Page 11 of The Game Plan

He freezes. Slowly, impossibly slowly, his rich brown eyes rise to meet mine, wide and unblinking. He’s not unintelligent. I don’t know why he lets everyone think he is.

“Why do you ask?”

“Maybe we can get together again. Study some more.”

There’s a cough behind me, like a stifled snicker. It happens again. I turn to look over my shoulder. There’s a table of men’s volleyball players a few feet away. None of them are paying attention to us.

Miles’s face goes beet red. “I, um, I don’t know.”

I hear it again. It’s more distinct now. Someone is laughing. What I don’t know is why.

“Come on. It really helped.”

They’re outright laughing now. I spin around to the volleyball players two tables away and catch them in the act.

“Can I help you?”

I recognize the guy on the right, Josh Sinclair; we had two classes together last year. Everyone knows Tony O’Rourke is an asshole. I’ve never met the guy on the end, but considering he’s chuckling away at a joke that isn’t funny, I’m not sure I want to.

“You and Tubby over there on a date, Burke?” O’Rourke says, sitting back in his chair with a sleazy smirk. “Didn’t think you would stoop that low.”

“I didn’t think you were that stupid, O’Rourke. I guess we’re both disappointed,” I fire back. Turning back to Miles, it’s to find he’s hunched in on himself, as if that will make him disappear.

“What’s the matter, Tubby?” O’Rourke calls. “You get enough to eat today, big boy? Getting your five squares a day?”

“Don’t listen to them,” I tell Miles. “They’re assholes.”

He grunts, his eyes focused on his plate.

I paste a bright smile on my face. It probably looks a bit manic. “So, Wednesday?”

He jerks his chin, once, a curt nod. “Same place.”

“Perfect.”

Miles pushes his chair back. “I’ve got to go.”

“Are you heading back to Athlete’s Village? I’ll walk with you.”

He grunts.

“I need a yes or a no, dude. I don’t read minds.”

His face is still red. “I’ll walk you back to your place.”

He’s not done yet; his plate is mostly full. He takes my tray, stacking our plates together and neatly organizing the silverware. Without asking, he carries both trays over to the repository.

The volleyball assholes are still snickering. I flip them off as we leave the dining hall. #no-regrets

We walk in uneasy silence. He doesn’t mention the jerks from the dining hall, so neither do I. I wish I could say this was brand new, but every time I so much as talk to a guy, suddenly O’Rourke is all up in my face. I don’t know why. It’s not like he likes me. He’s sleazy and scummy. He doesn’t have a nice word to say about anyone.

“I’m on State Street,” I tell him as we approach the corner of State and Third.

He turns, ready to head down the street. Before I can think about it, my hand catches in the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Listen, about what those guys were saying…”

He grunts.

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