Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Maddie ignores everyone, phone in her face, and I can see that she’s taking selfies or making a video to post on social media, not eating lunch. She has a cute lavender lunch bag in front of her.
I swallow, shaking my head slowly.
No.
It’s never going to happen.
I’ve had a crush on Maddie Miller since seventh grade—she might not be the nicest girl at school, but she’s one of the most popular. They want me to ask her on a date?
Have my friends lost their damn minds?
I sigh loudly, chewing my dry ham sandwich. It tastes like sandpaper and I pick up my carton of milk to force the wad of bread down my throat, which is suddenly an impossible task.
Ask Maddie Miller on a date.
Even if I wanted to ask her out—I would have to have the cojones to do it. And if that were the case, I would have done it months ago. I wouldn’t be sitting at a lunch table surrounded by the idiots daring me to do it. I would be eating with her.
Over there.
“What are you, five? No one dares me to do anything,” I boast with confidence.
The idea of this particular dare has my nut sack shriveling three sizes and has REJECTION written all over it in fat neon letters. My buddies might as well take a Sharpie to my forehead and write LOSER there for Maddie to see.
Not that I’m an actual loser.
As a left winger for the school’s hockey team, I’m no schlub.
And all I have to do during the school year is keep my average from falling below a C—and “not do anything stupid that might fuck up my chances at getting recruited by a D1 college.” That is a literal quote from my father.
Or get injured.
But let’s get real here: Maddie isn’t interested in a guy who gets his face knocked around by other giant dudes or his teeth almost knocked out because of the sport he plays. My face will never be nearly as pretty as hers.
I gnaw on the edge of my bread, thinking. “What are my options besides asking Maddie Miller on a date?”
There has to be more to it than this. These assholes have a backup plan—they always do.
“Or.” Marcus takes a swig from his water bottle, then makes a show of screwing the cap back on. “Or you’re the one who’ll have to pull the Impossible Senior Prank this year.”
I laugh, tipping my head back. “Say what, now?”
I could not have heard him right. They’re idiots, but they would never make me pull a prank—not when I have so much riding on my senior year.
“Sorry, dude. You drew the short straw.”
“How could I have drawn a short straw when I wasn’t there to pull a straw to begin with?” This is bullshit!
I stare around at my friends; they can barely look me in the eye.
My throat is dry. “Are you fucking with me right now?” I feel myself blinking rapidly. “You three want me to pull the senior prank?”
“We don’t want you to do it—you have to do it.” Marcus sets down his water bottle and holds his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot the messengers. We did you a favor!”
A favor? HOW?
Everyone knows I have a full ride to college for hockey. Getting caught doing something like the senior prank could blow the entire opportunity, same as drinking, smoking, or stealing.
Illegal pranks.
I live like a choirboy most of the year, not by choice but by necessity—and here they are telling me I have to ask out the girl of my dreams…or pull the senior class prank?
“Hear us out.” Gabe busies himself by pushing his pizza around on his lunch tray with the tip of his finger. “Last night at the class officer meeting we started talking about the senior prank, ya know, before Mr. Cotter came back into the room. We had to put everyone’s names into a spreadsheet so it would be fair.”
“Yeah, but not everyone wants to be involved in that crap,” I point out.
“I know, dude, but this is the senior prank. Everyone has to be involved.”
I beg to differ, but before I can argue my next point, he goes on.
“Anyway, Tompkins drew Beth Reinhardt for the recon and your name to”—he lowers his voice, leaning in closer so I can hear him—“take the mascot.”
I groan, pulling a hand down my face. “No way, dude. No.”
Marcus fiddles with his bottle again. “Listen, man, literally the only way Tompkins was willing to let you off the hook was for you to win your way out of it.”
“Oh. Tompkins is willing to let me off the hook,” I grind out sarcastically. “Who made him Lord of Everything?”
Fucking Aiden Tompkins.
I hate that guy.
The little dweeb is senior class president and a major blowhard because his dad owns the local grocery store, pharmacy, and several chain restaurants in town. Mr. Tompkins thinks he’s hot shit, and so does his weaselly turd of a son.