Chapter 7
Tutor Me Doc
Sebastian
Istare at Professor Harrington across his cluttered desk, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the bomb he's just dropped.
"I don't need a tutor for the rest of the semester. This was just going to be once or maybe twice, I thought." I say for the third time, as if repetition might somehow change his mind. "I understand the material."
"Understanding and regurgitating aren't the same thing, Mr. Moretti.
" Professor Harrington leans back in his chair, his perpetually rumpled corduroy jacket somehow looking both unprofessional and perfect.
His rescue greyhound, Freud, dozes in a corner of the office on an expensive-looking dog bed that probably costs more than my textbooks.
What the hell in an Eurgo-pupp… never mind. Focus dammit.
"I've aced every other course I've taken," I counter. "I can handle this one."
"Your last paper on social influence theory was technically flawless," he concedes, "and utterly devoid of human insight. You analyzed peer pressure like you were describing a chemical reaction."
"Isn't that the point? To be objective?"
He sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"Psychology isn't just about memorizing theories, Sebastian.
It's about understanding people; messy, contradictory, irrational people.
" He puts his glasses back on and fixes me with a penetrating look. "People like your future patients."
That stings because he knows exactly where to hit me.
"My applications are due in four months," I say, hating the hint of desperation in my voice. "I can't afford to get a C in this class."
"Precisely why I've arranged a tutor." He shuffles through some papers on his desk. "One of my best students. He has a natural talent for human behavior and has agreed to take you on… Which wasn't easy to get anyone to do. All my students are very busy with their own studies."
"I can study harder." I don't need help. I don't have time for help. And I definitely don't need some stranger analyzing me like I'm a broken machine that needs fixing.
"This isn't about studying harder. It's about seeing things differently." He leans forward. "Medical schools don't just want students who can memorize symptoms. They want doctors who can connect with patients, who understand the psychological aspects of illness."
I open my mouth to protest again, but he holds up a hand.
"Besides, your public speaking skills could use some work. Gavin can help with that, too."
Now I'm truly offended. I thought I pulled it off last time. "What's wrong with my public speaking?" Wait, why does 'Gavin' sound familiar?
"You presented your last project like you were reading a grocery list. Technically flawless. Completely lifeless. You made emotional intelligence sound like tax code."
"The spleen is underappreciated," I mutter defensively.
"And then there's the matter of finding you in the bathroom beforehand," he continues, his voice gentler now. "Sebastian, that level of anxiety before presentations isn't normal or sustainable. Especially not for someone planning to defend a dissertation one day."
Heat floods my face. Of course, he would walk in at just the wrong time. "That was just—"
"A one-time thing? I've seen you turn green before every presentation this semester." He leans forward slightly. "Medical schools conduct multiple interview rounds. Residency programs are even more intense. You can't vomit your way through your career."
The truth of it stings worse than any failing grade could.
"Sebastian," his voice softens further, "you're brilliant. You know that. I know that. But brilliance without communication skills will limit your potential as a doctor. And anxiety this severe will eat you alive in medical school. You need this."
I slump back in my chair, recognizing defeat when it's staring me in the face, wearing elbow patches. "Fine. How much will this cost me?"
"That's for you two to work out. Most departmental tutors charge fifteen to twenty dollars an hour."
I mentally calculate the hit to my carefully budgeted expenses. Another dent in my savings, but still cheaper than retaking the course.
"When do I meet this paragon of psychological insight?" I ask, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.
As if on cue, there's a knock at the office door. Professor Harrington smiles. "That would be him now."
The door swings open before he can say "come in," and I turn, already compiling a mental list of cutting remarks for whoever this tutor is—
Golden hair. Six foot four of solid muscle. A smile that could power a small city.
It's the walking wet dream from the library, the one whose massive hands doing completely innocent things with books, somehow became the star of my most embarrassing— Stop. Brain, we are not doing this. Not here. Not when he's about to be responsible for my academic survival.
Oh no. Not him. Anyone but him. This can't be who Professor Harrington means.
"Hey, Professor!" Gavin-he's-damn-gorgeous-Robins bounds into the room with the enthusiasm of a happy puppy, his backpack slung casually over one impossibly broad shoulder.
He's wearing a Delta Psi Omega sweatshirt that stretches across his chest in ways that should be illegal, and it’s cut down the sides so I can just see ridges of muscles going all the way down to. .. Stop!
His hair is damp like he just got out of the shower. Where he’d have been wet and… Oh crap. I’m screwed.
He's so busy greeting the professor that he doesn't notice me, or the fact that he's on a collision course with where I'm sitting. Before I can move, his backpack swings around and knocks into me, sending me stumbling sideways into Professor Harrington's bookshelf.
Several heavy psychology textbooks rain down around me as I try to catch my balance.
"Whoa! I'm so sorry!" Large hands suddenly grip my shoulders, steadying me. Gavin's face is inches from mine, brown eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
"I'm fine," I manage, hyper-aware of how easily his hands encircle my upper arms. He could probably lift me with one arm. Not that I'm thinking about that.
"You hit the shelf pretty hard," he says, one hand moving to rub my arm where it struck the bookcase. "That's gonna bruise."
"It's nothing," I say, trying to step away, but somehow I'm trapped between him and the bookshelf, his large frame blocking my escape.
Professor Harrington clears his throat. "If you two are done with the physical comedy portion of our meeting..."
Gavin finally seems to register who I am. His eyes widen even further. "Wait… Doc? From the library? And the mixer?" His face breaks into a delighted grin. "You're the one who needs tutoring? That's awesome!"
"Awesome is not the word I would use," I mutter.
"I see you two have already met," Professor Harrington says, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. "Excellent. Gavin, Sebastian is struggling with some of our core concepts, particularly as they relate to interpersonal dynamics."
"I'm not struggling," I interrupt. "I just have a different perspective on the material."
"The perspective that it's all, what was your phrase? 'Subjective nonsense'?" Professor Harrington raises an eyebrow.
Gavin laughs, a deep, genuine sound that should be annoying but somehow isn't. "Still think psychology lacks empirical rigor, Doc?"
"Don't call me that," I snap automatically.
"Were you at track practice?" Harrington asks, eyeing his damp hair.
"Yeah, we're starting spring training. Got some events coming up next month and a few friendly games with State to keep the team sharp during the off-season."
I glance at my watch pointedly. This small talk is eating into time I could be using to study actual science.
"Right," Professor Harrington says, gathering his papers. "I have another appointment, so I'll leave you two to work out the details." He gives me a significant look. "Sebastian, I expect to see improvement on your next assignment. Gavin is one of our best. Listen to him."
With that, he ushers us into the hallway, Freud trotting behind him, and closes his office door, leaving me standing alone with six-foot-four of smiling jock that is filling me with confusion.
"So," Gavin says brightly, "coffee? We should figure out a schedule."
I stare at him, still processing. "You're a psychology major."
"Yep. Sports psychology is my focus, but general human behavior is my jam." He starts walking, apparently assuming I'll follow. Annoyingly, I do.
"And you're a football player."
"And track and field," he adds cheerfully. "Shot put, hammer throw, discus, when they need me. Spring semester I'm mostly track, fall is football."
"And you're in a fraternity," I continue, ticking off all the boxes that should make me run in the opposite direction.
"Delta Psi Omega," he confirms. "I'm the recruitment chair."
"Of course you are," I say under my breath.
We step outside into the cool January air. The campus is pretty empty since most students are still in class. Gavin seems unfazed by the temperature despite his damp hair.
"Beans your eyebrows go up, and your mouth opens just slightly, but you try to hide it immediately."
I stop walking. "Are you analyzing me right now?"