Page 40 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

We’re on our way out of the dining room when Dr. Callahan stops us at the door, her hand on Logan’s arm, a man who looks to be about fifty behind her. Her husband, I’m guessing.

“I’m sorry. I forgot your name, but I wanted to introduce you to my husband. He’s a big football fan,” she says.

Logan’s brow rises, his expression skeptical.

“Sure. It’s Logan Ford. I play for Tiff,” he says, squaring his shoulders and holding out his hand.

“Henry Callahan,” the other man says, chuckling through their handshake. “Wow. Some grip!”

Henry flexes his hand when they part, and I’m not sure how much of that was him kidding. Logan’s hands are back in his pockets, so I loop my arm through his elbow and hold on to the fabric of his jacket.

“Tell me, Logan. You make it to many of these kinds of dinners?” Henry asks.

My brow pinches at the smugness of his question, and Logan’s arm tightens around mine.

“Like this? Not really. They feed us braised beef and cornbread muffins on Fridays in the stadium dining hall. Those are pretty special, and the food, well . . . it’s better than that piccata stuff.” Logan’s turning up the stereotype, and I’m not sure why . . . until?—

“You were talking to my colleagues before dinner, in the library. What was it you said? Something about—Huck Finn? Or was it Treasure Island?”

Logan’s mouth has dropped into a hard line, and he blinks slowly before lifting his chin a tick.

“It was Tom Sawyer. And I said it was my favorite book.”

Henry’s laugh is instant. And it’s mocking.

“Oh, man, you football guys. You’re always so simple,” he says, daring to put his palm on Logan’s shoulder.

“We should get going actually,” I cut in, spotting the slight shirk Logan gives Henry. I want to punch the man in the face. I can’t imagine Logan doesn’t.

“Dr. Callahan, it was nice to meet you. I will call your office Monday,” I say, no longer sure I want to.

“Pleasure,” Logan grits as I lead him out of the room and through the haughty crowd. Drinks started flowing with dinner, and much like the party Logan took me to, it has raised the volume and emboldened the attendees. Apparently, though, in this crowd liquor brings out the assholes.

We walk in silence down the steps, and I bite my tongue until we get to the sidewalk, sheltered by the deep shadows of the oak trees that still haven’t lost their leaves.

“Logan, I’m so sorry for that.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, continuing his stride from the dean’s house. I jerk his arm and force him to twist into me. My hands grab the lapels of his jacket and I shake them against his chest.

“It’s not fine. Let me apologize!”

Logan’s nostrils flare.

“Fine. You’re forgiven. Even though you didn’t do anything wrong. Can we go now?” He looks back toward the house, his neck flexing. His mind clearly still rearing with negative energy.

“We can go. But Logan, hear me. I’m sorry.”

His eyes drift back to mine, and there’s a tinge of redness to the whites.

“Like I said. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just . . .” He exhales and looks out toward the street, chewing at the inside of his cheek. His gaze comes back to me, and I finally see it. His shame.

“You know they had to come up with an entire plan to deal with me failing chemistry last year? Like, there were meetings and shit about how to sweep my grade under the rug and just usher me through, the way they did with those basketball guys who got caught up in the scandal. I actually had to fight for them to let me take this class again. But they told me not to worry about it. ‘Just worry about football, Logan. We’ll get you a passing grade.’”

His eyes dim, his face somehow sadder.

“Do you know how stupid I feel sometimes? Even with you, and I know you don’t mean to make me feel that way, but you’re just so smart. Every class is easy for you. I bragged about a few A’s in literature, but you know what? Those classes were remedial. And the materials were dumbed down for people like me to understand. It doesn’t mean I didn’t like it. And I did read the real texts because I wanted to learn. I want to learn!

“But people like Henry . . . they want me to play football. Earn the school big money. Take a few hits. Fuck your knee up. We’ll give you an A. But then what? Huh? What happens if I fall on the other side of that bubble, Rachel? Who am I? A dumb jock who isn’t even fucking good at working on cars?”

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