Page 55 of The Game Plan

Swallowing thickly, I nod. “I know that now.”

Coach sighs. “I have no choice but to suspend you until the case is resolved. My hands are tied, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

All of the fight leeches out of me. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. I don’t want to give up Newton. I don’t want to give up football. Sure, my parents could scrape together enough money to pay for my tuition next year or help me cosign for a loan, but they shouldn’t have to. They have enough to worry about with Mack’s three sports and Ash’s expensive cheer schedule. Money is stretched tight enough as it is. I’m doing my part by getting a partial athletic scholarship and making up the rest in grants. I can kiss all of those goodbye. Nobody’s going to want to give me free money when I get kicked off the football team.

“You’ll still attend practice, but you’ll be in your suit on the sidelines come game day.”

I work to control my frustration. It’s not his fault. It’s mine.

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Until the hearing, at the very least. They’re scheduling it for next Wednesday. You’ll be out this week. Possibly longer.”

Shutting my eyes against the tears pinpricking there, I swallow my exasperation and square my shoulders. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“You’re a good kid. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Cavanaugh,” Coach says. “In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never gotten into a fight. Never heard so much as a raised voice. What gives?”

“He deserved it.” My hands clench into fists, and I take a deep breath. “The things he was saying… It doesn’t make it right, I know that, but he needed to learn his lesson.”

“It wasn’t your job to do that,” he says gently. “Not when you’ve got so much on the line.”

“He can’t keep going on like that.” If he starts in on Sam again, I’ll do more than break his nose.

“You’re lucky he didn’t press assault charges, son. He’s well within his right to do so.”

“I—I—”

“The committee is going to look for remorse,” he tells me seriously. “You can’t fake it. If you can’t prove you regret what you did, they might not let you come back. They might not let you back anyways. I can’t coach you on what to say. All I’m saying is, this is out of character for you. Think long and hard about what you’re going to say in your defense.”

That’s the problem: I don’t regret what I did. That I got caught? Yes, absolutely. I can take whatever poison he says about me. That’s not my concern. What I can’t take is his deliberate targeting of an innocent bystander caught in my crossfire.

How am I supposed to show remorse when he deserved what he got, and should have tenfold more?

That’s the thing. I’d defend her again, and again, and again. Not because of how I feel about her, but because she is worthy of respect. She doesn’t deserve to be talked about that way. Nobody does.

Chapter twenty

Sam

Onararedryand relatively warm day, the team heads outside for batting practice. I’m one of the best batters on the team, and if I’m going to be playing this season, I have to be up to snuff. I can’t be unprepared for the challenges of the upcoming season. Interpersonal problems are the least of my worries.

Being a student athlete is all-consuming. We’re a commodity for the university, a bargaining chip they’ve bought and paid for with the promise of heavily discounted tuition. In exchange, it’s up to us to give our best athletic performance every day, every practice, every game. And once the season starts, they own us. Hell, even before the season starts, they own us.

In the off season, we have practice a casual four days a week and have weightlifting sessions four more times a week. Every Monday night we have a team meeting, and every Friday we have dinner together. For the most part, the team is tightly knit. There’s always an adjustment period when new freshmen join the team and graduating seniors leave. That’s life, though. People move on, and new ones come to take their place.

I step up to the plate and take a practice swing. My shoulders are tight. I might need to visit the team’s assigned physical therapist for a stretching session. My elbow twinges as I extend my arms for the followthrough. Yeah, something is definitely not right.

Softball is work. It’s hard work, physical labor and physically intense. I’m putting in the work now for a future payoff some time once the season starts. I almost feel guilty for not enjoying the routine of practice when other people have had their sports ripped away from them.

Miles.

Miles has had football taken away from him.

And it’s all my fault.

Okay, it’s not my fault. It’s because of his actions.

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