Page 61 of Break Points and Face Offs

“Priestley might be an annoying as shit, stick-in-the-mud, but he worked his ass off for this group. He deserves a little respect.”

The laughter dies instantly. Peter looks down guiltily into his beer and Scott rubs the back of his neck. But Emily scoffs, reaching for another chip.

“Come on, Will. He hates you!” she says. “He literally screwed you over with that country club shit.”

Does everyone know I don’t have a membership to the country club?

If they do, at least Priestley’s the only one who’s honest about it.

I push my beer away, not feeling like it anymore, not without the person who made this celebration possible anyway.

“I’ve gotta go.”

Scott and Peter make a few halfhearted attempts to get me to stay but Emily waves them off. As I walk to the door, I hear her say, “Leave him.”

I’m not used to being unpopular or having to call people out. That was always the captain’s job, or the coach’s. It can’t be an easy one, but it’s one Priestley’s excelled in for years, despite how unpopular it makes him sometimes.

I stop by a liquor store on my way to Priestley’s dorm and buy a cheap bottle of champagne.

I think he’s going to leave me standing out in the street when he doesn’t answer his phone or the buzzer even though I press it multiple times. But eventually, his voice comes out, loud and clear, telling me to go away.

“It’s me. Let me up.”

He groans before letting out a string of expletives under his breath.

“You could at least take your finger off the little speaker thing before you curse me out, Rosie. That’s not very nice.”

“Go away.”

“Nope.”

There’s a pause. My heart pounds in my ears. Why does it matter if he lets me up or not? Because it’s the right thing to do, I tell myself.

“I brought you a gift.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Come on. I thought you had manners.”

He sighs. “You can come up and leave it and then you can go.”

He presses the buzzer and the door gives under my weight.

I’m only embarrassed of my meager offering when I get to Priestley’s floor and he opens the door, looking immaculate despite the fact he’s probably holed up in here studying like a hermit.

Something gnaws in my stomach at the sight of him in his only slightly less stuffy chinos and college sweater. He runs a hand through his hair and I get a waft of his cologne. I follow his gaze to the cheap bottle in my hand.

“What is that?”

“It’s champagne.”

“That is not champagne.”

“Can you stop being a snob for five seconds and let me in?”

He huffs, turning and letting me into the room. It’s more of a self-contained apartment than a dorm room. He has his own regular-sized kitchen and a nice, brown, fabric couch with a decent TV. Big windows looking out onto a lush, green lawn.

I try not to look around at everything with greedy eyes.