Page 5 of The Game Plan

“I am so sore. I want a hot bath,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. I have no idea how I’m going to make it up the stairs to the stadium.

Every muscle in my body protests. Once I’m up at the main level, I push through the throng to the tunnels, where the families wait for their athletes to show up. In the path of the harsh wind, I pull out the blanket again and wrap it around me. I don’t care how ridiculous I look—it’s fucking cold. This is my third year, and I’m still not used to the cold of winter up here in this northern climate. And it’s still technically fall.

There are a dozen other family members loitering around. Slowly, the guys start to show up. The ones who have family present greet them, a lot of mothers and grandmothers clucking over their enormous offspring and fathers clapping them on the back, stoic and reserved.

Everyone drifts away, until it’s only me and the family of #14. Cavanaugh, reads the dad’s jersey. He looks like he could be a player, fit and athletic with a hint of salt and pepper in his full head of hair. If I were into older guys, I might be intrigued enough to take a second look. He’s at least twenty-five, maybe thirty years older than me. Too much of an age gap no matter how much age gap erotica I read. And besides, I can see the glint of a wedding ring. He’s thoroughly off limits.

A massive guy comes lumbering out of the locker room, wearing an oversized navy Newton hoodie and joggers. It’s him, the guy from my statistics class. The guy from the dining hall. His face hardens when he catches sight of me. The one I’ve been looking for all week.

“Miles! Over here, honey,” the woman calls, waving emphatically, as if she’s not clearly in his line of sight.

So he’s Cavanaugh. Miles Cavanaugh. I commit the name to memory.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, his voice a rumbling burr. It makes my insides clench, which is actually ridiculous, because I know nothing about him aside from the fact that he’s acing our statistics class and the whole package from where I’m standing is… whew, he’s even better looking up close.

“You did great, honey,” she tells him. She reaches out and adjusts the strings of his hoodie, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle along his shoulder.

“Thanks.” He lets her dote on him a bit. It’s sweet, seeing a grown man letting his mother cluck over him without letting her coddle him. I get the impression that he has enough of a spine to stand up to her if she ever crosses the line.

“Good job, Miles,” the dad says, clapping him on the shoulder. It’s clear they’re a close-knit family.

He stands at least six inches taller than his dad, maybe twice as wide. There’s definitely a resemblance there; the same dark brown hair and dark eyes, the same nose. The dad’s nose has definitely been broken once or twice.

His gaze lands on me again, and his eyes narrow. “What do you want?”

“Miles, honey, play nice,” the mom chastises.

He waves her away. “Everyone else is gone. There’s nobody left. Go home.”

This is it. This is my chance. Go time.

“I wanted to talk to you,” I say. “Good game, by the way.”

Angry slashes of red pop up on his cheeks. “Thanks.”

“You’re in my statistics class.”

He jerks his chin, tugging at the strings to his hoodie. “So?”

“You got an A on the last exam.”

The mom clucks. “You did? Honey, I’m so happy for you.”

“Who’s your tutor?”

His face goes red. “I don’t have one.”

“Come on. I’m sure the football team found you someone. There’s nobody in the tutoring center this semester who’s taken stats. The only kid available is some freshman who took AP Stats in high school. We should study together.”

“No, thanks,” he says lightly. “I’m good on my own.”

Chapter three

Miles

Whothefuckdoesthis girl think she is?

Mom touches my shoulder. “Miles, honey…”

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