Page 8 of The Game Plan

She’s standing in a cluster of women. They’re talking and laughing, having a good time. She’s relaxed and in her element. Because other people like this shit. They like parties. They like drinking. They like the dancing to bad music and overpowering B.O. and the stale smell of pot. They like socializing.

My hands clench around my flimsy plastic cup, sending beer sloshing over the side.

I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t for me.

Setting my beer down on a nearby table—no coasters, of course—I exit the party. Sullivan calls after me. I don’t respond. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.

Chapter four

Miles

Thefamiliarsoundsofthe weight room are as soothing as a lullaby. I’m not sleepy, though; I’m pumped up, energized, ready to tackle whatever gets thrown at me, whether it be a three hundred pound grown man ready to rip my head off or a new personal best on Romanian split squats.

Today is a deloading day, which means lifting decreased weights in shorter repetitions in favor of recovery. After my hour or so of lifting, I do a quick thirty minutes of cardio before I head to the hot tub for a rejuvenating soak. My bruised and battered muscles will thank me for it later.

There’s a routine to Sunday. It’s my day off, my day to be on my own. The guys all have their own things to do, so unless we cross paths in the gym or in the dining hall, I might not see them until our house dinner and weekly Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! binge.

After being around people all week, after the game and dealing with my family the day before, sometimes I need time to myself to mentally recuperate before doing it all again. I’m not what most people would consider to be a social person, and the day-to-day onslaught of life is hard enough to manage without the demands the university places on me and my time.

I play football because I love it, because I’m good at it. It brings me joy. Being in school doesn’t exactly bring me joy, but I like the majority of my classes; I like learning about math and the practical applications of it, so I’m not about to complain. And I need the degree for a career after college and football—though I’m not exactly sure what I want to do, just that I want it to involve math. Numbers make sense to me in a way that people don’t.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere. I get along with my teammates, sure. My roommates and I are on friendly terms. Outside of that… I’m not the guy with a roaring social life. I would rather hang out on the couch and play video games with a few guys than go to some party. I would rather have quality one-on-one time with someone I care about than get drunk off my face. That’s how I’ve always been.

I don’t have a lot to say. My thoughts aren’t interesting. My life revolves around football and school. Outside of my roommates and my sisters, I have virtually no friends. Are my sisters even my friends, or do they only tolerate me because we’re related? Sometimes I really don’t know.

At the same time… sometimes it’s a little bit lonely. I’ve never had a best friend. I’ve never dated anyone. I’ve never had a close personal relationship with anyone that isn’t related to me. Guys don’t want to hang out with me outside of the gym. Girls aren’t interested in me as anything more than—

As anything, really.

Samantha is the first person who has ever wanted to study with me. And all she wants is whoever is helping me pass this class to tutor her, too. I don’t know how to tell her that I’m the one who taught myself everything I know about statistics. It’s none of her business. Even if I had a tutor, even if the athletic department found me someone to help pass this class, I don’t know that I would share that resource with her. She has the nerve to show up to the player tunnels anddemand—

No. The player tunnels are sacred. It’s for friends and family only, not for random strangers to come up and accost us and place demands upon us. It’s the one place we can be ourselves.

And for her to come in and… and…

I blow out a breath. She’s a stranger. It was literally the first time we’ve ever spoken. She’s gorgeous, and she’s popular, and she’s exactly the type of woman who has absolutely no interest in a guy like me. Of course she only wants my study guides or access to my tutor.

She would never want me to tutor her. She would never want to study with me. She would never be interested in me. And why should she? She exists in an entirely different social realm than I do. She’s not just out of my league—she’s out of my stratosphere.

I’m lonely. I can admit it. College was supposed to be this amazing experience. I was supposed to make lifelong friends. I was supposed to find the love of my life. My parents did. My dad still keeps in touch with his buddies from the football team, and my mom has been best friends with my Aunt Carol since they were on the tennis team together. I don’t know that my roommates and I will stick together after this year is over. This is the end of the road for me. I’m going nowhere.

This is the peak: life will only go downhill for me. I’ll get a job somewhere doing something with math, and I’ll live out the rest of my life. If I can’t meet anyone now, when I’m theoretically in the prime of my career and desirable, I don’t know how I will ever find someone that likes me for me. Women don’t even like me now.Ibarely like me now.

How can I make myself be more interesting without sacrificing who I am? At the end of the day, I’m a math nerd who plays football, and outside of those two things, I don’t have many other interests. Video games? Boring. Superhero movies? Boring. Lifting heavy weights? Boring.

Let’s face it: I’m a boring dude. Even my own family only spends time with me because they have to, not because they actually want to. My life revolves around football and math and that’s about it.

Football makes me happy. Math makes me happy. I don’t want to become someone I’m not just to convince a woman to be interested in me. I don’t want to change who I am to make other people like me. A square peg doesn’t have to fit into a round hole.

I am who I am, and I don’t have any desire to force myself to fit into a box in which I don’t fit. I’m a big fucking dude—I don’t fit everywhere. And that’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it. Now I just have to get my head and my heart on the same page.

On Monday, Samantha is standing in front of my usual desk at the front of the room, holding a bottle of purple Gatorade. That’s my favorite flavor. Immediately my annoyance with her ebbs just a tiny bit.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” she blurts. She thrusts the bottle towards me. “For you.”

“You don’t have to bribe me.” I’m still not going to change my mind.

“I need a statistics tutor,” she says. “You got an A on the midterm, so clearly you’re doing something right. We should study together.”

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