He pulls up when Felicity steps in front of him, one arm up in anticipation of her—punching him, or whatever. Athletes can be unpredictable. Felicity's actual response ends up being more predictable than getting hit in the face, and frankly a relief. The two of them have never been any good at softness or feelings.

"What do you expect me to say?" Presley demands. "That they're pretentious assholes who care more about stupid high school achievements than friendship and fun times? Well, so am I! The only difference is they won and I lost, once fucking again."

Hm. So much for not doing feelings. Presley exhales loudly and pushes past Felicity. "I want a beignet." Fuck Vercoer and fuck his diet too.