Page 4 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

The first reporter to nail us on the grades issue stands up, holding his pen like a pointer and bouncing it between our coaching staff and the athletic director. It’s obnoxious. Almost as obnoxious as his bed-head hair that corkscrews in all directions and the twisted collar of his short-sleeved button-down.

Coach hands the mic off to our athletic director, Rolland James, when he sees the question coming.

“Rolland, what can you tell us about the university’s plan to deal with what has been labeled as a complete dismissal of academic obligations in athletics?” It’s such a pompous way to ask about how our team plans to deal with classroom cheating. I’m sure we’ll have some arbitrary new system that will ensure integrity, blah, blah, blah.

“I’m glad you asked that. I want to make one thing abundantly clear—Tiff University is not for the weak, academically. The automatic passing grades given to some of our basketball athletes last season was a massive stain on this institution that will not be tolerated. So, moving forward, grade checks will be updated in real-time. Instructors have all signed updated code of conduct contracts that allow for their immediate dismissal for any grade impropriety. And the instructors and coaches involved with last year’s incident have all been terminated. We have every bit of confidence that our athletes will not only succeed on their court or field of play, but in the classrooms as well. And with that, I hand the mic back to Coach Mack.”

That was not the blanket statement I was expecting. And I’m not positive, but I swear Mr. James made eye contact with me as he handed over the mic. I slink down a few inches in my seat and Jax shifts his foot to the right, tapping it into the edge of mine. He leans toward me and cups his mouth.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure that message was for you and your fucking chem grade,” he grumbles.

His confirmation of my suspicion lands like a boot to my chest. I give him a sideways glance and quirk a brow.

“You think?”

He shakes with a quiet laugh and covers his mouth again, which is so obvious and makes me want to punch him.

“Yeah, bro. I think.”

The full picture fills in for me the second the press conference wraps and Coach pulls me into his office for a special one-on-one meeting.

“Take a seat, Logan.” He taps the back of the wooden armchair opposite his desk before rounding it to take his seat.

I plop down as realization hits me. My plan to take the same instructor that slid other guys on the team through their science requirements is probably not going to pan out. I’ve already failed chemistry once—I had one of those teachers with integrity. And now that I’ve taken it, my only option this time around is to stick with it and pass.

I swallow down the bile creeping up my esophagus and fold my hands in my lap.

“Son, I’m not going to dance around the point with you. This whole grades scandal puts a lot of you guys in a pickle, and I know it. But the difference between you and, say, Michael Woods or Danny Conrad on the D-line is that I can’t simply replace you. You’re key, you understand?”

I meet his tired gaze and nod silently as the invisible boot kicks my chest again.

“We have expectations on us this season. There are some big contracts waiting in the wings for this program—partnerships that could pay for upgrades. Hell, a new stadium maybe. And I’m sure you’ve been following your own numbers. A good year is a big deal for you, too. Personally. I know that. But the tools we’ve had in the past to help with academic struggles?—”

“I get it,” I say, lifting a palm. What he means is he can’t simply make a phone call and put pressure on an instructor.

“Every grade entry is going to be monitored and recorded,” he continues. “Christ, I don’t even know why the faculty stuck around through this. Every professor and adjunct in this place is being watched for every little move if there’s an athlete in their classroom. And you know how they love to make an example of football players.”

I’m not sure that part is totally true. We get away with a lot of bad shit compared to other teams—especially the women’s teams. Hell, I bet if Laney Price and her volleyball team heard him say that they’d laugh him out of his office. But still, he’s not wrong that we’re all being watched. And any mistake we make is going to be newsworthy.

“I’ve arranged for a tutor,” Coach says, and my head falls back as I blow out a heavy breath.

“Is that really necessary?” I stare at the dotted tiles on his office ceiling, knowing in my gut it probably is.

“Logan, you finished with a thirty-two percent last time. If I could finagle an entire team of tutors for you to pass this fucking class, I would.” His voice is caught between frustration and his typical humor, and when I drop my chin to my chest and meet his gaze, I realize he’s probably annoyed with me rather than the system.

“I understand,” I say, swallowing my pride. It’s not that I mind getting help or that I’m above it, it’s just that I know the tutors in the science department. I tried three of them last year and to say we didn’t gel is an understatement. They each grew impatient with me within two or three sessions and then passed me along to the next one.

“Good, so we’re in agreement. Let’s get this done and focus on football, yeah?” Coach stands and knocks on the wood of his desk as if that seals my fate.

I nod and stand, then reach out to shake his hand. A family portrait sitting on his filing cabinet behind him catches my eye and I pause our shake as the girl in the frame, who I assume is his daughter, sparks an idea. She’s dressed up for Halloween, a puffy pink hat and fake red braids dangling on either side of her head. I tip my head to the side and squint my eyes at Coach.

“One small request, if I may?”

He drops my hand at my question and immediately crosses his arms over his chest, taking in a deep breath. I’m testing his patience. I hold up both palms and chuckle.

“It’s a good request, I promise.”

He grimaces but quirks a brow and grumbles, “Go on.”

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