Maverick knew he was not the best person.

He was too arrogant, too loaded by his own pride. Born into a family built upon old money, Maverick knew very little about suffering—a trait that you had never been shy to point out. You, whom he had declared to be his rival from the very moment you very rudely spoke against him. You, whom he loathed with the sort of passion that burned.

He dropped his jacket over your shoulder. "Get rest, idiot," he muttered. "There's no fun in a partial victory."