Page 15 of The Game Plan

Putting in my headphones, I crank up the music and eke out the first set of bicep curls. I wasn’t lying last night. I hate weightlifting days. I would much rather do cardio or batting practice or infield drills than lift weights. My mind drifts, and I can’t focus.

I wonder how Miles is doing in his workouts. I bet he lifts a lot more than a measly sixty pounds.

He was pleasant company last night. Up until those assholes had to ruin it, I enjoyed our time together. He doesn’t speak much. I don’t know if he’s naturally reticent or if he’s somehow afraid of me. I’m nobody to be scared of.

My bad mood continues through the rest of my workout. My teammates give me a wide berth, and I don’t make any attempts to laugh and joke with them like I normally would. Everything is pissing me off right now. Those clowns last night, these idiots this morning… Why are people so stupid?

Rushing through a shower, I get dressed in leggings and an oversized Kappa sweatshirt. I wasn’t even planning on wearing it. I brought a Newton Softball shirt for today. But I can’t stand the idea of supporting these bitches right now. Maybe it’s anti-feminist of me, but I can’t understand how women can cut each other down over who they may or may not be fucking. It’s none of their business. As long as everything is healthy and consensual, what business is it of theirs? As if there’s something shameful about being interested in a guy like Miles. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him.

I have an hour before my first class, so I hit up the dining hall for a quick breakfast. My teammates clamor around me, talking and laughing like nothing is wrong. I don’t join in. Filling my tray, I check out and eye the cafeteria carefully. This is so much worse than high school.

At the back of the room are three tables of football players. I notice Miles right away, sitting with a group of guys all equally as enormous as he is. One of the guys is on his phone; another one is reading a book.

There’s a table of people from the swim teams and some of the men from the gymnastics team. Across the way are two tables of basketball players. The tennis players are clearing up their trays.

My mind made up, I make my way over to Miles and his teammates. He looks up as I approach, his fork clattering to the table.

“Is anyone sitting here?” I point to one of the three empty seats at the end of the table.

“Um, yes,” he says, his face going red.

So he doesn’t want me to sit with him. Got it. It’s bad enough that people are talking about us; now they’re going to see the rejection, too, plain as day. I turn away, my cheeks flaming.

Miles coughs and kicks out the seat in front of him. “This one is open.”

The other guys stop eating and turn to stare at me. I pull back the heavy chair and drop into it.

“Thanks.”

Nobody reacts. Nobody does anything except watch me, the lone female in their very masculine midst. All of these guys are massive, well over two hundred and seventy-five pounds of muscle and strength. They could snap me like a twig.

I don’t think they will. Considering Miles wouldn’t hurt a fly, I don’t think I have much to fear from his friends.

“I’m Sam,” I tell them, when they still don’t return to their meals.

“Nice to meet you,” says the guy closest to me in a rumbly burr, a dark-haired and tan-skinned man with two or three days’ of growth to his beard. “I’m Amir.”

“Barrett,” grunts the Asian guy.

“Tucker,” says the lone black guy. He hooks a thumb at the guy across from him, fair haired and light-eyed. He hasn’t looked up from his book. “This is Wes.”

A shadow falls over me. The guy is tall, yes, same as the rest of them—maybe six-four, six-five. He sits shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the guys. He has a full caveman style beard and thick hair pulled back into a bun at the crown of his head. I half expect him to bust out a flannel shirt and ironic black plastic glasses.

“That’s Greg,” Tucker says for the guy, as he takes the seat I had originally picked out.

So there is someone sitting there after all. It wasn’t all an elaborate ruse to humiliate me in front of the crowded dining hall.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, offering a lame wave.

Barrett coughs. Wes doesn’t look up from his book. Amir grunts something that might possibly be construed as a pleasantry.

“Why’re you sitting with us?” Greg asks, not unkindly.

“Do I need a reason?”

He grunts, like that’s an answer. I blink expectantly at him, not letting him off the hook.

“Nobody sits with us,” Miles finally says. “Nobody wants to sit with us.”

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