Page 47 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Hmm, all right. Well, we do have somewhere to be. So if you don’t mind—” My roommate links her arm through mine and she tugs me to the left. Before she’s able to steal me away completely, though, Amy tugs on my other side and I spin around.

I’m not a rope!

My protest only happens in my head.

“I just wanted to tell you that his hoodie looks nice on you,” she says, her bright red lips forming a haughty but tempered grin. Everything about this woman is calculated.

“Thank you,” I croak out, kicking myself for speaking at all.

“Yeah, it fits you so much better than it ever fit me.” Her smile pushes into her cheeks to punctuate her dig at me, and with a flutter of her fingers, she tucks her pompoms behind her back and prances away.

“She needs my sweatshirt without the BIO part,” Claire says, and all I manage for a response is a faint, “Yeah.”

Claire said she wanted a real friendship. Well, she’s getting one with me now, and has been for the last hour. I haven’t stopped overanalyzing and venting over the things Amy said since we got to our seats. I’ve lumped Logan together with Dalton and all other men and then come up with a million excuses for everything Amy said.

“She’s jealous, Rachel. And she may be dating someone else now, but that doesn’t mean she wants Logan seeing someone else. She wants him pining after her. It’s what we do—all of us. We wish to be the one who got away in every single ex’s mind forever across time. That girl is just a little more . . . aggressive.” Rachel lifts her half-drunk beer and holds it up, waiting for me to tap my plastic cup into hers.

“Are we toasting?”

“We are,” she says. “To benefits of the doubt. And to having hard conversations.”

I hold her glare for a beat but knock my cup into hers eventually, knowing she’s right. I need to ask Logan about the things Amy said. And I need to ask him again, while looking into his eyes, about how many girls he’s taken to the gallery. Depending on that answer, I may need to burn this sweatshirt.

16/

logan

I’ve stared at my message left unread by Rachel for at least twenty minutes. I sent it the second I got to the locker room, asking her if she wanted a ride home or to go out with me and the guys. So far, nothing.

I know she stayed for the end. I saw her sitting next to Claire with a minute to go, and there’s no way she bailed before seeing that last-second hail Mary pass from Dante to Jax for the win. I was almost willing to root for a touchdown by Cam to come away with a win today. Almost.

My roommates are in the mood to celebrate, and I want to be there for them. But also, it’s not the same watching the game and having no real input on the outcome. I can’t stand being injured. I’m not gracious enough to take a bench role.

I scratch my head and lean back against the wall while I wait on the bench outside the locker room. Cam is one of the first to walk out, and he spends a few minutes with one of the reporters for the student paper. He’s beaming while he spits out one-liners about stepping up and filling a role and how the team misses what I bring, but he’s doing his best to fill my shoes.

Dude doesn’t deserve to clean my shoes. I smirk to myself at that thought, and try to focus on it as he heads my direction.

“How’s rehab?” He swings his duffle into my knee. It doesn’t exactly land soft.

“Running program starts this week. With the bye week, I might be back for game three. Hey, but thanks for keeping my spot warm for me.” My self-satisfied grin is joined by a thumbs up.

“Guess that’s what I was doing with your girlfriend, too, huh?” His expression is now on the bitter side, his jaw flexing with the slight lift of his chin.

“I have no idea how warm you keep Amy, Cam. Nor do I care.” My phone buzzes in my palm, so I drop my gaze to my lap and shield my screen with my palms.

RACHEL: I’m catching up on my labs tonight. I probably shouldn’t have come today.

My stomach sinks with guilt. I know Cam just said something else likely meant to needle me, but all I can focus on is the tone, or lack thereof, in Rachel’s message.

“What, is that her texting you now?” he says, and I snap my gaze up to his. His brow is all bunched up, mouth in an irritable tight line.

“My girlfriend? Yeah, she’s texting me. What the fuck do you care?” Seriously, I’m done with this guy.

“Pfft, whatever. I was done with her anyway. You can keep her this time.” He walks away and I stare at his back, trying to piece together the puzzle pieces he just dropped at my feet.

And then I see Amy.

Shit.

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