13. Will #2
On his third try, he gets a little closer to the target in the lower left corner.
At least I know it’s highly unlikely he’ll get the targets on the right side as he’s a right hander and shoots toward the left.
Shooting pucks at that angle takes a lot of practice.
Even Priestley Rosenthal can’t learn that fast.
He takes a few more shots at the target in the bottom left, getting closer every time. He has two pucks left when he hits it, sending it clicking back into the net.
“Congrat—”
“Wait, I’ve still got one more puck, I might be able to get another one.”
“Oh, really? It took you nine tries to get the easiest one.”
“There’s another one on the bottom there.”
He looks all cocky, but not when he realizes how hard it is to hit targets at that angle and he only has one puck with no practice shots left.
He gives it a good try anyway. It doesn’t even go near the post.
“Better luck next time.”
“I got one target, that’s still something.”
“It is.” I pat him on the back.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Collecting the pucks.”
“Aren’t you going to show me how it’s done?”
I pause. Accuracy shooting might have been my strong suit, but I’ve watched NHLers miss a fair few targets in games like this. I’m not all that confident about my odds with Priestley breathing down my neck.
But I can’t back down now.
“Sure,” I shrug, handling a puck to where Priestley’s standing with his arms crossed. “Move.”
I push him out of the way with my hip and he slides backward in his skates.
I’m trying to ignore him as I line the puck up.
I could put the easy target back up, but that’d be like accepting defeat.
Instead, I eye the target above the one Priestley knocked down on the left side of the net.
My first shot goes in the goal, but wide of the target.
Surprisingly, Priestley doesn’t chirp me about it. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he’s saving his taunts for when I really embarrass myself.
I take another shot at the target. This time I miss by a hair. The puck clangs off the posts and comes flying out. Fuck, I hate that sound.
I try to zone out the fact that Priestley’s standing behind me somewhere. Watching me with a critical eye.
The third shot flies exactly where I want it and the target snaps back with a satisfying clink.
I turn around to gloat, but the scowl on Priestley’s face doesn’t warm me like it usually does.
“Want me to show you how to hit a backhander?”
He shrugs. “Be my guest.”
My backhand shot isn’t my best, but I have hit targets with it plenty of times before. I’ve got seven pucks left if I’m playing by the same rules as Priestley. So far, we’re tied with one target each. I go for the easier bottom right side and miss on my first two tries. Five pucks left.
I graze it with my next shot and finally hit it with three pucks remaining.
Two more to sweep the board. It’s not gonna happen, but I line one of my two remaining pucks up and shoot into the right top corner, missing by a mile.
Priestley snorts, but I ignore it. I still got one more target than he did.
My last puck is closer, but I still miss.
“Better luck next time,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you got one target, which means I have to return your serve twice.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Good luck returning it once.”
Shit, did I make a mistake agreeing to this competition?
“You wanna eat?” I ask as we head out to the parking lot after saying our goodbyes to Jimmy and putting the equipment we used away.
“I could eat.”
For a second I can forget about the stupid rivalry.
Even when we’re supposed to be working together, we somehow find a way to make it into a competition.
I know Ma would tell me to put my pride aside and just let Priestley take the lead on this one project.
But I can’t. I don’t trust him not to screw me over like he tried to with that country club stunt.
And it may be petty, but I don’t like that he always finds a way to win. It doesn’t seem fair.
“What’s going on in that scheming little head of yours?” he asks.
“Huh? Oh, very funny. I’m not scheming, just hungry.”
“You’re not trying to delay being humiliated on the tennis court are you?”
Maybe. “Nope.”
“Okay, good. Because we really need to get this over with fast if we’re going to get any work done. Otherwise this weekend will have all been for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say it was for nothing.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“I got to see the impeccable Priestley Rosenthal in his pajamas.”
He rolls his eyes. “You and a house full of fraternity brothers.”
And who else? Who else has seen him undone? Anyone? Would Priestley ever allow someone to see him vulnerable enough to let go for more than five seconds?
I put the thought out of my head as we pull up to eat before hitting the sport’s center. Dad sends me a text while we’re finishing up our lunch, saying,
Court’s all yours kid, just spoke to the owner
I text him a quick thanks and get back in the car to drive over.
When we get to the center, we have to rent a couple of rackets. Priestley looks at his like I just gave him a plastic kid’s toy.
“Does it live up to your lofty standards, Ros … enthal?”
“It’ll do.”
I can’t wait to start calling him Rosie again. It doesn’t suit him—at all—but that’s the best thing about it.
There are two indoor courts in the center. Blue surfaces, low nets running across the middle. I don’t understand all the lines on the floor, but when I ask Priestley where I’m supposed to stand, he just grins. “You’re going to want to warm up for this, believe me.”
I’m unsuccessful when I try to hold in a gulp.
I copy his movements when he starts warming up. He’s pointing out all the different lines and naming them for me.
“That’s the T, and that’s the baseline.”
I nod, most of what he’s saying goes over my head.
Seeing Priestley Rosenthal in shorts is kind of distracting.
Even his pajamas at breakfast this morning were fancy.
They were all black and looked like they were made out of linen.
They should have been creased to fuck, but they weren’t.
I imagined him sleeping on top of the sheets with his arms crossed over his chest like Count Dracula.
Now he stretches—really fucking low—in a pair of shorts with the Princeton P stitched into the leg. I match his stretch and his eyebrows come up.
“You’re more flexible than I thought you’d be,” he remarks.
My heart rate increases. There’s that blood rushing south again.
“You’d be surprised how flexible hockey players are.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat.
Once we’re warmed up, Priestley jogs to the other side of the court and starts warming up his shoulder.
When he’s finished, he looks across the net at me.
“What?”
“Are you really going to stand like that?”
“Like what?”
He gestures vaguely at me with the arm not holding a racket.
“You’re never going to return my serve like that. How would you prepare for a puck?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is there ever a point in a hockey game where a puck might be coming at you at over one hundred miles per hour?”
“Like, the whole game.”
“No, I mean … never mind.”
He jogs back across the court, stepping over the net until he’s on my side.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“Why?”
“Because, when I beat you, I don’t want you whining that it wasn’t fair.”
I still have a feeling that nothing about this is fair, but it’s too late to back out now.
“You need to fix your stance.”
“Okay?”
“Like this.” He crouches low and holds his racket with both hands, like he’s getting ready to catch something with it.
I try to copy him, adjusting my crouch until his face untwists from that expression.
He nods. “Better.”
“Yeah?”
“It’ll do. Good luck,” he says, slapping me on the back.
Once he has a ball in his hand, it becomes real. If I lose here, Priestley will be in charge, and I will have made it that way. Poor Peter. Priestley’s gonna give him hell. No, I haven’t lost yet. Focus. You can do this, you can—
Oh, shit.
The ball already flew past me and I didn’t even flinch.
“I wasn’t ready.”
“You were in position to receive my serve.”
“Well, I wasn’t mentally ready.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll give you that one. Next time, if you’re not ready, you need to hold your hand up so I know.”
I nod.
This time, I pay attention.
I watch him bounce the ball a couple of times on the court before throwing it above his head.
He brings the racket behind him before moving it in a smooth arc over his head.
I don’t see the rest, it all happens in a flash.
This time I at least flinch, but my feet haven’t even moved from their spot. Holy shit, he’s fast.
“That’s one,” Priestley calls over the net. “Unless you’d like to contest that one, too?”
I bite my tongue. “Nah, you’re good.” Too good.
It goes on like that for the next few serves. Me, watching him like a hawk. Him, serving so fast I barely move from my spot.
Shit, this is a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be.
Hitting targets with a hockey stick was so much easier than this. Priestley had to know that. Looks like he got me again.
On the sixth serve, I manage to actually touch the ball with the edge of my racket. It makes a horrible thump sound and plops exactly nowhere. The impact sends a shot through my wrist. Not pain exactly, but discomfort for sure. I shake my hand, trying to loosen it back up.
I expect Priestley to look smug, but he’s staring at me with concern.
“Don’t grip your racket like that,” he shouts over the net. “You’ll hurt your wrist.”
He holds his arm up to demonstrate. “Hold it like this.”
I nod and adjust my grip before getting ready for his next serve.
I still don’t manage to touch my racket to it this time, but I do move better. I’ve realized way too late that it’d take me years to master this skill. At this point, I’m just trying to embarrass myself as little as possible.