Page 14 of The Game Plan

In my head… yeah, privately I can admire her from afar. It won’t go anywhere beyond private admiration, though. I would never in a million years have a chance with her. I know better than to get my heart involved in this situation. Girls like her don’t go for guys like me, and if they do, it’s only at the expense of an unfunny joke.

I refuse to be the butt of any more jokes. O’Rourke thinks he pulled one over on me; he’s about to find out what happens when he messes with the wrong guy. He’s not going to like it, not one bit.

Chapter seven

Sam

Peoplestoptalkingtheminute I walk into the weight room, so obviously they’re talking about me.

“What?” I say, glaring at the closest baseball player. I hate sharing a weight room with these losers. They think they’re so much better than softball because they get all of the funding and upward career mobility, whereas ours dies with graduation.

“What? I didn’t say anything,” he says.

The rest of the guys go mum. My teammates won’t meet my eye.

“What’s going on?”

Tamar tugs at my sleeve. “Maybe we should talk in the locker room...”

“Come on, just tell me.”

“There’s a rumor going around.”

She pulls out her phone. I can see she’s commented LOL on the photo—the same picture I was sent anonymously this morning.

I roll my eyes. “What is it this time?”

“They say you’re...” She glances around, lowers her voice. “That you’re fucking Miles Cavanaugh.”

“I’m not. But why would it be a big deal?”

“Because he’s... you know...”

“What?”

“He’s huge.”

“So?”

“Like, how would that even work?” she says. “Wouldn’t his belly just get in the way of all the thrusting?” She does a few wild hip thrusts.

My jaw literally drops. “Wow. I can’t believe you right now.”

“What? It’s a serious question.” Her voice goes high-pitched like it does when she knows she’s done wrong. “So if you’re not fucking him, why are you hanging out?”

“Once. We hung out once, last night. He’s in my stats class. We were studying.”

“But aren’t you, like, failing?” My so-called best friend says. “How would studying with him help?”

Flabbergasted, I shake my head and walk away. “I can’t even with you right now.”

Tamar runs up behind me. “Sam, come on. It’s an honest question.”

“You think he’s an idiot just because he’s a football player. He’s fucking brilliant,” I tell her. “He understands statistics and is able to explain them in a way I actually understand. I learned more from him in an hour and a half than I’ve learned in the last six weeks.”

Her cheeks go pink. “So are you, like, into him or something?”

I don’t bother to answer her. Our workout is written on the whiteboard: a circuit of arms, chest, shoulders, and abs. Normally we work out in twos and threes, partners who can help spot us if we need it. I don’t want it today. I’m not in the mood for any more of this patronizing bullshit.

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