Page 23 of The Game Plan

“… Sam?”

I drag my focus back to the conversation. “What?”

Aleesha smiles at me, not unkindly. “We’re all done. Are you still eating?”

I glance down at my half-finished plate. “Yeah, I’m still working on it. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up to you.”

“You don’t want us to wait?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to grab dessert. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

They pack up and go. I wait about five minutes, and then I’m up out of my seat, walking across the dining hall with my tray. It’s more crowded now. There are more people lingering over their meals.

“Hey,” I say, hovering at the seat across from Miles. “This seat taken?”

He looks up at me and drops his fork. “All—all yours,” he manages. He swallows loudly, so loud I can hear it. “You want to sit with us?”

“I like you guys.”

Greg, beside me, laughs. “Why wouldn’t you like us? We’re fucking fantastic.”

I grin at him and pat his arm. “See? We’re all going to be best friends.”

Barrett grunts. “You want to hang out with us?”

“All of y’all need an attitude adjustment,” I tell them. “It’s like you can’t believe someone would actually want to be friends with you.”

“Because they don’t,” Wes says, not looking up from his book. His voice is deep and rich with a hint of Midwestern twang. He turns a page. “You’ll change your mind.”

The guys look shocked. I’m not exactly sure why.

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Dude…” Amir says, trailing off.

Wes doesn’t respond to him. He takes a bite of his chicken and acts like we’re not in the middle of a conversation.

“People don’t like us,” Barrett finally says. “We don’t fit in.”

I laugh. “I’m a tomboy from the Deep South and an athlete in a sorority house. My mama wanted me to be a good ol’ Southern belle. Trust me, I know what it’s like not to fit in. It wasn’t until college that I found other women like me.”

Even the girls on my softball team back home were frilly, froo-froo girls. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. That’s just not me.

“You’re all right to me,” Greg says, and it might be the best compliment anyone’s ever given me. He steals an apple slice off my plate, and I let him. “You can sit with us any time.”

I can’t keep my eyes off of him. No matter where he is on the field, I can find number 14. I don’t pretend he can see me in the crush of people in the student section.

Tamar, Lex, and Aleesha all wanted to come to the game. Fine by me. I have no issues with going to events or parties alone, though it’s always nicer to have my friends at my side. Because they are my friends. Little hiccups don’t mean I’m suddenly going to drop them. We simply work harder to iron out our differences.

The center hikes the ball to the quarterback, and Miles launches into action, clashing with a massive guy opposite him. He gets the tackle as the ball is thrown twenty-three feet to the nearest receiver.

I cheer with the rest of the crowd. I’m not cheering for the play. No, my eyes are directly on Miles Cavanaugh and his broad form. His tight ass is on display as he bends over on the ten yard line.

I’ve never been a bigger fan of football pants than in this moment.

He’s nothing like my usual type. Sure, I usually go after other athletes—not baseball players, never baseball players—or frat guys. But they’re typically fit guys with great bodies and self-confidence up to wazoo. Maybe too much confidence.

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