Play Nice (Make the Play Book 3) by Amber Garza

walker.”
    Anger simmers in my veins hearing them talk about my grandpa like that.
    “Really?” Talia openly giggles now. “I mean, I knew she liked older guys, but eww.”
    Heather throws her head back in laughter. “Maybe she’s just trying to figure out her future, you know? Like now that she’s lost her social status and doesn’t have, like, any solid goals in life, she’s realized that she needs a sugar daddy.”
    Talia roars with laughter. “Oh my god, that is so gross. I bet he can’t even get it up.”
    That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. My whole body is shaking as I drop my sandwich, push away from the table and stand up. All eyes turn to me as I storm over to Talia.
    “Hey, clean it up, Talia. That’s my grandpa you’re talking about.”
    Her head whips in my direction, her eyes widening. “Your grandpa?”
    Crossing my arms over my chest, I nod angrily.
    “Oh.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “I-I-had no idea.”
    “Of course you didn’t. Why don’t you try getting your facts straight before you sit around gossiping about people,” I snap.
    She recoils, her hand fluttering over her chest. Her friends freeze, their mouths agape.
    After a silent moment, her face smooths out, curiosity filling her eyes. “What was she doing with your grandpa?”
    Sighing, I glance around. The entire table is staring up at me waiting for a response. Why did I get involved in this conversation? I thought I was helping, but clearly I’ve made everything worse. By the end of the day word will have spread all over school that Ashley has a thing with my grandpa. Great. Knowing that I can’t let that happen, I answer honestly, “It was nothing. She was in line. He was trying to sit down, and he almost fell. She helped him, and then they talked. End of story.”
    Talia’s mouth drops incredulously. “Ashley helped him? Yeah, right.”
    I narrow my eyes. “Are you calling my grandpa a liar?”
    “It’s just a little hard to believe.”
    “Well, it’s hard to believe that I ever went with you, but it’s the truth,” I retort.
    Her face flames. “That makes two of us.”
    I hate that I’m arguing with her like this. I hate that I felt the need to say such a hurtful thing. I didn’t mean it. I know she did, though, and it stings.
    Backing away, I lift my hands in surrender. “You know you’ve turned into her, right?”
    “Since when have you become Ashley’s defender?” It’s a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.
    “I’m not. I’m the same guy I’ve always been. And you know me, Talia. I don’t like bullies.” Before allowing her to say another word, I head back to my seat.
    “And you always did root for the underdog,” her words follow me.
    After sitting back down, I try to shake them off, but I can’t. She’s right. I do have a weakness for the underdog. When I was younger, my friends used to tease me about the baseball teams I followed. They picked theirs based on who won the most games. I picked the ones that lost the most. Not because I like losing. It’s because I love stories of triumph. Of the underdog rising to the top. Of the least likely team winning the World Series.
    Even when I pick movies it’s the inspirational ones I choose. The ones where the weak rise to the challenge, surprising everyone. Or where the kid being bullied gains victory over his bullies.
    Maybe it’s because I’ve seen it happen with those closest to me. Namely, my mom. She and my dad had an awful marriage. He treated her like his personal slave. Ran her ragged, never cherished her. Then eventually he met someone else and dumped her. Many in town thought my mom would never survive, being left to raise two boys after being abandoned by her husband. It seemed unfathomable, especially in a town like this where everyone knows everyone else’s business.
    But my mom didn’t let expectations define her. She defied the odds. Went back to school, got her degree in nursing. She’s not a survivor.