Page 4 of The Game Plan

“I’m from Mississippi, not Georgia.” Not like these idiots know the difference.

“Come on over here and give me some of that Mississippi sugar, angel,” the guy in the middle says, giving me what I’m sure he intends to be a winning smile. It just comes off sleazy.

“Y’all are wasting your time,” the first guy says. “She wants a linebacker.”

“What’s your name, baby?” Lefty cuts in.

“None of your fucking business.” I turn on my heel and disappear into the throng of people.

More guys have shown up from the football team and the soccer team, as have a few from the gymnastics and tennis teams. It’s a party now. I’m not in the partying mood. The idea of playing nice makes my skin crawl.

I take my beer out to the front porch. The street is quiet—cars aren’t allowed in Athlete’s Village after dark. It’s a little Mecca for all of us student athletes, a place where our split focus on academics and athletics is revered, not disparaged. A place for us to be ourselves, not bogged down by judgement.

The leaves are turning colors. It’s gorgeous. Back home, our fall is a hot, muggy mess of thunderstorms. Leaves fall from trees overnight. On the rare occasions we get snow, it turns to mud in the blink of an eye.

I’ve always had this romantic notion of New England in the fall. This is my third year here and that hasn’t changed. Winter is hell and spring is a pipe dream, but fall is cozy and picturesque in a way that summer could never compare. It’s conditioning season; that means leggings and boots and curling up with my teammates in front of a fire.

There are six athletes to a house. There have to be fifty or sixty guys on a football team. That means there are at least eight houses of football players, maybe more. I can’t just go knocking on their doors until I come across tall, wide, and handsome.

I’ll have to corner him after class. Make him talk to me. Make him share his tutor or his notes or his study guides with me. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it right.

I only joined a sorority because my mother made me. She’s a Kappa legacy. She simply cannot conceive of a world in which I’m not a Kappa, too. So I rushed. And to my surprise, I don’t hate it. I found a group of like-minded women who have the same interests as I do. It helps that Tamar rushed with me. It’s the two of us against the rest of the world. Neither of us are frilly, frou-frou type girls.

The sisters are throwing a tailgating party in the parking lot of the stadium. It’s really just an excuse to get dressed up in a cute sweater and scarf and parade about in front of the fraternity brothers, who are more interested in beer and football than in getting laid at the moment. That’ll come later tonight. They won’t be deterred for long.

Ostensibly we’re here for a canned food drive. Students who donate a can of food get admission for half price, and community members can donate a full bag for free admission.

There’s a couple wearing head to toe Newton apparel. Both her beanie and his sweatshirt have #14 on it. Must be his parents, or maybe really big fans.

I’m no stranger to football. I grew up under Friday night lights back home in Dean, Mississippi, a medium-sized suburb of Jackson. My older brother played all four years of high school before he blew out his knee in practice his freshman year at Ole Miss before he ever got to step onto that field. My dad, born and raised in western Washington, watches the Seahawks religiously. My mama throws the best Super Bowl parties in town.

Coach was particularly vindictive today. Our conditioning sessions are getting more and more intense as we get closer to the start of softball season. My ass and thighs are killing me, the muscles are so sore. We’ve got the better part of five months until preseason starts. There’s no need for this bullshit in the off-season. Standing out here in the cold, collecting cans, and lugging heavy boxes feels like an additional punishment after the intensity of the morning’s workout. I’m already bruised and battered enough; can’t I just have a few hours off to relax?

The game is… decent. We’re playing against conference rivals Northeastern, who are adequate. Their quarterback is a seasoned senior with a killer snap and an even better smile if the pictures on the Jumbotron are anything to go by.

Tamar and I huddle under an enormous silver, blue, and black blanket with the school logo. It’s early fall, so while the weather is nice for now, it can turn deadly cold in the blink of an eye. We’re both layered up, unlike some of our sisters, who are wearing their flannel best and cute NSC-Kappa beanies. They’re pink.

I’m not a pink type of girl. My hair is more likely to be in a top knot than it is to be brushed. I’m religious about sunscreen, yes, because skincare is no joke, but I rarely have the time or the inclination to put on a full face of makeup. My wardrobe consists exclusively of workout gear, leggings, and team and sorority apparel, because I have no time to go out and shop for clothes, and because I wouldn’t be caught dead in a little black dress.

There’s nothing wrong with not being a frilly, frou-frou kind of girl. I’m happy with who I am. My sisters don’t care if I show up in baggy old sweats or in a crop top and heels. They just want me to show up, period, so I do. I have their back like they would have mine.

From the raucous student section, I try to scope out the linebackers. There are a handful of guys who are as big as the guy from my class, the guy who checked me out in the dining hall the other day. Is he Cavanaugh, #14? I don’t think he’s Zhang or Alkatib.

My eyes keep drifting back to Cavanaugh. He’s massive, yes, while still quick on his feet. He throws down with the opposing team’s players like they’re weightless, inconsequential and ineffectual.

It’s a blowout of a second half. Newton wins, 49 to 24. The crowd is loving it. The student section comes alive with school spirit.

“Party at the Delta house,” the fraternity brothers yell as they pound the stairs of the stadium.

There’s still one player left on the field. I can’t make out his number from here. He’s holding his helmet, gazing up at the goal posts. From a distance, he almost looks like the big guy. I want to know what he’s doing out there, why he hasn’t made for the locker room like all the other dudes.

“I’ll meet you back at the house,” I tell Tamar, gathering my stuff.

“You good? You want me to walk back with you?”

I shake my head. “I have something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

She rolls her eyes. “You just want to skip out on the party.”

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