Page 39 of The Game Plan

“I mean… you want to be seen with me?”

“Why do you act like you’re some kind of outcast? You aren’t some kind of social leper.”

He blushes. “The rumors…”

“Are rumors. People are always going to say hurtful shit on the internet. I can’t control that. The only thing I can control is how I react to it.”

“It’s not that easy,” he says, shaking his head.

“I never said it was easy,” I warn him. “All I know is, social media and their lies are not going to go away, so all I can do is modulate my response.”

O’Rourke is an asshole. I know he’s the one behind all of this drama online. I know it deep in my bones. There’s something in the way he looks at me that makes my skin crawl. I’m hypersensitive when he’s around, and I don’t like it.

Miles sits across the table from me, drinking a protein shake and eating a peanut butter sandwich as I eat my dinner. He doesn’t hurry me, he doesn’t try to rush me. He’s probably tired. He has early morning weight-lifting sessions every day, plus classes and practice and homework and a full life. He doesn’t have time to waste tutoring me.

Still, I’m glad that he does. I like spending time with him. He’s restful company. He lets me talk his ear off, occasionally jumping into the conversation with a quiet question or thoughtful observation. He speaks in more than grunts and monosyllables now, though rarely does he contribute more than a full sentence or two at a time.

He makes me feel good about myself. He treats me like a person worthy of respect. He doesn’t care that I’m a little thick or that I’m not a frilly frou-frou type of girl. He doesn’t care that the softball team hasn’t won a conference championship ever, in the history of the program, or that I’m not the chatty, bubbly type of sorority girl everyone expects me to be. He gives me the space to just be me.

O’Rourke and his volleyball teammates are lounging at a table across the dining hall. At this late hour, there aren’t a lot of other people still eating. That just means there are fewer people around to hear the pathetic vitriol he constantly spews.

In the middle of our conversation, Miles goes from verbose—for him—to monosyllabic. I have a feeling he caught sight of O’Rourke, too.

“Just ignore him,” I tell him, and his face creases before it goes carefully blank. “He’s a jerk. He’s always going to be a jerk. There’s no truth to anything he says.”

He frowns. “Logically, I know that. He’s trash.”

I sigh. “It’s just not always that easy.”

“Right.” He pokes at the crusts of his sandwich. “I think I’m done. You ready to head out?”

Leaving means passing by O’Rourke’s table to get to the tray return. I know he’s going to make some pithy comment at my expense like he always does. Atourexpense.

“I’ll take your tray,” Miles says, pushing back his chair. “Be right back.”

He’s going to take the brunt of O’Rourke’s commentary. He’s drawing his attention away from me and onto him. I should be thankful. I should be happy he’s protecting me. Instead I just feel dirty. I can’t allow him to be the target of O’Rourke’s hate.

But dread keeps me rooted to my seat. I have to sit there and watch as Miles takes both trays to the return carrel, passing by O’Rourke as he goes. I can see O’Rourke’s mouth moving. The volleyball player beside him sniggers.

Miles squares his shoulders, lifting up his chin. His face goes red. He drops off the trays and plates. Now he just has to make his way back unscathed.

He’s halfway back across the room when I hear O’Rourke running his mouth.

“Looks like Tubby finally found a girlfriend,” the asshole says, his voice pitched loud enough to carry. “Wonder how much she charges. Is it by the hour or by the minute?”

Before I can so much as blink, Miles has O’Rourke by the collar, his enormous fist colliding into the bastard’s face. O’Rourke lets out a shrill shriek. Blood pours out of his face.

“You shut the fuck up!” Miles roars, his voice deep and rumbly. His face is red, creased with concentration, as he shakes O’Rourke like a rag doll. “You don’t talk about her like that.”

The two volleyball guys spur into action, grabbing ineffectually at Miles’s arms. He shakes them off like they’re nothing. He shakes O’Rourke one last time before he tosses him back into his seat.

He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and swelling. Miles clenches his fists and stalks back over to me. His eyes are bright. Wild.

“Miles…”

“Let’s go,” he says gruffly, scooping up his backpack and practically throwing it over his shoulder. “Now, Sam. Let’s go.”

I scramble out of my chair and onto my feet. He waits for me to be vertical before he’s striding away.

---