Page 21 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

As I walk up, Rachel gets up from her seat and skips down to the first level where she can lean over the bar and meet my gaze. I shade my eyes with my hand, the sun lighting up strands of her hair. She must have her contacts in today. Either that or she can’t see a damn thing. I tried her glasses on for fun a few sessions ago and the girl’s basically blind.

“Every practice like that?” she says, leaning over the railing. My gaze snaps right to the curves of her tits, the loose tie binding the top of her dress. I’m in trouble.

“Like what?” I don’t even care if she can see my gawking. I can’t help it.

She shifts her sweater, which she’s holding, into a folded-up mess in one hand, and it blocks my view. Probably for the best.

“Like you all don’t have a clue what the fuck you’re doing.”

She went full F word, and her crass analysis pushes me back a step or two and leaves my mouth agape. Also, I’m impressed.

“I’m kidding,” she finally gives, winking the way I do at her. Which means she’s maybe teasing, maybe not.

“That”—I huff out a short, relieved laugh and point at her, waggling my finger—“Not nice, Rachel Edwards. Not nice at all.”

She looks up and moves her head side to side.

“Embracing my evil scientist side.”

I knew I shouldn’t have told her about that whole science villain scenario I had going in my head. She caught me staring at her last week while she was finishing up her lab, and my panicky mouth spilled it. Seemed a better thing to say than just fantasizing about sitting you on that table and spreading your legs.

“Not sure what evil scientists have to do with football pundits, but you make the rules,” I say, twisting my lips and shrugging.

Her head falls back with the sweetest laugh, and she kicks her foot up behind her, sockless and white-sneakered. Adorable. My mom would love this girl.

What is that thought?

“Wait for me by my truck if you want, or the benches by the lot. I’ll shower fast and be out in five,” I say, skipping back a few steps and taking all of her in.

I know our roles, tutor and student. It’s obvious that at the very least, though, we’re friends now too. In this exact moment, however? Right now, she seems like my girl. I like the idea of her waiting for me, of coming home to her after a game. Of looking up in the stands and finding her smile, catching her gaze. I’m one step away from driving her around on the back of a tractor with this infatuation.

I rush through my shower, partly because I want to get out of here before my roommates do, and also because I don’t want to make Rachel wait. I overshoot my five-minute promise by another ten, so I fire off a text as I zip up my gym bag to let her know I’m heading out. I pause in front of Dante’s locker and glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone before I grab his cologne and spray my neck with a half dose. I rub it into my skin as I walk away, diffusing it as much as I can so it doesn’t seem like I’m trying so hard.

I’m trying really hard.

I laugh to myself as I make my way through the stadium corridor and out toward the lot. I just stole my friend’s body spray to impress a girl. To be fair to myself, Dante does smell great. It’s actually the first thing nearly every girl says to him when he hits on them at the bars. Of course, he moves right into leading them onto the dance floor where his moves get them more drunk than any cocktail or shot he could offer to buy them. My dance moves are more on the beer-can-crushing level. Not impressive at all. But maybe Dante’s scent will be enough to convince Rachel to stick around for the night. And morning.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, so I pull it out to read the incoming text as I walk.

RACHEL: I don’t think Amy likes me.

Shit. I shove my phone back into my pocket and jog until I round the corner of the main exit. I stride into the parking lot in time to see Amy pulling open the driver’s side door of her Mustang. She’s wearing those super short shorts and a cropped sweatshirt, probably having just finished rehearsal with the dance team for Saturday’s game. She’ll stick around and wait for Cam, I’m sure. I don’t like the thought that she said something to Rachel, though.

Rachel’s sitting on my open tailgate, her ankles crossed and feet swinging back and forth. She seems at home there, content to be alone. Her eyes light up when she spots me.

“Did she find out you’re secretly an evil scientist?” I joke when I near her. I toss my bag in the truck bed and plant a foot on the tire as I lean into the side.

“Hmm, I think it’s more of the I’m a female and she wants to cover you in cat pee to mark her territory thing.”

I bunch my brow.

“That’s a . . . colorful way to put it.” I glance to the right, where Amy is lounging in her car with the door open and her music turned up just loud enough to draw attention. Cat pee, huh?

“Do you trust me?” I say, shifting my gaze back to Rachel, a devious and slightly selfish idea noodling in my head.

Her head tilts to the side and her eyes narrow.

“I’m pretty sure I don’t,” she concludes, her answer not requiring much thought. I laugh out, assuming it’s a joke, but when her lips mash together and her eyes squint with a guilty-looking wince, I pause.

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