Chapter 3: Game Recognizes Game

I told Shane that if he finished writing, I’d meet him in person—maybe even date him, whatever that meant.

He was totally hooked, sending good morning and good night texts like we were dating long-distance.

A week later, he sent the full thesis—forty pages, perfectly formatted, legal citations I’d never heard of.

Plagiarism check was almost spotless. He put in real effort.

I thanked him, fighting off the guilt.

[Victim No. 1: When shall we meet? Sunday okay? Supposed to be 75 and sunny.]

[Victim No. 1: Is your waist really that small? Bet I could wrap one hand around it.]

[Victim No. 1: Can I see other photos? Maybe your face this time?]

[Victim No. 1: Why aren’t you replying? Am I being too forward? Sorry.]

His last apology probably came while pacing his room.

Then he got the block notification—the digital door slam.

I pictured his face, confused and hurt, staring at his phone.

Almost as satisfying as beating Michigan in overtime.

The five grand hit my Venmo, Connor adding a crying emoji.

First thing I did was buy new Jordans at Foot Locker—finally.

At the campus rec, I ran into Shane by accident.

Locker room smelled like chlorine and deodorant, Ohio State Buckeyes logos plastered on the lockers.

I took off my shirt, showing off the farmer’s tan from summer landscaping.

Heard footsteps—figured it was a teammate.

"Who’re we playing later? Don’t make me play forward, my knees are shot."

No answer, just steady breathing.

I turned. Shane was staring at my waist, eyes locked on the little mole above my hip.

I flinched, yanking my jersey up so fast I almost dropped my phone.

"What are you doing? This isn’t cruising hour, dude."

He rolled his eyes, jaw tight.

"You’re blocking my locker. 247."

I muttered an apology, threw on my jersey, and left. My new Jordans felt too tight, like they were squeezing my conscience with every step.

No way he’d connect the dots, right? That pic had so many VSCO filters it looked like it belonged in a Calvin Klein ad.

But his reaction? He either recognized it—or was seriously thinking.

Walking out, I spotted Marcus—always in his Fisher College hoodie, the guy who handled everyone’s Venmo after club events.

But today, Marcus had invited Shane and his crew to play.

I stared at Shane—dude was at least 6'2", made my 5'10" feel small.

How was I supposed to win? He had a wingspan like a condor.

Whistle blew, echoing off the gym walls.

I was so nervous my palms were already sweaty.

But Shane wasn’t playing well—maybe distracted. I dunked on him a few times, muttering, "Guess that’s what happens when you skip leg day, Winters."

One play, I almost slipped and he caught my waist, hand lingering a little too long.

I hit a three-pointer and won 21-19.

Finally beat Shane at something. Felt better than acing a midterm.

I wiped sweat from my forehead, tasting salt.

Shane was sipping blue Gatorade, glancing at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

I dropped my shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

When everyone headed to the showers, Shane asked if we wanted Chipotle or Korean for dinner.

I made up an excuse about a group project and bolted. Even I didn’t buy my own lie.