Page 48 of The Game Plan

He grunts, as if that’s an answer. And maybe for him it is.

“Good job, man,” Greg says with a broad smile. He reaches over and claps Miles on the shoulder. “Happy for you two.”

“Thank you.” I like Greg. He’s fun and jokes a lot but he knows when to be serious. I love his long hair. Not many guys are confident enough to pull off a man bun and caveman beard combo.

My head on his shoulder, we watch as the guys play their game. Miles runs his hand up and down my spine, as if he’s memorizing each and every one of my vertebrae. It’s peaceful, sitting here with him. He smells like IcyHot and classic Old Spice and something else, something uniquely Miles. I love it.

After about half an hour, the guys agree to turn on a movie. It’s another superhero movie, this one featuring a female spy and her ragtag group of computer geeks turned secret agents. I’ve seen it before, but it never gets old.

I visit the bathroom—surprisingly clean, considering it’s shared by six college guys—and come back to find Miles has made a nest on the floor with the couch pillows and a blanket. Amir and Barrett are on the sofa. Tucker has moved over to our armchair. Greg’s armchair is empty, the sound of popping popcorn the telltale indicator of his absence.

“C’mere,” Miles says, patting the floor beside him. Taking a seat, he shifts until he’s leaning against the gap between Amir and Barrett’s legs. He tugs me into his chest again, pressing a kiss to my temple. I don’t hate it, not one bit.

I love how physically demonstrative he is. For such a reserved person, I thought any sort of PDA would be like squeezing toothpaste from a rock, impossible and futile. I tip my chin up and meet him for a soft kiss. He makes a noise deep in his throat and cups the back of my head, his thick fingers threading through my hair.

“All right, lovebirds, break it up,” Greg says.

He’s towering over us. There’s a bowl of popcorn for us and another for the guys on the couch, plus separate bowls for Wes in his corner and one more for Greg and Tucker to share. These guys go through popcorn like other people go through water.

“We know you like each other,” he teases. “Save it for when we don’t have to see it.”

Miles’s face goes red, but I laugh and grin up at him. “Close your eyes, then.”

Greg snorts out a laugh and takes his seat. Amir presses play.

Chapter seventeen

Miles

Ican’tconcentrateonthe movie. Not with Sam in my arms.

She smells like vanilla and cherry. Not that fake cherry body mist so many girls use. She smells like actual cherries and warm vanilla and something else that’s uniquely Sam. I can’t get enough. I drag my nose along the shell of her ear and she sighs, melting into me.

The guys are going to give me shit for this. I just know it. I can’t bring myself to care. I like her. She seems to like me. She wants to kiss me.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Shit. I should probably take her on a date. I have no idea what college kids do on dates. Isn’t date just a euphemism for sex? Sure, I want sex with Sam, I’m not going to lie—but I want more than that, too. I want to walk through campus with her hand in mine. I want to walk her to her classes and kiss her in the hallways. I want to go to sleep with her in my bed, and wake up to her in my arms, and spend all day together just because we can’t get enough of each other. I want dinners together in the dining hall—with and without the guys—and lazy Sunday afternoons on the couch. I want it all.

I want to make her happy, and for her to be happy when I’m around. I want her towantto hang out with me.

She falls asleep halfway through the movie. I’m exhausted. Today was pretty miserable, interspersed with some pretty fantastic moments, but I can’t sleep. Every fiber in my body is alive and humming at the feel of her pressed against me.

Her hand slips down from where it’s curled on my collarbone to my stomach. I tense, holding my breath. She shifts in her sleep, her arm wrapped around my belly. It’s like she’s hugging me.

I’ve never been hugged in a romantic sense. My mom, sure. My aunts. Maybe my sisters. I’m not a physically demonstrative person. I don’t like being touched. My dad contents himself with fist bumps or a clap to my shoulder.

On the football field, it’s different. They’re not touching me; they’re trying to get past me, and I won’t let them.

With Sam, though… I want to touch her. Not even in a sexual manner. I want to hold her hand, and hug her, and run my fingers through her hair, and just… indulge in the profound simplicity of her touch.

I don’t know if I’m ever going to have football again. I was filmed breaking the code of conduct, a pretty flagrant violation of the rules. It doesn’t matter that I was provoked: I made the decision to make my point with my fists instead of my words.

O’Rourke is a piece of shit. He’s slimy. He’s going to get off with a slap on the back of the wrist. I’m the one that’s going to feel the effects of this. He might have a broken nose, but I could lose my scholarship. I could lose football. I could lose everything.

Glancing down at Sam, asleep on my chest, I can’t imagine that night going any other way. I can’t say I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but I’d certainly consider it. She doesn’t deserve to be talked about in that way. Nobody does.

But I’m sacrificing a hell of a lot for a girl I barely know.

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