Page 74 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

epilogue

Logan

five years later

It never gets old seeing little kids wearing my name and number. Their parents usually recognize me first. Sometimes they’ll nod toward their son or daughter, just to make sure I see them—the young fandom.

“You can have my ice cream if you want,” the kid whose jersey I’m currently signing says. He’s maybe ten. I recap the pen and hold it over his shoulder, my full name now scribbled next to the stitched letters spelling FORD across his back.

“Thanks, man. But it’s hot out. You deserve that ice cream. Maybe share with your sister over there.” I point toward the splash pad in the park beside Columbia University.

“No way! She’s a pain!” he protests, rushing away to get back to playing with his friends. I laugh at how some things never change. I have a vague memory of a similar scene playing out with me and my sister, and I still have that Emmitt Smith jersey sealed in a glass case. He was retired when I met him, but the fact I was still rocking his jersey years after his prime moved him. He signed my shirt for me, then gave me the hat off his head and signed that too. I swore I’d never get rid of either. Never will.

That jersey I just signed would sell for four hundred bucks online, but I know, without even asking, that this kid would never give it up. Not even for a thousand. He’s me, two decades ago. Full of dreams and energy. He told me I was his favorite player, and that he pretends he’s me when he plays touch football at school. That’s how I know that jersey is never going in the wash again. I just became a part of his story.

The kids are special, and I take their time and attention seriously. They mean more to me than some guy stopping me in an airport to give me his input on what I’m doing wrong with my run game. I am usually polite and thank them, but sometimes I get grumpy and let my poise slip.

“I’m sure you’re an expert. I’ll see if we can get you on staff.” That was my favorite comeback I dished this season.

Putting up with criticism is part of the gig, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. It’s football. And yeah, I want to win as much as, if not more than anyone, but at the end of the day, it’s a game. The science is pretty basic. Work my ass off. Get big. Get faster. Grind and often bleed. Score more than the other guy, and don’t fall apart. I do all of that right with a focused group of guys and we might just come away with a title. Regardless, we’re paid millions.

Meanwhile, the love of my life is inventing new ways to cure depression and treat migraines with a subtle change in the way a room smells. And her paycheck? Pffft, she’s still paying for the pleasure of doing it.

But not for long. Rachel’s one week away from defending her thesis, which should be a walk in the park now that she’s presented her research to dozens of renowned chemists around the world, today’s talk to a group of professors at Columbia included.

I had a little time to kill before she presents her latest research findings on the communication link between fragrance and our sense of smell. What started as a whim—a deep dive into human pheromones—manifested into a passion project to find ways to aid various forms of mental health through chemical compounds and their ultimate scent. She has the attention of all the major fragrance companies, and the people who bottle those essential oils have been after her for months. But rather than selling her data to the highest bidder, Rachel wants to treat it like an open source community farm. The good, she says, is simply too massive to let greed get in the way.

Sorta makes me feel like a chump holding out for four million more in my first contract negotiation. Not that big of a chump, but a little one. Tiny. Sliver of a chump. A chump worth a hundred million over the next four years.

I like to think the universe balances out, however. At least, I’m hoping Rachel sees it that way when she gets to that last slide on her presentation. I spent hours making it just right, drawing the perfect graphic, then double-checking my facts. It’s been a while since I’ve had to put my chemistry knowledge into practice. I just hope my tutor takes it easy on me when she sees the intent.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I check to make sure I don’t miss my own surprise.

RACHEL: It’s about to start.

ME: Be right there.

This is the sixth time I’ve seen her deliver this presentation, so I know the places where I can slip into the back unnoticed. I wait outside the lecture hall door, listening for the group laughter over her covalent bond joke. Smart people jokes are strange, but they sure are predictable. Like the six times before, the room erupts into laughter the second she delivers her line.

“His name is Bond, hydrogen bond.”

It kills. Every time. Without fail. Rolling on the floor laughing hysteria. I don’t get it.

I slide into the back row amid the laughter and the door falls shut without drawing anyone’s eyes to me. I always try to sit near the back when I watch Rachel speak. She’s the star in any chemistry room, but I still get attention. I don’t want the eyes moving away from her. They’ll miss something amazing.

Most people in her circle know we’re dating. Actually, most people on the planet know. We’ve shown up in our fair share of tabloid stories. Never the main feature, but we’ve been the small inset photo on the cover once or twice. The headline is usually more insulting to me, something to the effect of Football Star Scores Scientist. I’m fine with it. In my mind that headline should read Jock Scores Smartest Woman in the World and Holds on for Dear Life.

“She’s killing it,” says Bryan, the Columbia dean who has been pushing Rachel to publish her work. He wants her to serve as a fellow for a new division in their STEM program. She’s thinking about it. Especially now that we know Upstate New York is likely to be home for the next four years.

The slides are nearing the end, and she’s starting to move around the stage. She’s gotten comfortable talking in front of crowds. No longer the girl in the wings, she’s always in the center. It never gets old watching people twice her age hang on the edges of their seats while she tells them what her science makes possible.

I’m on the edge of my seat, but for an entirely different reason. My hands are sunk in the front pocket of my hoodie, my palm wrapped around the small green box. I keep rotating it, my thumb rubbing raw from fidgeting with the tiny hinge on one side.

She’s on her last slide before she switches to her bio and contact information, so I get to my feet, but hang back for the right moment.

“And that is how each covalent bond forms a sequence that builds these new diffused aromas. It’s science at its best.”

Here goes nothing.

---