Page 9 of The Game Plan

“What’s in it for me?”

For the first time, she looks stumped. She’s had an answer for everything, and I’ve finally got her defensive. This is where I thrive. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I want to be left alone.”

“I can pay you.” She winces. “Not a lot, I don’t have a job, but I—”

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your anything.”

Grape Gatorade is only available at one of the student athlete fueling stations on the far side of campus. I have to walk across the entire quad, through the science building, and into the science library to get my daily stock. It helps me get in my 20,000 steps a day, that’s for sure. That she walked all the way over there…

She squares her shoulders. “Look, I need this. I really need this.”

“And how is that my problem?”

“It’s not, and I realize that,” she assures me quickly. “If I don’t pass this class, I can’t play next season. I could lose my scholarship, my housing, everything. Please. You understand this stuff and I don’t.”

Well, when she puts it that way… My resolve weakens. I couldn’t live with myself if I lost football. I couldn’t live with myself if I was the reason another athlete lost their scholarship.

Pulling out my notebook, I scribble my number on a piece of paper and hand it to her. “Meet me at the ASC at seven.”

She doesn’t balk at the mention of the Athletic Student Center. “In the dining hall?”

“No, I’ll reserve a study room.” I’ll eat dinner with my teammates before I meet her, and if I play my cards right, I can grab a late evening snack before I head back to Athlete’s Village.

She pushes the Gatorade towards me again. “This is for you.” Her cheeks tint red. “I, um, I noticed you drink the purple flavor every class.”

“Thank you.” I take the bottle from her, and her tiny, calloused fingers brush against mine. Electricity sparks along my veins, coiling deep in my gut.

“Oh. My name is Sam.”

“I know.”

Her eyes go wide. “You do?”

I might have gone home and researched her on Saturday night after the party. She’s a junior like me, originally from Mississippi, though there’s only the faintest hint of an accent in her voice. The softball team is middle of the pack in the conference, not particularly amazing and not terrible. She plays second base and is one of the best batters on the team.

She’s also hot as fuck.

She’s wearing black form-fitting leggings and an oversized Newton long sleeve shirt that does nothing to hide her shape, the sleeves pushed up her muscular forearms. I want to map the luscious curves of her body with my hands. And then my tongue.

How the fuck am I supposed to tutor her?

I’m on edge the rest of the day. At practice, I barely manage to eke out my normal reps; I can’t add any weight, not today. Coach isn’t pleased, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. My body isn’t cooperating with me. I eat dinner with the guys like nothing is wrong, and they’re cool enough (or oblivious enough) not to call me on it. It’s turkey meatloaf night, one of my favorites, but my food tastes like sawdust in my mouth. Even my salad tastes dull and limp. I move the food around on my plate without eating it.

At six fifty-five, I get up with my half-full tray and start to walk away.

“Heading back to the house?” Barrett asks.

“Study group.”

He makes a face. “Good luck.”

I’m going to need it.

The second floor of the ASC is devoted to study rooms of varying size. I booked one of the larger rooms, intended for groups of six or more people. We’re going to need the space to spread out. I don’t think I can be close to her right now.

She knocks on the open door at six fifty-nine. She’s changed out of her outfit from earlier, wearing a different pair of navy and silver Newton Wolfpack leggings and another oversized shirt, this one with Greek letters on it. Sullivan said she was a Kappa; I guess that’s what the K on her chest signifies.

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