Page 17 of Break Points and Face Offs

To his credit, Will only looks taken aback for a second before he composes himself.

“Sure,” he says. He sounds confident, but he must be bluffing. How good can a hockey player be at golf?

When I get home, I carry out some research on William O’Reilly—something I should have done earlier. I underestimated him. I won’t make the same mistake again.

His college hockey career was mediocre. There are the usual pictures of him in that stupid hockey gear, mostly hidden in a large group, holding up a trophy. I can’t find anything on his junior career, but that isn’t too important anyway. I have to will myself to keep going. Even reading a couple of articles on college hockey bores me to tears. What I don’t quite understand, is why he got his undergraduate degree at Boston College where he played hockey and then his Masters at Princeton.

Princeton is more well-known for its undergraduate programs. I’m here because my father hates every other Ivy League school—especially Harvard—and anything less than Ivy League is unacceptable. Had Will been rejected from Princeton originally? I’m probably clinging to this scenario so I have ammunition in our little sparring matches.

Will O’Reilly doesn’t have an Instagram account. At least, not one that I can find. I do a quick scan of Facebook, just in case, and find a private account with an old profile picture of a young Will, smiling in a maroon hockey jersey. He probably has this account to keep up with old school friends or family members. I don’t imagine there’ll be anything interesting enough on there worth trying to friend him to find out.

My research has given me nothing to go on. All I can do is call on my experience at beating people by any means necessary.

Taking the business card from my pocket, I call George Wilke’s office and agree on a time for Will and I to play golf with him next Wednesday.

7

WILL

We don’t have another class until Thursday, so I focus on studying and finding excerpts of that book Priestley still has. I find a few reviews on Google Scholar and J-Stor, which thankfully I have access to through my Princeton login. There are quotes in some of them and I get the general gist of what the authors are saying, though I really need to get my hands on that book.

The cheapest one I’ve managed to find in an online secondhand bookstore still costs over fifty dollars. I do not have a spare fifty dollars—not until the end of the month anyway.

I speak to my parents every night on the phone. When they ask me if I’m okay for money, I lie and tell them yes, though it’s not a total lie. I have enough to buy food and I’m not out on the street. Fifty dollars is a lot of money to my parents. Even though I know they’d hand it over in a heartbeat without even asking what it’s for, I hate to think what they might go without that week because of it. The kinds of cheap meals they’d have to live off, or a needed repair that would have to go unaddressed for another month.

I get a private message from Priestley:

Still on for golf this Wednesday? You’re not working, are you?

I think about telling him I’m busy. Why do I need to play golf with him?

That’s a dumb thought. I know exactly why I should do this. It isn’t every day that people like me get introductions to men like George Wilkes. Another invite to the country club can’t hurt my reputation, either.

People like Priestley already have a foot in the door, and whether he knows it or not, he’s giving me a foot in, too.

I’m free.

Do you have anything suitable to wear? I could lend you something if not.

The thought of wearing Priestley Rosenthal’s clothes makes me shudder.

I have clothes, don’t worry.

Golf clothes?

I resist the urge to throw my phone at the wall and type back in all caps:

YES GOLF CLOTHES!

I delete the all-caps.

He still replies like I screamed at him through text.

Okay fine, if you say so.

He probably thinks I don’t know what people wear to play golf. He has a pretty snooty view of anyone outside of his circle, doesn’t he?

I realize I could use this to my advantage as I hunt down the smart golf pants and polo I’d brought with me to Princeton.