Page 7 of The Game Plan

Other people are assholes. They talk about me behind my back when they think I can’t hear. They think I’m as dumb as a bag of bricks because of my size. But I’m rocking a beautiful 3.875 GPA. It would totally be higher if I hadn’t bombed my chemistry final two years ago.

But as I sit here, hanging out with my roommates, I can’t stop thinking about that sorority girl. Something about her just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s her assumption that of course I need help to get a good grade in a difficult class. Or maybe it’s the presumption that the football team has access to resources that the rest of the student body doesn’t.

We don’t get special treatment. Sure, I can take tests on different days if I’ll be out of town for a game, but that rarely happens, mainly because I choose to take most of my classes on Mondays and Wednesdays instead of Tuesday and Thursday. The same applies to any other student athlete on campus. We’re equals. None of us are better than any other. We’re all entitled to the same “perks” and we all receive the same benefits.

Annoyance bubbles in my bloodstream. I want to smash something, crush it beneath my fingers.

“Easy, man,” Tucker says, prying the game controller out of my hands. “Hulk no smash.”

“Fuck you.” I crack my knuckles. It doesn’t soothe that itch inside of me. I can’t sit still. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Don’t get into trouble,” Wes says, not looking up from his book.

“Thanks, Mom.”

He turns the page, responding without ever looking up. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

It’s chilly outside, refreshing at the same time. The cold permeates through the fabric of my hoodie to settle deep within my bones.

Athlete’s Village is nearly deserted. There are no cars—they aren’t allowed in the Village after dark—and barely any people. Everyone’s probably at the Delta house. The fraternity throws a party nearly every weekend. It’s not a surprise.

There are two girls in Newton Athletics gear walking towards me. I recognize them as being from the cheerleading team, though I don’t know either of them by name. I nod, and they cross to the other side of the street.

I try not to be offended. I’m a big fucking dude, and they’re a lot smaller than me, walking alone in the dark. Mackenzie explained it to me once. It’s not that they’re afraid of me, the person, it’s what I represent. I could easily overpower them. I could easily be bad news. They don’t know me. It doesn’t matter that I would never do that. I’ve never laid a hand on anyone, never been in a fistfight outside of friendly tussles with my cousins or the neighborhood guys. That’s not me. I’m not violent, and I’m certainly not a predator.

But they don’t know me. All they see is a massive guy lumbering towards them in the dark.

The closer I get to campus, the more people I see. Clusters of student athletes in team apparel are replaced by clusters of students in going-out clothes: short skirts and crop tops or clean jeans and button-downs, the college student partying uniform.

The quad is an idyllic paradise, a square of green and trees surrounded by tall buildings. We’re a weird suburban college town on the outskirts of the city, just close enough that we can take the metro twenty minutes into the heart of Boston.

Somehow I find myself walking through Greek Row. This isn’t where I meant to go. I have no business being here.

It’s not hard to identify the Delta house. Even if it weren’t for the letters on the front of the house, the people spilling out onto the lawn would be clue enough.

A couple guys clap me on the back as I walk past. My feet turn in the direction of the house almost without me noticing.

Sullivan, one of the safeties, meets me on the front porch.

“Cavvy! Didn’t think I’d see you at one of these things.”

I grunt. When in doubt, let people think I’m a caveman.

“Come on, man. Let’s get you a beer.”

I’ve done scientific tests. It takes at least five beers before I start to feel the slightest bit tipsy. A quarter of a handle of vodka will get me decently drunk. My roommates and I experimented shortly after Barrett turned twenty-one and could stock up our fridge last spring. We didn’t even go out to celebrate my twenty-first during summer training; we stayed in and played a video game tournament.

I don’t see the fun in drinking. It’s extra calories that don’t fit into my macros, empty carbs that leave me hungry. I would much rather drink a nasty, chalky protein shake than waste my time on beer. No judgement against anyone who likes to drink. It’s just not for me.

We’re at the keg when I see her. The sorority girl from earlier. She’s wearing the same distressed jeans and navy sweatshirt with the Greek letters on it. Her comfortable sneakers have been traded in for cognac colored wedge sandals. She’s wearing a little more makeup, drawing attention to her rich brown eyes. A deep eggplant-colored lipstick has stained the rim of her cup. She isn’t petite by any stretch of the imagination; her body is a glorious hourglass of muscular legs, thick thighs, and generous chest wrapped up in fabric and denim.

Annoyance and attraction war within me. She’s effortlessly gorgeous even with all that goop on her face.

“Who’s she?” I nod towards her.

Sullivan isn’t shy about checking her out. “Samantha Burke. Softball player and Kappa member.” He laughs, shakes his head. “Man, she is so out of your league.”

I grunt again.

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