Page 10 of The Game Plan

“Hey.”

“Hi.” I pull my textbook out of my backpack.

She hesitates in the entrance to the room. “Thank you for agreeing to help me.”

I grunt out something that could be “no problem” if you squint a bit.

“What are you having trouble with?”

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “Um. All of it?”

This is going to be… awful. Terrible. The fresh scent of her cherry vanilla perfume washes over me. My cock is stirring just sitting near her. Arousal is a lukewarm and frankly alien feeling deep in my bones. Girls don’t like me, so I’ve learned not to show any interest in them, either.

“Do you have your midterm with you?”

She finds the packet of papers and passes them over. Her fingertips brush against mine, sending shocks of electricity down my spine and straight to my cock. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I look over her test.

She’s got the math part down. That’s the easy part. It’s the concepts she’s struggling with. Probability is a whole other can of worms.

I don’t know how to explain this in a way that will make sense to her. I’m not a teacher. Probability makes sense to me in the same intrinsic way that football does. As I start to explain things, I try to relate the concepts to football plays. She seems to follow along. I don’t know that I make much sense.

Sam chews on her bottom lip, and my cock instantly reacts. She’s so close, only the width of the table separating us.

It’s been two years since I last had sex, and that only lasted about three thrusts before she was calling it quits. My libido is healthy; I just take care of it on my own. I’ve never had a girlfriend. There are a few girls I fooled around with, girls who “took care of” the football team my freshman year of college, but it was clear they were only interested in the jersey on my back, not the person wearing it. I try not to take it personally. I’m not always successful. I don’t want a pity fuck.

Around eight-thirty, I’m distracted by a low groaning noise. Sam goes pink and wraps her arm around her stomach.

“I skipped dinner.”

I check my watch. “The dining hall is still open for another hour. We can go over this downstairs.” I clear my throat. “If you’re willing to be seen with me, that is.”

She blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You might not want people to see us together.”

“I don’t care what people think about me,” she declares, tossing back her shoulders. “Come on. It’s turkey meatloaf night.”

My stomach churns, reminding me I didn’t really eat my dinner earlier. “I could eat.”

Chapter five

Sam

Thedininghallisnearly empty when we arrive, which is just how I like it. I pull out my phone and the school nutrition program’s app, surprised to find him doing the same. Taking a tray, I have to scan the barcode of each item I take, and it automatically loads in the nutrition information for me, sending it directly to my school-assigned dietician.

“You have to log your food? I thought you could eat, like, anything you want to.”

Miles goes a bit pink. “Within reason. We still have to log everything and follow our macros. I didn’t really eat dinner.”

We both take a portion of meatloaf. It’s not something my mama ever made, but since entering college, I’ve developed a taste for it. Where I take a portion of mashed potatoes, he takes two of mashed cauliflower, and fills the rest of his plate with a mixed greens salad with cranberries and goat cheese. I opt for a double portion of the roasted veggies. Green beans with almonds, my favorite. I still have enough room left in my day for some soft serve ice cream. Ooh, or maybe a protein brownie.

Without speaking, Miles heads towards a table at the back of the dining hall. There’s nobody around. At the other end of the room are a trio of basketball players lingering over empty plates. There’s a cluster of women from the swim team enjoying ice cream sundaes.

His movements are stiff as he sits down across from me. I don’t know how to read him. Is he ignoring me? Is he just lost in his own world?

He’s a surprise in every respect, a far cry from the grunting rock I initially took him to be. His explanations of probability as it relates to football make sense. I don’t think one session is going to magically cure me; we’re going to need more tutoring sessions.

“What are you doing on Wednesday night?”

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