Page 69 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

Sure, it’s in a small town on the highway cutting between Missouri, Kansas and Iowa, but it’s a billboard. And it’s a busy highway. And it’s my face.

My freaking face!

More importantly, I have seventeen minutes to get my ass in a tux and to the Ritz Carlton by the river for Rachel’s award. We don’t have to stay for the ball. But if I miss her getting praise for being amazing, I’ll never forgive myself.

I make it to the cleaners five minutes before the place closes, but since I don’t have a claim ticket, the manager asks me for a backup ID. She’s a short, older woman with well-quaffed hair, the old-school kind that she likely gets done at a salon once a week. It’s gray, mostly, but the tips are black. Stylish. Maybe she’ll be reasonable.

“Your license has a different address than what’s on file,” she says, and I groan. Reason out the window.

“That’s because I’m a student. That address is my parents’ house. I live near campus for college.”

She simply blinks, her mouth a hard line.

“Right,” I huff, tucking my license back in my wallet and flipping through other options.

“Here, this is my credit card,” I say, laying it on the counter.

She shakes her head, so I keep going.

“My library card for back home? Or maybe my student dining card,” I flatten both of them next to the credit card, and she picks the dining one up, inspecting it.

“Hmm, there’s no address here. It has your picture, though. It’s a nice photo. Your mom must be proud. Very handsome boy.” She gives me a polite grin, and all I can do is let my head sink.

“I need to get this tux. Please. It’s mine, I swear.” I shake my head before lifting it up and dumping out the remaining contents of my wallet, minus the condom I keep held in place with my thumb.

I hold her gaze, trying to evoke pity.

“It’s for a girl. I have to show up!”

She pulls her mouth into a crooked twist and glances down at my offerings, spreading them around to give it all a good search. Her finger stops above the grocery store gift card, tapping on it a few times then sliding it away from the bunch.

“This one might do,” she says, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

I breathe out a short, amused laugh. I’ve had that card for a year. Hell, it might even be expired. My mom gave it to me when she was worried I wasn’t eating enough. I weigh two hundred and five pounds. And that has not fluctuated for two years.

“Right, so the grocery card. Yeah, that works,” I chuckle, sweeping up the remaining items and tucking them back into place while Mrs. Clean scoops up her evidence of extortion.

I’m at peace with it less than a minute later when she hooks my tux on the bar for me to inspect. I tear away the plastic and ball it up, pushing it into her trash bin, which makes her grumble.

“Hey, you made out pretty good here. I think the least you can do is take your plastic back,” I say, returning my attention to the suit I haven’t worn in three years.

It’s going to be snug, but it was big on me three years ago. Before I really bulked. Once I’m sure the buttons are all intact and everything looks in order, I thank her for conning me and rush to my truck. That ticked off way too much time, so stopping by my house is no longer an option. Instead, I race the six miles to the hotel and find a spot shielded by hedges and away from the lights so I can change.

I keep the same dress shirt on, which helps, and manage to swap out my pants and change out my shoes, all in the cab of my truck. I step out, feeling the material stretched on my ass. There will not be any sitting. Or bending over. I can handle that.

After slipping on the vest and jacket, I reach across the seat for the small gift I bought for Rachel this morning. I planned to give it to her tonight, but since I made it here in time, I may as well come bearing gifts.

I fling the truck door shut and feel my jacket seams pull with the flex of my arm. It makes me chuckle, as does the blatant shortness of my pants. I look down, glad I went with the no-sock look when I realize how exposed my ankles truly are. Still, a tux is better than sweatpants. And my other suit isn’t quite dressy enough for a ball. Not that I have a clue what is ball appropriate.

It takes me a few attempts to find the right ballroom, but when I do and pull open the set of doors, I find Rachel almost immediately. I close the door softly, someone on stage speaking and the rest of the room all seated for dinner. I didn’t eat much during my meeting with Coach and the sponsor, so the smell of grilled chicken and fresh veggies is mighty tempting. Maybe Rachel will have some left. Or an extra plate.

“Can I help you?” A tall man I vaguely recognize leans into my shoulder. I think this is her professor.

“Uh, I think I’m good. I’m here for Rachel Edwards. I see her, but I’ll wait for a break in the action,” I say, gesturing to the stage.

“Well, good timing,” he says. “This is her award.”

My mouth forms an O and I take a few steps forward for a better view, now paying attention to the words being said. I’m not sure who the host is, but the man is reading comments from nearly every professor in the chemistry department, and they’re all praising Rachel’s intellect and drive.

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