A reluctant smile creeps onto his face. “Win-win? As in, you win and Felicity wins? Because I don’t see how I’m a winner in that scenario.”

“Hey, she’s not a bad chick.” I’m lying through my teeth. She’s awful. But I already screwed up and cost Bran probably all of his savings—I’ll look like a total dick if I admit I tried to saddle him with the demon spawn.

“She’s hot,” I add, and this time I’m not lying. Felicity is hot. “She’s popular. She comes from old-school money.” I shrug. “She wouldn’t be the worst choice of girlfriends if you’re looking to date someone at Astor.”

He bends down to lace up his shoes. “Uh-huh. If she’s such a great choice, why don’t you want her?”

“Because I don’t do girlfriends,” I answer truthfully. “I suck at that shit. I was wasted when I said I’d go out with her, wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.”

“Okay.” Bran straightens and runs a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Let me get this straight—you bet me in a shooting match so that you could lose and I’d look good in front of Felicity?”

I give a sheepish nod.

“Because you want me to date her.” He pauses. “So that you don’t have to date her.”

I nod again, biting my lip to keep from laughing. But then Bran barks out a laugh, and I can’t help but chuckle in return.

“That’s some messed-up logic.”

“I’m a Royal. Messed up is my middle name.” I shake my head in exasperation. “I just didn’t count on you getting stage fright and blowing the match.”

“Hey,” he protests. “A thousand bucks was on the line. I choked.”

I reach out and smack him on his arm—his non-throwing one. “Don’t let Coach hear you say that. Choking ain’t allowed.”

“There’s no money on our games,” he replies. “Which means no money pressure. Just the pressure Coach puts on us to win.”

“Money pressure?”

“Yeah, that kind of shit stresses me out. Probably because cash has been tight in my house ever since I was a kid.”

Once again, guilt lodges in my throat, making my voice come out hoarse. “Seriously, dude. I did a crappy thing last night. And it’s not that I think you can’t pay your debts. It’s just that I shouldn’t have made that bet in the first place.” I forcibly grab his hand and smack the bills into his palm. “Take it. It’s not charity. It’s me promising to never again throw you under the bus to save my own hide. I’ll deal with Felicity another way. If you don’t take it, I’m going to follow your ass around and shove the cash in your pocket at inconvenient times. I might even buy you a car and park it in the lot outside with a big-ass bow on top. I can be real annoying.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” he drawls.

“So you’ll take it?”

After a long moment, he nods. “All right.” Gratitude and a tinge of respect line his voice. “I’m glad you told me the truth. I really didn’t want to have to hate you.”

I laugh. “You wouldn’t have been able to hate me, anyway. Nobody can.”

Bran and I bump fists and then head out to the practice field.

* * *

Next up is Hartley. As I make my way to first period, I finger the chain in my pocket. There’s a fancy velvet box that goes with it, but I figured that would be overkill.

“Hey, bestie.” I catch up to Hartley before she can enter the classroom.

She steps away from the doorway to let a few other students in. “What’s up?”

“I made up with Bran.”

“Did you?” She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. My fingers itch to do it for her.

“He can’t resist my charm,” I tease.

“No one can,” she replies with a grin. “Not even me, obviously.”

A broad smile breaks across my own face. I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace. “Anyway, since I’m apologizing, I want to give you this.”

Her eyes widen as I dangle the necklace in front of her. She stares at it for a moment and then reluctantly brushes a finger across the delicate chain. “I can’t accept this.”

“I got it from Candy Machine,” I tell her. “So either you take it or I’m going to throw it away.”

“A candy machine?” she asks. Her fingertips linger on the chain, tracing it down to cradle one of the three little gold charms. She wants it, but for once in my life, I don’t press her. She likes to make her own decision and in her own time.

“Yup.” I grab her palm and drop the chain in it. “Here. It’s yours to do whatever you want with. If you don’t want it, toss it.”

And then I make myself walk into the classroom without another word.

* * *

The rest of the day flies by. Much to my relief, Felicity steers clear of me, even at lunch. She sits with her headband-wearing girlfriends, looking like a ’50s girl band, while I joke around with my own friends.

In Calc, I sit between Ella and Hartley, but we don’t get a chance to talk much because Ms. Mann springs a pop quiz on us. To my uneasiness, she watches me for most of the period with an unhappy look.

I’m not the only one who notices. At one point, Hartley pokes me in the ribs and whispers, “What’d you do now?”

“Nothing,” I whisper back. I haven’t had any contact with Ms. Mann since I, well, had contact with Ms. Mann.

“Mr. Royal, Ms. Wright,” comes the sharp voice of our teacher. “Less talking and more solving, please.” She’s just asked everyone to solve questions one through five in the textbook.

Hartley immediately bends her head to resume the task. I’ve already solved all five equations, so I scribble something else in my notebook. I tear off the corner of the page, wait until Ms. Mann is looking away, and slide the note onto Hartley’s desk. I’d written: Coming to the game Friday night?

She stiffens for a beat, looks to the front of the room, and then unfolds the note.

After she reads it, she picks up her pencil, writes something, and slides the paper back.

Maybe, is her response.

I scribble again and pass the note. Maybe?? We’re best friends! I need support tonight. Best friends support each other.

She passes it back. I might have to work Friday. I told one of the other waitresses I can cover for her if she needs me.

The note passes between us several more times.

OK. But you don’t know for sure if you’re working?

Not yet. I’ll find out the day of.

OK. Let me know. If you’re not working, you’re coming to the game! OR ELSE.

Hartley snickers softly, but not softly enough. Ms. Mann’s sharp gaze once again lands in our vicinity.

“Eyes on your own work, Ms. Wright.”

Hartley flushes at the implication that she’s been cheating. She discreetly tucks our note under her notebook and gets back to work.

The moment the bell rings, I shove my books into my backpack and get to my feet.

“Mr. Royal, a moment, please.”

Crap. “See you at lunch?” I say to the girls.

Ella nods and pats me on the arm, while Hartley shoots a wary look between me and Ms. Mann. Right. Hartley was outside the door that day, which frickin’ blows, because the last thing I want is to remind her of that. She already thinks I’m a dog.

“Mr. Royal,” Ms. Mann commands.

Gritting my teeth, I approach her desk. “Ms. Mann,” I mock.

She glances toward the doorway to make sure it’s empty but doesn’t make a move to get up and close the door. I guess she wants to eliminate temptation.

When her gaze returns to mine, her expression is cloudy with frustration and her voice is barely above a whisper. “Whatever you’re saying to people, you need to stop.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“Dammit, Easton!” She gasps at her own raised voice, swallows nervously, and looks at the door again. Then she’s back to whispering. “You told someone about what happened between us.”