Page 3 of The Game Plan

Chapter two

Sam

There’sapartygoingon downstairs, but if I don’t get some studying done, I’m going to fail this statistics class.

“Come on, just hang out for a little while,” my teammate, roommate, and best friend wheedles.

I love Tamar, she’s my ride or die. But she’s not skirting the edge of academic ineligibility because of one stupid midterm. I have four weeks until the next exam. If I don’t get my grades up, I could be sitting out the entire season.

“Even the football player scored better than I did,” I remind her. I’ve only told her this, like, six or eighty million times. “He destroyed the curve. Nobody else came close to his score.”

I saw his test paper before he shoved it into his bag. How the hell did he score an A? I need help, I can admit that. I’ve asked around at the tutoring center; there aren’t any statistics-specific tutors this semester, so either I get a freshman math major to tutor me or I bumble through on my own.

I’ll take stumbling in the dark for 100, Alex.

The football player—I don’t even know his name—is always sitting at the front of the room in a special chair set aside just for him. I don’t think he can fit in the regular desks, he’s so massive. His big head is always bent over his notebook, his enormous paws jotting down notes as Professor Cassidy lectures. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t talk to anyone. So how the hell is he managing A’s? Who is his tutor?

Tamar pouts some more. It’s no use. There’s no way she’s convincing me to go downstairs. One drink will turn into three will turn into me getting shit-faced and losing all of tonight’s study time and most of tomorrow’s to a gnarly hangover.

The pounding of the music serves as a lullaby, pounding in equal measure in my head as I try to wrap my brain around these foreign concepts. I swear I was paying attention in class yesterday. My notes don’t make any sense. The textbook doesn’t make any sense.

I’m going to fail this class. And if I fail, I’m out—I can’t play next season. I could lose my scholarship. I could lose my housing for the spring semester. I wouldn’t be starting at second base, I’d be starting and finishing in the dugout… or worse, on the bleachers.

I’ve seen the big guy from class around campus a few times. We’ve never spoken; I don’t know his name. He’s always wearing Newton Athletics gear, and I’ve seen him in the student athlete dining hall. He’s got to be a football player. Nobody else is that massive. Even the bigger hockey players are weedy little children compared to him.

As a member of the athletic department, we’re entitled to certain… benefits. We get priority access at the tutoring center, for one. We also get leniency in taking our tests on different days if needed to accommodate our travel and training schedules. It’s early in the football season, but he’s only missed one class, and he’s always turning in homework on time instead of asking for extensions.

There’s a knock on my doorframe. Tamar is back, this time followed by Lex and Aleesha.

“Come party,” Leesh says. “We miss you.”

“You’re wasting your Thursday night,” Tamar says.

“There are a few football players and wrestlers downstairs,” Lex joins in.

Football players?

I close my books and crack my knuckles. “Okay, let’s do this.”

They cheer and pull me to my feet. We head downstairs, where the majority of our teammates are hanging out. There are a few guys clustered around. I don’t recognize any of them.

The big guy isn’t here.

Aleesha pulls me in the direction of the drinks. It’s all beer, wine coolers, and alcoholic seltzers on the table tonight, none of the hard stuff. We’ve got practice tomorrow morning, bright and early. I take a beer and crack the top, licking the foam off my hand like a heathen.

One of the football players—or so I presume, based on the Newton State College Football sweatshirt he’s wearing—gives me the nod and goes back to his conversation with the guys. I scope out the situation. None of these guys are even half the size of the big guy. How many guys are there on the team? They have to know him.

“Hey, the big guy on your team—really tall, about this wide, doesn’t talk—what’s his name?”

The football player on the right laughs. “That describes half of the linebackers, baby. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I don’t know his name.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And don’t call me baby, honey. I’m not your baby.”

He snaps off a roguish salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ugh. Boys playing at being men. Sometimes I really hate guys. Sometimes I really hate everyone.

“What’s a peach like you doing up here in the Northeast, sweetheart?” the guy on the left asks with a predatory leer.

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