Page 52 of Break Points and Face Offs

“Like you watch hockey?”

He scowls at me.

“Why this song anyway? What does it have to do with victory?”

“It says ‘light ‘em up.’ That’s what we call scoring on another team in hockey. We lit ‘em up.”

He rolls his eyes so hard I think he’s gonna hurt himself. For some reason, it makes me smile.

Just to piss him off even further, I start singing. Let’s just say I won’t be auditioning for American Idol any time soon.

“And people think tennis players are nerds,” he says when the song ends and a Sia song starts playing. “Enlighten me, why is this one a victory song?”

“Because she says, ‘I’m invincible, I win every single game.’”

“God,” he groans. “How literal. How many concussions did you guys have between you?”

I laugh. A comment like that coming from him might have pissed me off before this weekend, but—even though he’s been a downer most of the time—something has definitely shifted. As much as he’s tried to hide it, sleeping in the same house as him has shown me that Priestley Rosenthal is actually human. Not a very fun human, but no doubt a talented one judging by what I just saw on the tennis court. The most embarrassing part? We weren’t even on the court for twenty minutes before he handed my ass to me on a silver platter.

“I gotta admit, Priestley, you’re one hell of a tennis player.”

His expression gets somber again.

“Tennis is just a hobby for me now.”

“You never considered going pro?”

“Why would I?”

“Because you’re good? Because you obviously like it? Because pro tennis players probably make bank?”

“The top fifty or so in the world make … ‘bank,’ yes.”

“So what? It’s the money thing?”

“No, not that.” He sighs, shifting in his seat. “It’s too uncertain. I don’t like the idea of my success hanging on a single match, a single point, changing with my ranking from year to year. If I get a good job in finance, my trajectory can only be an upward one. For an athlete, at a certain point, your body won’t allow that to happen. Look at Djokovic.”

I only vaguely know who he’s talking about.

Priestley gives me an impatient huff before explaining. “He was untouchable, the greatest in the world, but he’s thirty-seven-years old. Eventually, things start to give out. Now he’s beaten by players who wouldn’t have been fit to lick his shoes a few years ago.”

“Yeah, but no matter what, he’ll always be the GOAT, right? How many of those things did he win in his career?”

“Grand Slams?”

I nod.

“Twenty-four.”

I whistle. “That’s like winning twenty-four Stanley Cups, right?”

“Not unless you have four Stanley Cups a year.”

“Okay, so like five and a half Stanley Cups.” I grin. “The guy’s still a legend. He doesn’t have to do anything more.”

“But he’s Novak Djokovic. Most people aren’t him.”

I take a turn and drive past my old high school. Playing for the high school hockey team and playing junior games on weekends was fun. For a while, before I lost my childhood capacity for self-delusion, I imagined myself playing in the NHL. It didn’t take long for me to look around and see that wasn’t gonna happen.