragged me into the hallway, and the smell of coffee hit me before we even made it downstairs. Kol’s door was open, which meant my brother was already up and probably being annoying somewhere else. Lucky me.

The second I stepped into the kitchen, my dad looked over.

“Sit.”

No good morning. No pretending.

I dropped into a chair at the table while Rory climbed into hers with her coloring book. Kol was inhaling cereal across from me like nothing in the room was tense enough to choke on.

My dad set a folded sheet of paper in front of me.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

Progress report.

Two classes hanging by a thread. One already below where it should be. At the bottom were teacher comments that all said the same thing in different ways: capable, distracted, disruptive, not applying himself.

My dad crossed his arms. “You want to explain that?”

I looked over the page again like the grades might’ve changed in the last three seconds. “I’m working on it.”

His laugh was short and humorless. “That’s your answer?”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth,” he said, “is that you don’t care until there’s a consequence.”

Kol kept eating, but I caught the look he shot me over his spoon. Interested. Entertained. Glad it wasn’t him.

My mom, already dressed in scrubs under a sweater, was packing Rory’s lunch at the counter. “Grant,” she said quietly.

Dad ignored her. “Your coach called yesterday.”

That made me look up.

“He told me if your grades drop any further, eligibility becomes a problem.”

Something twisted hard in my chest.

Soccer.

The only word in that sentence that mattered.

“He can’t bench me over one progress report.”

“He can if you’re failing.”

“I’m not failing.”

“You’re close enough that it should scare you.”

I shoved the paper back on the table. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’ve been saying that.”

Because what else was I supposed to say?

That school bored me to death? That half my teachers acted like my life was over if I missed one assignment? That the only time anything in my head ever got quiet was when I was on the field?

I leaned back in my chair. “I said I’ll fix it.”

Dad planted a hand on the table. “If soccer is the only thing making you show up to school, then maybe you should start acting like you understand what’s at risk.”

Then he grabbed his coffee and keys and walked out.

The front door slammed a second later.

Kol broke the silence first. “Well. That was fun.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

Mom turned and set a plate in front of me. Eggs and toast. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

I stared at the plate.

She folded her arms. “You don’t get to be angry at everyone because you’re making a mess of things.”

“I’m not angry at everyone.”

She gave me a look that said I wasn’t convincing anybody. “Then what are you angry at, Jayce?”

I didn’t answer, because there wasn’t one easy answer. I was angry at school. At teachers. At my dad. At the fact that everybody had apparently decided junior year was life or death. At the way they all looked at me like I was one bad choice away from proving them right.

I grabbed the toast.

Mom sighed, like this counted as a win even though we both knew it didn’t. “Then start showing us you mean it.”

Kol pushed his bowl away and stood. “You still taking me after school?”

“If I’m not academically disqualified from driving, yeah.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Imagine living with me.”

“I do.”

Rory giggled into her coloring book. Mom almost smiled, but it disappeared fast.

Then she looked at the clock. “Shoes. Bags. Everybody move.”

The kitchen exploded into motion. Kol disappeared upstairs. Rory started arguing about her hair bow. I grabbed my backpack from beside the door and slung it over one shoulder, trying not to think about the stack of assignments shoved inside.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Dylan.

u alive?

I typed back with one hand.

unfortunately

His answer came fast.

good. if you skip again coach will kill you before school does

I snorted.

Mom looked over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed me Rory’s little jacket. “Take your sister to the car.”

Rory ran to me immediately. “I can do it myself.”

“You absolutely cannot,” Mom said.

“I’m big.”

“You are wearing two different socks.”

Rory looked down at her feet, offended.

I opened the front door before she could argue her way into a courtroom victory and took her hand. Cold morning air hit us instantly.

Our driveway was long and stupidly expensive-looking, which my dad liked because it matched the house and the image. Mom’s SUV was already running. Dad’s car was gone.

Figures.

Rory swung our joined hands as we walked. “Are you gonna get in trouble at school today?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether the school decides to be annoying.”

She considered that seriously. “It probably will.”

“Yeah,” I said, opening the back door for her. “Probably.”

She climbed in, still talking, but I was only half listening. My mind was already back on that progress report sitting in my bag. On eligibility. On the fact that if I lost soccer, there’d be nothing left at school I actually wanted.

I shut Rory’s door and turned just as the front door of the house next to ours opened.

Paige Hayes stepped outside with a tote bag over one shoulder and a book in one hand like she’d been born prepared for everything. Hair pulled back. Glasses on. Expression already set in that same unimpressed way she always wore around me.

She locked her door, turned, and caught me looking.

There was a pause.

Then her gaze moved over me once—messy hair, wrinkled shirt, backpack half open—and she gave me that exact look I hated.

Like she already knew everything she needed to know.

I leaned against the car and called over, “You ever smile before first period, Hayes, or is that against school policy?”

She didn’t even slow down.

“It is when I’m looking at you.”

Rory gasped from the backseat like she’d just witnessed murder.

Paige got into her beat-up car and shut the door without another glance.

I stared after her longer than I needed to, jaw tight for no reason I wanted to admit.

Mom honked from the driver’s seat.

“Jayce.”

I yanked open the passenger door and got in.

Northwood High was waiting for me. So were teachers, assignments, and at least six different reasons to hate the day before lunch.

And somehow, before we’d even left the driveway, Paige Hayes had already made it worse.

I looked out the window as we pulled onto the road.

Yeah.

This day was going to be long.