Page 38 of Break Points and Face Offs

“You can skate, right?”

“Ye-es?”

“How about we have an accuracy shooting competition, at the rink? Coach Barber would let me use it before practice for half an hour.”

“No. That is not a fair competition. You played college hockey.”

Ah well, good try.

“Anyway, it’s already decided that I’m the leader.”

“Is it? Who decided?”

“We did?”

“No, you did. And that’s not very democratic. You do believe in democracy, don’t you, Priestley?”

He glares at me in the mirror.

“How did you get to be president of Alpha Alpha Dude?”

“Alpha Sigma Psi. And I was elected.”

“So maybe we could get the group to vote.”

A cloud passes over his face. He knows as well as I do that he’s already made a bad impression. There’s no way in hell Peter Chow’s voting for the guy who’s constantly up his ass about being ‘rumpled.’ That just leaves Emily and Scott, and I’m pretty sure Scott’s already pissed at him for the daggers he got leaving the library that day.

I sense the cogs slipping into place in Priestley’s head. I’d hate to be a fly on the wall inside that brain of his.

“I have a counter-proposal.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“I’ll do your accuracy shooting or whatever it’s called …”

I get a bad feeling the second he agrees with anything I say.

“If you can return my serve on the tennis court.”

I clear my throat while I consider the offer. How hard can it be to return his serve? He does mean just hit the ball back over the net to him, right?

I’ve only watched tennis a few times. I found it boring, to be honest. It was just a tiny, green, fuzzy ball bouncing from one side of the court to the other. A lot of grown men grunting and rolling around on the floor in shorts with their knobby knees on display.

They probably make way more of a deal about it than it deserves. I’ve played badminton in the yard, and messed around with those Velcro things you throw a tennis ball at—granted, tennis balls never last long in my ma’s house with the dog, but how hard can it be?

“Deal.”

The second I say it and see the smug look on Priestley’s face, I know I’ve made a mistake. But it’s too late to back out now.

Priestley acts like an alien in the grocery store. He looks like he’s never seen a can of beans before. Does he think all food comes ready cooked and on a plate? He has no idea how to operate a shopping cart. He’s mortified when I use a half off coupon and pay with cash instead of the Black Card he was flashing at the coffee shop that day.

I have to remind myself that he’s the one who should be embarrassed, not me.

Sure, there were wealthy students at BC. I played with some pretty wealthy guys on the hockey team. A lot of Canadian guys whose whole lives had been pampered because NHL teams had had their eye on them since they were kids. But there was something about the prestige of the Ivy League that made me automatically worry I didn’t belong the second I walked into that library. It didn’t help that this guy seemed to see straight through me and took the book I needed straight from my hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Priestley asks as we’re loading the bags into the car.

“Nothing.”