Page 2 of The Game Plan

“Time,” Professor Cassidy calls when I’m about halfway through the test.

Lumbering to my feet, I walk the paper over to him. He glances through it, flips back to the answer key, and then stares up at me.

“You did this just now?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You were watching me.”

“You have an aptitude for statistics.”

Shrugging, I hitch my backpack over my shoulder. “I like math.”

“You can go,” he says as people start filing into the classroom. He doesn’t apologize for the misunderstanding. He doesn’t apologize for insulting me.

Seething, I cross campus in a rush. The guys are in the locker room, getting changed for a quick lift session. The good-natured chatter dies when I enter the room.

“Hey, what’s with the murder face?” Barrett says, lacing up his shoes.

“Fuck you.”

“So the meeting with your professor went well, then,” Tucker concludes.

Halfheartedly, I throw my backpack at him. He laughs and catches it, then tosses it into my locker for me.

“Get dressed. We’ve been waiting for you.”

All my life, I’ve wanted to play for Newton State College. My dad played football, and my mom was a tennis superstar; they met at an athletic department mixer their senior year. Newton Athletics runs in my blood. I grew up coming to Newton football games and watching Newton tennis matches. Even as a little kid, I knew that one day I’d be walking across this quad and stepping out onto this field and studying in these hallowed halls. It’s the only school I’ve ever wanted to attend.

I’m living my fucking dreams, and I’m making every moment count.

Coach gives us a side-eye for tardiness before he puts us to work. I lose myself in the routine of the workout, warm-ups, and lifting. This is what I’m good at. I can lift more than double my body weight. Today is a quick legs, back, and abs circuit. I know how to put in the work to get stronger, to stand up to the big fucking dudes across the field. This is what I’m good at.

After a quick shower and change, the guys and I head to the Athletic Student Center and the dining hall. We live in Athlete’s Village, so while we have a small kitchen at home, it doesn’t compare to the splendor of free food courtesy of the university meal plan. It’s not particularly good food, but it’s plentiful, and considering I need to take in upwards of five thousand calories a day to maintain my size, I’ll take what I can get.

We’re in that weird lull between afternoon and early evening, so only a few tables are occupied. My eyes narrow in on the group of gymnasts at one table. They’re always smiling, always having a good time. One of them is a social media star of some renown. We’re not friends, but I like to think we’re equals. Athletes. Peers.

There’s a bunch of softball players still wearing their muddy practice clothes. They’re sitting at our regular table, which isn’t a big deal—there aren’t any assigned seats. It’s first come, first serve, and they were here first. Fine. We move down a table and cluster around it.

As much as I would like a primarily vegetarian diet, that just isn’t feasible with my workout schedule and my nutrition restrictions. I would have to take in so much soy and plant protein to meet my dietary goals, and unfortunately, my body doesn’t tolerate soy very well. It doesn’t work at this stage in my life. Maybe when I retire after next season.

It’s not like I’m downing pizza and double cheeseburgers at every meal. I eat a balanced diet of whole grains, lean proteins, and a shit ton of veggies to get my five thousand calories, topped off with a few chalky protein shakes to get me through the day. Sometimes I get so fucking tired of eating. My teeth get tired of chewing.

My attention snags on the softball player at the end of the table. She’s smearing peanut butter on an apple, her hair in a messy blonde knot at the top of her head. Mud is streaked down her cheek. She’s gorgeous. She catches my eye and raises her eyebrows pointedly. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. It’s a small school; we’ve probably seen each other before over the years even if we haven’t spoken. I don’t often talk to people who aren’t part of my inner circle of friends, and I don’t have that many to begin with.

She’s the type of girl who would never look twice at a guy like me. Not many girls do, and the ones that show interest are usually either cleat chasers, pitying me, or both. Nobody is interested in me, Miles Cavanaugh, for who I am. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the years. Everyone wants a piece of the football player. They don’t care about me the person.

Carefully, I focus on my dinner. Barrett and Amir are horsing around. Tucker is ignoring them, as per usual, absorbed in his phone. Wes pulls out the latest John Grisham—he’s already halfway through, and I know for a fact he started it this morning after the team meeting. Greg meets my eye, nods, and turns his attention back to his meal.

We’re all part of the defensive squad, a mix of outside and inside linebackers and linemen. Collectively, we’re six of the biggest guys on the team. We also live in the same house in Athlete’s Village. I like living with my teammates. It’s a built-in network of friends, peers, guys who work with me on the field every day and are by my side day in and day out. At night, we hang out on the couch and play video games or watch movies because we’re friends first, roommates second.

We have a good group of guys in the house this year. Last year we had two of the kickers bunking in with me, Wes, Barrett, and Tuck, and it just wasn’t the same. Sure, kickers are usually at least six feet tall and about two hundred pounds, so they’re not tiny dudes, but they’re so shrimpy compared to us. Dominic and Jimmy also partied far harder than we do. They had girls all over them, and not just the pity fucks girls throw our way. They each had a different girl in their beds nearly every night. The faked moans and creaking bed frames got old fast.

I’ve been playing football for fifteen years. College is the first time I’ve been surrounded by a group of guys as big as me or close to it. I’ve always been the tallest, the heaviest, and while that’s worked to my advantage on the field, it gets lonely. Now I’m just one of the guys, no different than any other lineman.

I’ve finally found my community. The other math majors think I’m a joke. The rest of the department thinks I’m a big dumb jock skating by on my athletic ability. Or they’re like Cassidy, thinking I’m cheating my way through life. The guys on my team know me. They know I’m a huge nerd for numbers. They know I’m more likely to be found on a Saturday night playing video games than going out partying. They know my parents come to every home game, and most of the away games, and my sisters are off limits. They’re my brothers in everything but blood.

The quarterbacks and the wide receivers don’t get it. They’re revered for their athleticism in a way the big guys aren’t. Girls want to cuddle up next to the football stars and then turn their noses up when our shirts come off. I will never have a six pack of perfect washboard abs. No doctor will ever tell me I’m the picture of health. But I’m strong, I can run fast, and I can hold off guys bigger than me, and for right now, that has to be enough. I am enough.

Even if nobody else sees me that way.

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