Page 83 of The Game Plan

“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her weakly. “I’ve got this.”

“No, you don’t,” she tells me firmly. “You won’t speak up in your own defense, so I’m going to do it for you. We’re a team. You stuck up for me. The least I can do is stand by your side.”

Track and field dude frowns. “He stuck up for you? This is all because of you?”

“O’Rourke has been targeting him for weeks. He finally snapped under the pressure,” Sam says, standing her ground. “He threatened him in the library yesterday. I have video of that, too, if you want to see it.”

The basketball chick and tennis woman exchange a look I can’t read.

“We’ll need to talk about this,” the athletic department staffer says.

Sam clears her throat. “I also have proof that someone in the men’s volleyball house is posting stuff about the two of us online. Rumors, insults, you name it. I wasn’t able to confirm which player is behind it, just that it’s coming from their house. O’Rourke has been targeting Miles for weeks. It’s not one isolated incident. It goes back weeks before the punching incident. Another player on the volleyball team said that O’Rourke was bragging about it.”

“How—” My throat doesn’t want to cooperate. “How do you know it was them?”

“Jake is a computer science major. He tracked the IP address of the worst social media profiles back to their house. Either it’s O’Rourke or one of his buddies that’s been bullying you.” She looks smug, overconfident.

And there it is. The word I’ve been hiding from all this time: bully.

I’m not a victim. I’m not helpless. I can fight back; Ididfight back.

And that’s why I’m here now. I retaliated. I stood up for myself, for her, and I’m the one who gets punished for it.

“I didn’t know she was going to do this,” I say quickly. “I don’t have any comments to add.”

I’m not about to cry out that O’Rourke is bullying me. I’m not trying to throw him under the bus to save myself, not because of who he is, but because I’m not a weakling about to crack under the pressure. I can handle some whiny little punk talking shit about me. Grown men pull apart my game play every week and whine about what a little bitch I am. I can handle this. He’s a jerk, and one time I let it get to me. I won’t let that happen again. I’ll find the mental fortitude to push past his disgusting comments and let it go.

He won’t be able to control me any more. He won’t be able to have any influence over me anymore. I refuse to let him.

The panel whispers quietly amongst themselves.

“We’ll have to take this under further review,” the administrative staffer says. “You’re free to go.”

I stare blankly at them. “What does that mean?”

“It means you can go, dude,” the basketball player says.

“I mean… can I play again? Am I going to get expelled?”

The three student athletes whisper amongst themselves again.

“You will serve a one-game suspension for punching another student athlete, in addition to the games you’ve already sat out,” the tennis player says. “Any further disciplinary action will be communicated via email and your coach. You’re free to go.”

I don’t feel free: I feel trapped.

Chapter thirty-two

Sam

Milesdoesn’tlookhappy.He should be elated right now—a one-game suspension? That’s practically nothing. It’s a slap on the wrist. He gets to play again. He isn’t at risk of losing his scholarship and getting kicked out of school. He has to sit out one more game, and only one more. His coach has already promised his starting line position back.

So why doesn’t he look happy?

I follow him out of the ASC. He pulls on his gloves without looking at me. He makes no attempt to hold my hand. Normally he can’t wait to touch me. Today it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He looks lost. Bereft.

“You won,” I tell him gently. “Miles, you beat this thing.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about that,” he says, bitterness choking his voice. He turns to face me. His eyes are hard. I feel like he’s staring me down like he would an opponent on the football field. “How could you?”

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