Page 33 of Save the Game

“Yeah. I decided that I like him and I want to see where this thing goes. He deserves somebody who will be good to him and keep him safe, and that somebody is me. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t have any reason to be scared or stressed about being with someone. And if your brother ever finds out who hurt him, I call first dibs. I want to kill the fucker.”

“Deal,” she says, holding her fist out for me to bump. “But seriously. I’m glad to see you finally growing up.”

I choke on a mouthful of popcorn. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t be a fuckboy forever.”

“I’m twenty years old!”

Shrugging, she pops a kernel in her mouth and chews. “Don’t you have class, like, right now?”

“It got cancelled. Figured I’d come and annoy you for a second before I head to the gym.”

“God, I’m so lucky. Give me back the popcorn and get out of here, I’m too busy to deal with you right now. This is Margot’s happy time.” She flutters her fingers toward the door. Passing the bowl back over to her, I open the laptop cover and laugh. She’s watching Star Wars.

“Margot’s happy time, huh? Nerd.”

“Seriously, go away. I can’t concentrate with you leering at me and eating all my popcorn. Go bother Max.”

I blow her a kiss as I leave the room, jogging back down the stairs and out the front door. Whistling, I stroll across campus toward the gym, taking my time since I have the afternoon unexpectedly free. I skirt around the science building, taking a new route for the hell of it. It’s deceptively warm today, I’ve got a date with Max in a couple days, and I’ve been playing the best baseball of my career this season. I feel fucking great.

When I open the door to the athletic center, I pass the large cork board hanging just inside. A large poster I’ve never noticed before catches my eye; stopping, I look at it, reading the words three times through before moving closer to read it again. The top of the sign says SPEAK UP! in blocky, bold writing. Underneath that is a photo of a woman and a man, both with duct tape over their mouths. The caption next to the woman reads: 1 in 5 undergraduate women experience sexual assault while in college. Next to the man, it reads: 1 in 16 undergraduate men experience sexual assault while in college. Between them the numbers for emergency services are listed, and somebody has handwritten a note as well, advising students that they can come to office 3b if they need to talk.

I can’t fucking look away, barely even noticing the door opening and closing, and people walking past me. The man on the poster looks nothing like Max, and yet there is something in the eyes that resonates with me. Sad, vulnerable eyes. Coming to a split-second decision, I note the office number once more and set off down the hallway. I have to climb two sets of stairs and end up backtracking twice before I find the correct room: 3b.

Knocking, I crack the door open and peek inside. There is a woman seated at a desk, grey hair cut into a bob and thick framed glasses. There is a massive potted plant on the shelf behind her, leaves cascading all the way down to the floor. The wall behind her desk is completely obscured by an abstract art piece: slashes of blues and green, with a hint of purple thrown in. It reminds me of something you’d see hanging in a doctor’s office.

“Hello,” a soft, female voice distracts me from the painting. The woman at the desk has turned away from her computer and is looking at me, smiling in a polite but reserved way. I clear my throat, unsure of what I’m here for now that I’ve arrived.

“Hi.”

She stares at me, patiently waiting for me to continue. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to, she fills the silence. “May I help you with something?”

“Oh, well, maybe,” I laugh uncomfortably. “Uhm, I saw your poster? Downstairs?”

There is a barely perceptible change to her posture: a slight narrowing of her eyes and a straightening of her spine. She looked curious before, but now she looks serious. She gestures for me to come inside.

“Have a seat…?”

“Luke. I’m Luke.”

“Hello, Luke. My name is Eloise Price.” She rests her hands on the desk in front of her, fingers loosely linked and looks at me. I fidget, trying to get comfortable in the chair. I wish I could remain standing without seeming rude.

“Hi.”

Again, she waits for me to offer some sort of explanation for my visit. Again, I leave her hanging. Even I don’t know why the fuck I’m here. She compromises by plucking a business card from a tray and reaching out to hand it to me. I take it. “I’m a sexual assault victim advocate.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding. There is a cell phone number listed on her card, with 24/7 written next to it. “I saw your poster downstairs, and…”

I look around the room, tapping the business card on my leg. And what, Luke? What the hell are you doing here?

“It’s all right,” she says cajolingly.

“So, a friend of mine—a really close friend of mine—was raped,” I stumble over the word, embarrassingly, “or they think he was because he was roofied. And, uhm, him and I are kind of dating now and I’m a little out of my depth here. I don’t know what I should do, you know? Or, not do. And I can’t just ask him outright because…well, he’s not the one who told me about what happened. I heard it from someone else.”

The tapping of the business card has become frenetic against my leg. I see her look down at it, and wonder if she’s regretting giving it to me.

“Would you like something to drink?” She asks, and I nod. Bending over in her chair, she opens a mini fridge beside her desk and pulls out a bottle of water, sliding it over the desk to me.

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