Page 82 of The Game Plan

The tennis player waves at me. “Go on.”

“I was minding my own business, returning the trays.”

My sweatshirt feels impossibly tight. Did it shrink in the wash? No, it couldn’t have. It fit perfectly fine this morning. My stomach gives a little lurch, and my lunch tries to decide if it wants to make an appearance.

“And then I punched him.”

Track and field dude frowns at me. “Out of nowhere?”

“He was running his mouth. He said something—you know, fighting words? Something so grave, it has to be dealt with physically? Honor was on the line.”

I sit back in my seat, breathing hard like I’ve just run fifty yards in full gear. I can’t do this. I can’t relive this, not again.

“What did he say?”

“I won’t repeat it. It wasn’t about me.”

Basketball frowns. “Then what was it about?”

“He—” I stop, swallow. “I’m not a tattle tale.”

“Help us help you,” the staffer says. “From all accounts, you’re an honorable guy. Good GPA. Good attitude. Your coach says you’re a standout player with not one single disciplinary issue in the last two and a half years. So why now? Why this guy?”

“Was it about a girl?” the track and field dude asks. He gives me a knowing look. “You and O’Rourke go after the same girl?”

I don’t want to bring Sam into this. She doesn’t deserve to have that kind of disgusting nonsense spread about her.

“He doesn’t like me. He’s never liked me.”

“So you decided to beat his face in,” the basketball chick says, full of doubt. “Got it.”

The door bursts open. Sam pushes her way into the room, clutching her laptop.

“Excuse me, you can’t be in here,” the tennis player says. “This is a closed meeting.”

Sam’s eyes dart to mine before she squares her shoulders and approaches the conference room table. “I have information relevant to the subject of this hearing.”

The track and field dude rolls his eyes. “This isn’t some courtroom drama.”

“I have a video of what happened,” she says, standing her ground. “The entire conversation leading up to the punches. I can prove he was provoked.”

Tennis player’s eyes widen. “Let’s see it.”

“That’s not relevant,” I tell them weakly. I don’t want them to see this. I don’t want the entire fucking school to know how big of a tubby loser I am, to hear that kind of disgusting nonsense spread around about a girl who deserves the world. It starts here, and then the video will go viral. I can’t handle that. Even if it would plead my case, I don’t want that. I will never survive the whole world knowing exactly how pathetic I am.

“I think we’ll decide what’s relevant, Mr. Cavanaugh,” the athletic department staffer says. “Play the video.”

Sam sets up her laptop and plugs in a USB drive.

But the image on the screen isn’t me punching Cavanaugh. Instead she plays several short clips, each one full of O’Rourke taunting me in the dining hall. Different days. I have no idea how she got the footage. I don’t want to hear it. It’s bad enough I hear his poisonous bullshit in my head every night when I go to sleep. Now I have it on video to replay whenever the memories get fuzzy. Now it’s going to go viral, and the internet will never be scrubbed clean of the evidence. I’ll never be able to move past this and forget.

“This isn’t the fight,” the athletic department staffer says sternly. “Don’t make me kick you out. This is a closed hearing.”

“We’re getting to that. I didn’t edit the videos together.”

She’s not really contrite, she’s just acting like she is. I wish I knew what was going on in her head. What on earth made her think this is okay? I don’t want her help, and I certainly don’t need it. She’s making a nuisance of herself inserting herself into something that has absolutely nothing to do with her. I would have reacted the same way no matter who he was talking about; he’s heinous, and just because he was spewing poison about the woman I have feelings for doesn’t mean I wouldn’t stand up to defend an innocent bystander.

It just feels worse because he was targeting her, same as he was targeting me. That rock in the pit of my stomach sits heavy, bringing the nausea into full force. I can’t believe she’s inserting herself into something that has nothing to do with her. How could she? I told her to leave it alone; I told her I didn’t want her help.

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