Page 18 of Break Points and Face Offs

I’d laughed at my dad when he suggested I bring golf clothes, just in case I was invited to play. Yeah, right, I’d said, like that’s gonna happen.

Well, looks like Pop was right again.

Rather than rely on Priestley to get me in, I asked Spencer if he’d mind getting me on the guest list again. It was obviously no sweat to him, and I tried to push down that bitterness that rises every now and then when I look around and see how easy some people have it and without even knowing.

Everyone has different lives, different shit to deal with. My ma’s always telling me this. She knows better than anyone how easily you can be humbled overnight.

I try to put all that out of my head as I walk into Oak Hill carrying Spencer’s clubs. I would have been able to rent a set, but it probably would have cost me a week’s wages and I’m still saving up for that textbook.

I spot Priestley standing at the bar, chatting with George Wilkes like he’s a fellow middle-aged banker. How does he do that shit? The only time I’ve ever seen a crack in that confidence is when Professor Moreno put me top of the leaderboard instead of him.

But he talks to guys like George Wilkes, guys you have to make an appointment with months in advance, like they’re old buddies. I guess being in a fraternity must imbue you with the belief that there’s no one above you. Not a healthy thing to teach people in my opinion.

I square my shoulders before greeting them. Priestley gives me an appraising glance before looking away again. He and George wrap up their conversation.

He waits until we’re heading toward the course to speak directly to me.

“You brought your own clubs.”

It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer.

“I had called ahead and rented you a set. On me, of course.”

I’m even more glad I borrowed Spencer’s now.

“I have played golf before, you know.”

Does his smug smile waver? Does he think I’ve never played in my life? Does he think we don’t have golf courses, driving ranges, or fucking mini golf in Boston?

As we climb into the cart, George Wilkes asks me what my handicap is. I tell him I haven’t played in a long time.

Priestley’s smile is back. He thinks I’m bluffing.

When we get to the first hole, a caddy parks the golf cart and a couple of his buddies carry our bags for us. It’s kind of embarrassing, having people do this for me, but Priestley and George look natural about it, so I try to be, too.

George has a pretty good swing. I step back to let Priestley go next, but he steps aside, waving his arm and insisting, that smug grin at its absolute worst.

It’s been a while. I blow out a long breath as I adjust my grip, trying to summon that kid who loved going to the driving range with his dad. People even said I should consider taking lessons when they saw my swing at that age, but hockey was always my first love when it comes to sports.

I’m a little rusty, but when I hit the ball, the distance isn’t too bad. George Wilkes slaps me on the back and nods. When I look back at Priestley, his face is red.

I know I’m supposed to use this as a networking opportunity, but any time I consider butting into the conversation, it feels wrong.

Luckily, George keeps talking to me as we make our way across the course. Turns out he’s into hockey, though for some reason the Rangers are his team.

Priestley looks pissed while we chat about the NHL season, who we have to lift the Stanley Cup. I’m betting on Colorado, but of course I’m hoping the Bruins will have a fairytale ending this season. George has a wager—I don’t even want to know how much—on the Florida Panthers making the trifecta. I tell him he’s gonna lose his money and he laughs.

By the time we reach the final putting green, Priestley is visibly rattled, though George doesn’t seem to notice until Priestley messes up an easy putt.

“Maybe you need to putt your glasses on, Priestley,” George jokes.

Priestley laughs. It’s so obviously fake, it sounds like a cat being strangled. Again, George doesn’t notice. He steps up to the hole, tapping his ball in with expert precision.

Obviously they still both smoke me, but I didn’t embarrass myself and that’s the main thing.

When he’s leaving us at the entrance, George shakes both our hands before turning to me and handing me a business card.

“You give me a call if you ever want to see a hockey game in the city, do you hear?”