Page 60 of Break Points and Face Offs

That’s a good thing, right? So why doesn’t it feel good? Please don’t tell me I’m broken.

I square my shoulders. The last thing I want is for Will O’Reilly to think he’s rattled me.

“Who died and made you king of the library?”

He raises an eyebrow that tells me exactly what he’s thinking—I’m being immature.

I don’t care. I storm past him without a glance back.

It’s only when I’m sitting in my room later that night and a message comes through the group chat that I allow myself to even think about Will O’Reilly again.

Scott: Celebration tonight?

Celebration? What are we celebrating? Being slightly less pathetic losers than we were before?

I warn myself to ignore it, but I can’t.

Priestley: We’re number two.

Peter: Better than last.

Peter. Of course he’d say that.

Will: Peter’s right.

Priestley: Count me out.

Will: Fine.

Priestley: Fine.

The group chat keeps pinging while I try to study, arranging where and what time they’re going to meet.

The student bar at 7pm, of course. How original. How classy.

I will not allow them to distract me. I put my phone on silent and leave it face down on the desk while I plunge deeper into the books.

WILL

I should be happy Priestley didn’t show up. Scratch that, I shouldn’t be surprised Priestley deemed this little get-together too beneath him to show his face.

But something about celebrating without him feels wrong. Whether I like to admit it or not, Priestley was a big part of this project and a big part of us moving up that leaderboard.

He’s infuriating and pompous, sure. But he’s also seriously smart, hard-working and really fucking good at keeping us on track. If I’d wondered how he became president and captain of everything he ever joined, I don’t need to wonder anymore. He’s amazing at that stuff.

I try to enjoy myself, drinking the beer Scott just put down in front of me, but I can’t stop thinking about Priestley’s nervous face after the presentation. The way his hands shook on the table before he shoved them under his thighs. Priestley never lets anyone see him ruffled. It was like seeing Santa without his beard on. It was just wrong.

“What’s wrong, man?” Scott asks, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Nothing,” I shake my head. “Just wondering what Priestley’s doing.”

Emily snorts. “Probably sacrificing virgins on his altar.”

“No, he’s sticking pins in voodoo dolls of us,” Peter jokes, before getting suddenly serious and gulping.

“Maybe he’s looking up the legal implications of selling his soul for a top spot on the leaderboard.” Scott laughs.

I can’t join in this shit. It’s not nice.