Page 1 of The Game Plan

Chapter one

Miles

There’sabigredA scrawled on the top of my exam paper.See me, is written on the top of the page. Scowling, I stuff the booklet into my notebook. I did good. I know I did well. There’s no need for the professor to summon me like an obstinate child.

I’m instantly hyperaware of everyone around me. Are they watching me? Did they see the note? I’m used to the stares—after all, I’m a big fucking dude—but they never get easier to deal with. At six-foot-six and well north of three hundred pounds, it’s not easy for me to blend into the background. It works to my advantage on the football field when I’m facing down guys my size or even bigger. It’s not so great in the rest of my everyday life.

The desk top cuts into my belly, pressing into me no matter how far back I push my chair. It’s bad enough that I have to sit at the table and chair at the front of the room, away from the rest of the class. The flimsy little desks everyone else uses can’t stand up to someone my size. It’s a sad fact that what I’m revered for on the field is a detriment to my life everywhere else.

Professor Cassidy is a weedy, stunted man with thinning hair and a paunch to his belly that tells me he spends more of his time behind a desk than in the gym. I tower a full head and shoulders above him, and I’m at least double his weight.

“So, how did you do it?” he asks without preamble.

“Excuse me?”

“Was it a crib sheet? Someone give you a copy of the test?”

I rise up to my full height. “Are you saying that I cheated?”

He crosses his arms and stands his ground, unintimidated. A lesser man would cower before me. He must have more of a spine than I thought. “Well, you didn’t score ninety-four percent by yourself.”

Clenching my hands around my backpack, I take in a slow, rumbly breath to gather myself before I start seeing red—or worse, acting on my frustration. Anger is a tool, one that doesn’t serve me well. That wouldn’t solve anything, only cause more problems. “Because there’s no way I could manage it on my own.”

“Come on. I know how it is with you football players. You take a class for an easy math credit. Someone helps you through it. Though usually you pick an Intro to Algebra class and not Statistics.”

Anger courses through my veins, straight to the knot in the pit of my stomach. “I’m a math major.”

Professor Cassidy snorts. “Right. The point stands, you didn’t manage this on your own. Did you have an accomplice? Switch papers with someone else?”

“I’ll take the damn test again right now,” I tell him, full of bravado, adrenaline, and a fair bit of confidence in my abilities. I’m not usually so bold, and I would typically never speak to a professor in this way; but I know me, and I know what I’m capable of. I’m not a cheater. I’m not a quitter. I don’t back down from a fight; I win them. “Give me a blank copy, I’ll take it right now.”

“I have a class in half an hour.”

Steadily, I meet his eye. “Then I have twenty-nine minutes to answer as many questions as I can.”

I haven’t studied. I don’t need to. I know the material backwards and forwards.

At least, I think I do.

Asshole. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I send a quick message to the group chat.

“Put your phone away.”

“I’m texting my teammates, so they know I’ll be late for practice.” Because a cheating allegation is way more important than being five minutes late to the weight room for an optional lift session. Coach takes academics very seriously.

Professor Cassidy sneers. “Because practice is so important.”

“Actually, yeah, it is. It’s the same reason we have homework. We work at it so we get better. We can’t just walk out onto the field with no preparation. We have to study tape, and review plays, and lift heavy. It’s all part of the job.”

And it is a job. I’m very well aware of the target on my back. If I don’t stay in shape, if I don’t perform on the field every Saturday, they can replace me before I can so much as blink. There are a dozen guys on campus who would love to take my job, and hundreds across the country who can do what I do—and do it better. I’ve come by my starting position through grit and strength and a fair bit of sweat equity. I don’t pretend I’m the best—but I’m good.

So I put in the work. I spend my hours in the gym and on the field. I do my homework. I show up to team events and contribute. It’s a job, and instead of money, I get bruises and a heavily discounted college education.

Realistically, I’ll never make it to the NFL. I won’t ever be drafted. I’m good, but I’m nowhere near good enough. I picked Newton as much as they picked me. There’s a reason I’m at an amazing university with only a second-tier football program. We’re good. We’re not great. We’re not the kinds of guys who win championships.

But we’re going to have fun trying.

The test is… not easy, per se, but not overly complicated. I didn’t study nearly hard enough to have memorized every single test question. I make my way through the exam, answering the ones I can right away and coming back to the more complicated ones.

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