Page 42 of Break Points and Face Offs

Will chuckles beside me. “Leave him alone, guys.”

“Okay, dropping it,” Mrs. O’Reilly says, holding her hands up in surrender.

The rest of dinner goes by pleasantly, apart from a moment when Chase pinches his sister and she retaliates by threatening to bite him.

When I see Will helping to clear the table, I get up and copy him. I won’t have him one-upping me, not in anything.

“You’re not allowed to help,” Mrs. O’Reilly says, shooing me back into my seat. “You’re the guest.”

Mr. O’Reilly takes his plate to the kitchen and starts filling the sink with soapy water.

“Me and Will can wash these, you guys go and watch the game,” Mrs. O’Reilly says.

I think I’d rather wash dishes than watch TV with someone’s father. But I’m starting to understand the customs around here. It would be rude to insist.

“Come on, Priestley,” Mr. O’Reilly says, hanging up a dish towel. “Puck drops at seven.”

I’m guessing that’s hockey talk for the game’s starting.

“Hurry up in there, son or you’ll miss it.”

“Where should I sit?” I ask when I follow him into the living room.

He tells me to sit on the couch because his wife likes the armchair.

I leave a space between us on the couch while he messes around with the remote control, looking for the sports channel.

“You a hockey fan, Priestley?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughs. “Call me Joe, please. The last time someone called me ‘sir’ was when the wife got drunk at a winery and some poor woman had to come and ask me to escort her home.”

I am completely out of my depth with this anecdote. Am I supposed to laugh? Commiserate? Frown seriously? I watch his face for clues and decide a laugh will suffice.

“Who’s your team?”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking.

“Hockey team?”

“Yeah.”

“Um … the Bruins?”

“Really?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Connecticut, but I also spent some time in school in New York.”

“Not a Rangers guy?”

I shake my head.

Thankfully, Will chooses that moment to come back into the room. I never thought I’d be so relieved to see him.

He takes a seat between me and his father on the couch, putting a plate of snacks down on the coffee table. He’s crunching a carrot stick when he starts asking his father questions I don’t understand. I think they’re discussing the starting lineup and debating certain players’ recent performances. They keep saying the word “Pasta” like it’s someone’s name.

“Your friend says he’s a Bruins guy.”