Page 33 of The Game Plan

Grabbing my coat off the hook, I shrug it on and follow him down the porch steps. I want to hold his hand again. Can I? Maybe he doesn’t want his friends to know.

“What did you guys do today?”

The back of my hand brushes against Miles’s as we walk. He makes no attempt to take hold of it, so I try to relax and enjoy the incidental contact for what it is.

“Went to the gym, had a deloading day,” he says, as his hand brushes mine again. “Did some laundry. Caught up on homework. Not much, really. How about you?”

“Not much for me, either.” I don’t want to tell him about the grape Gatorade. I want it to be a surprise tomorrow morning in class.

“Sometimes that’s what you need, a day to do nothing,” he says, and then he goes red. He flushes so easily.

Fuck it. I grab hold of his hand. He startles beside me and goes tense before he relaxes with a blustery sigh. He tightens his grip on my hand.

If the other guys notice, I don’t know about it. We’re lost in our own little world, the two of us against everyone else.

We walk in silence for a bit. The guys are chatting—well, everyone except Wes, who occasionally nods. It’s peaceful. Being with them is relaxing. Being with Miles is—it’s like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Bright and magnificent against a clear black sky, filling the world with hope and wonder. He lights up my whole world.

And I’ve only known him for a week and a half. I wonder what will happen once we know each other better, once we’ve had time to settle into… whatever we are. Friends, not friends, it doesn’t matter. I just know I want him in my life. I’ll take whatever I can get.

We get to the ASC and Miles opens the door, ushering me in first. It means I have to let go of his hand. I feel the loss acutely.

The dining hall is sparsely populated. They seem to like eating at times when there aren’t a lot of people here. Thinking back to O’Rourke and the way he seemed to deliberately target us, I can’t blame them. Bullies like O’Rourke are the absolute worst.

The guys like the table at the very back of the room. Wes makes a beeline for it and the other guys follow more sedately in his wake. He takes the seat on the end—the same one he usually sits in—and pulls out his book before he even sits down.

Shaking my head, I take what’s become my usual seat, beside Greg and across from Miles.

“Hey, stranger,” Greg says as he sits down, bumping my tray with his. “So you decided to slum it with us again.”

“Always,” I joke, but I’m not joking. As long as they’ll have me, I’ll be here. “You getting sick of me yet?”

“Never,” he says, giving me a half-grin. “We missed you at the Delta party last night.”

“I was there.” For a little while.

“So I heard,” he says blandly. Across from me, Miles goes red. “How was the movie?”

“I fell asleep.”

He tsks. “Such an exciting Saturday night.”

“I had fun,” I tell him self-consciously. “Every weekend doesn’t need to be a raging party.”

“I’m just teasing, babe,” Greg says seriously. “You do you. If you want a night in, there’s no shame in that. Same if you want to go out and drink until your face falls off.”

“Is that what you did last night?”

He laughs. “I had two beers, and then I got annoyed with all of the drunk people. Ended up in the back room playing video games with a few of the guys.”

“Sounds like a good night,” I say, cutting into my chicken. For mass-produced dining hall food, it’s pretty damn good. I have no complaints.

Miles is quiet, methodically eating his food. If he has any complaints about me chatting so much with Greg when he’s the one who invited me, I don’t know about it. He hunkers over his plate and keeps his head down.

He’s a man of very few words. On rare occasions he’ll say two full sentences in one go. Most of the time getting anything more out of him is like pulling teeth. I started to take it personally until I realized he’s reticent with everyone, not just me. When he does speak, I listen.

It felt right being in his arms last night, like I belonged there. I’m already trying to think up ways that we can make that happen again.

My phone buzzes. It’s Wendy, my sorority president. I didn’t sign up for any committees for the formal. Surely that’s a misunderstanding, because she knows I want to support the sorority in all of its endeavors. I roll my eyes.

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