Page 3 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

Stella is on the floor. Between his knees. I grind to a halt and puff out a silent laugh that stings my chest like a hot knife. I’m frozen in place for several seconds. I can’t even blink. Mentally rewinding my route through the library, I try to remember if I passed anyone who would have been able to see what my best friend and boyfriend are up to. As if that’s the biggest concern—someone catching them.

What the fuck!

I swallow down the bile threatening to creep up my esophagus and ball my hands into fists, my right one clasping around the key fob so tightly that I inadvertently press the panic button. The honking shrills in the distance, but rather than turn it off, I let it ring out as a test. Exactly how soundproof is that study room?

Dalton doesn’t flinch. And Stella . . . well, the only movements I see from her are the obvious bobbing of her head and a sudden shift of her blonde hair from her right shoulder to her left. If he were a gentleman, he’d hold it back for her. Like he does for me.

My eyes narrow, and my chest explodes. I’m not sure which hurts more, betrayal or rejection. In a way, I’ve been rejected twice tonight, so I guess that wins.

I take a step toward the study room, my molars gnashing together, but suddenly spin on my heels and head back to the parking lot, toward my blaring car horn. Rather than confronting the two people I thought were my circle, my found family, in the act of the ultimate form of treachery, I decide to deal with this moment as I would an experiment. For more than two years, I worked under the hypothesis that good things could happen to a wallflower like me. The evidence, however, seems to have proven that theory false.

Well, maybe one small note for my files.

I pull to a stop in the Tiff library lot before pulling onto the main road and type out a short and not-so-sweet text to my former boyfriend and bestie.

ME: You guys can go fuck yourselves. Oh wait. You already are.

2/

logan ford

Palming the football in a way I never would on the field, I hold it straight out from my body and scowl.

“Maybe growl a little too,” the photographer prompts.

I roll my eyes and adjust my grip, then do as she asks, gritting my teeth and pushing out a guttural animal noise that forces me to snarl my upper lip.

“Perfect,” she coos.

Media. My final media day. I should probably be nostalgic about this and commit every moment to some special mental memory trove, but I’m simply not feeling it today. It might have something to do with the photo shoot that I had to watch before my time slot, the one where my junior backup, Cam Ledger, insisted on taking his photos with his cheerleader girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend.

Amy and I broke up this past spring, and I’m not exactly pining after her. Time apart was good for my perspective, and it turns out that Amy is a massive narcissist. I learned all about those in my psych class. I’ve had that term thrown my way a time or two, but now that I know what one really is, I’m pretty sure I’m unworthy of the label.

Now, asshole? Jerk face? Maybe even creep? I’ll own up to those. But narcissists love themselves way more than I ever could. I’m all too aware of my shortcomings. I’m habitually on the cusp, which is a nice way of saying second place. It’s not only coming in second with my ex, either. When pundits talk about the draft, I’m what they refer to as a Hail Mary pick. I came to Tiff because I knew I would get great playing time. I also knew I’d get a full ride despite my shitty GPA. And I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’m on the verge of breaking the Tiff U rushing yards record this season as the team looks to squeak into the playoffs for the first time in years.

A bubble team.

A bubble player.

On the bubble of eligibility thanks to my absolute lack of math and science skills.

“Are we good?” I drop my sneer into the bored expression that reflects my mood. The photographer looks at her camera screen and flips through a few of the shots.

“Yeah, we got it. Thanks, Ford. Send in the next.” I nod at her and wonder if she thinks Ford is my first or last name. I don’t think she has a clue about Tiff football. Not many people do. But this year . . . this is our year. I feel it. Everyone feels it. No more mediocre for us. It was slow and go building the right pieces, but we have a real shot to take the conference this year.

I spot my friend Jax, our best wide receiver, near the edge of the stage set up at the east end of the arena and head toward him. There are more members of the press here than in the past, so that’s a good sign. Could also be that sports at Tiff is under a spotlight this year thanks to a huge grade scandal for last season’s men’s basketball team.

“You think Coach is ready for this?” Jax nods in Coach Mack’s direction. He pulls a hand towel from his back pocket and runs it over his forehead, then plops his hat back in place.

“Not in the least.” I chuckle and Jax shakes his head as we make our way to the front row of seats.

Coach steps up to the podium and taps the hot mic, sending a thumping alert throughout the arena.

“If you could all take your seats, we’ll get this thing started,” he says, backing off the mic to cough into his fist. He makes brief eye contact with me and I give him a thumbs up. He rolls his eyes in return. He hates this stuff.

About two dozen reporters file into the front row of seats while several cameras go live behind them. I’ve counted four photographers so far, and then there are the influencer guys all clustered in the back on laptops with cellphones propped on tripods. The hockey guy from Tiff is here too. We must be a hot story if he’s willing to step away from covering the ice for our media day.

Coach goes through the usual introductions, handing out our schedule and highlighting the link where the press can download our media guide and video from last season. The photos we just took are already being uploaded, so I should be sneering online and in print by the end of the day.

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