Page 18 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“I wish I could have a body like that and eat all the butter I wanted,” he mutters. I pause mid-chew and my eyes freeze open a tad wider than normal. He’s talking about my body. My body. I swallow down the doughy lump and it goes down hard.

“I’m sorry. You want to look like a curvy woman?”

His head bops up and our eyes meet, his also wide now. He glances to his right and his lips move slightly; I think he’s replaying his words. Finally, he laughs.

“I see. Yeah, no. I mean, I’m not sure how you eat butter sandwiches and look like, well . . . that.” He gestures toward me with his roll, then promptly takes a bite.

I take a smaller nibble of mine, not because I feel butter shamed but because he thinks there’s something noteworthy about my body. My mom has always praised my hourglass figure but it’s made me frustrated for most of my adolescent and young adult life. Designers don’t cut fancy dresses for curves, and tight-fitting pants and shirts don’t feel like hugs on my curves, they feel like compression bandages there to remind me that I’m not a stick. Add to that my size nine feet and five-nine height, and I’ve basically felt like a slug hiding inside sweatpants for most of my life. Stella used to say it’s why I loved my lab coat, because it was oversized and drapey. Upon reflection, I think Stella was taking a dig at me and my curves. Curves that, it seems, Tiff’s star football player finds appealing.

“So, who was the blonde?” I blurt out, clearly lost in my thoughts and losing my inhabitations thanks to his compliment. I cram the rest of my bread in my mouth to keep my face from contorting into some sorry expression.

“Ah,” Logan says, twisting the plate loaded with three types of chicken tenders around his tray. He stops at the plain one and picks it up, holding it hostage above a pool of ranch dressing. His eyes flit up to mine.

“That would be my ex. And we aren’t as friendly as she tried to make that look. She’s . . . I don’t know, vain? Self-centered? Self-important?”

“So, she’s a thesaurus entry for conceited?”

He chuckles, then dips his chicken in the sauce.

“Basically. Yes.” He pops the entire tender in his mouth, and I laugh. Half because of his response and half because?—

“And you judged my butter sandwich.”

He smirks on one side as he chews.

“Fair point.” He bunches up one of his napkins to clean the grease off his hands before pushing his tray to the side and folding his hands together.

“Amy and I went out for six months, but we’d hooked up a lot before that.”

My expression must look sour because Logan’s head falls to the side a touch and he shrugs.

“Sorry, I’m not judging,” I say. I was totally judging. But now I feel bad.

“It’s fine. You’re probably a lot more mature than me.”

I smile at his summation but the truth is I’m a hermit, and meeting new people isn’t in my skillset. I only met Dalton because we both spent so much time in the library and he approached me. I guess the library is his territory.

“What happened to end you and Amy?” She seems ideal. I noticed her cheer T-shirt and her long, toned legs, and Logan is, well, Logan is a beautiful man. Somehow everything he wears fits him like he’s a Ken doll, and his jaw is literally superhero squared. His lips seem strong, and his smile is disarming. He mentioned before that Amy dumped him, but honestly? Looking at the two of them together, I can’t think of two people more built for one another.

“Apparently, I’m unambitious or boring or, I don’t remember the other words she used. I think she found out I was on the bubble so she turned her attention to another guy on our team.” He’s about to take another bite of chicken but stops abruptly. “Sorry, being on the bubble means?—”

“I know what bubble is. Remember? Football class and me equals honors student.” I give him a wry look and he quickly apologies.

“You’re going to have to explain that to me at some point, your in-depth football knowledge. And you might need to tutor me in two subjects, to, you know, get me off the bubble.” His cheek dimples with the one-sided smile.

I chuckle.

“I might know a thing or two about that, yeah,” I say. My brother was a bubble player. He was fine with that, though, because football was his means to a different end. I think Logan has bigger goals with the game.

“Right, well, Amy is the kind of girl who likes shiny new toys, and this guy Cam, he was a transfer. He’s good, but not that good. What he has going for him, though, is a name. His dad’s Bolten Ledger.”

I spit out the olive-pepperoni bite I just constructed from my salad and quickly wipe my mouth.

“As in the guy who calls the NFL playoff games and sometimes the Super Bowl? On TV? And who has like four . . . or is it five rings?” Football is a thing in our house. And so are the Bears.

Logan rolls his eyes and laughs.

“He has three rings, and only one was with Chicago. But yeah, that guy.”

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