Page 34 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

Shit. She meant that part about not having anyone to sit with.

“Hang on,” I say, setting my bag on my bed and darting down the hall to Jax’s room.

“I was just kidding, man. Relax. I like seeing you happy,” he says the moment he sees my face.

“No, that’s not it. I mean, thanks, though.” I pause for a second and embrace his words. Happy. Damn, I am happy. “It’s the game. Is Trisha going? Or Meg?”

Both girls are sort of on- and off-again girlfriends for Jax. At one point, I think he was dating both, and I think they were okay with it. Hey, good for them. Whatever makes people happy.

“Meg will be there. You want her to save Rachel a seat?” he offers, picking up his phone and already firing off a text.

“Oh, man. Yes, please. That would be great!” I slap his hand and head back into my room. Right as I step in, Jax shouts, “Section one-eleven, row thirteen!”

“Got it!” I holler over my shoulder.

“What’s that?” Rachel asks. I rush to my backpack and rip a page from one of my notebooks, jotting down the seat location before I forget. I hand it to her.

“Meg’s saving you a seat.”

Her eyes flash to mine and her lips part slightly with what looks like grateful surprise. At least, I hope it is. She glances back at the paper, her fingers fidgeting with the edges.

“Thank you,” she croaks.

“Of course,” I say, wrapping my arms around her neck and pulling her head into my stomach. I lean down and kiss the top as she snakes her hands around my waist. It feels nice holding her this way. She feels precious.

I glance at my watch and see I’ve definitely pushed my limits.

“I’ve gotta go. But I’ll see you after. And during! Row thirteen!” I tap on the side of my head as I snag my bag and rush down the hall to Jax’s room, where he’s still dragging ass. I pound on his door and he flips around, startled again.

“Dude!” he scolds at first, but I point at my watch and he kicks it into gear.

We’re out of the house seconds later and speeding to the stadium in my truck. Dante has been there for an hour already. Quarterbacks have to get their heads on right. At least, that’s what he says.

Despite leaving late, Jax and I manage to squeeze into the team room before Coach starts to ask questions. We’re dressed, taped, and ready to go by the time he tells us to get our asses on the field.

I love pre-game. The hype fills my chest, always has. Being a senior has its perks, too, as does being a team captain. Jax, Dante, and I got to build this year’s pre-game playlist, as long as it was language appropriate, according to the athletic director. It might be borderline, but our tunes are fucking epic.

Drill after drill, my muscles get more pumped. Guys bump chests and we nail down plays, our timing on for everything. I feel faster today, and I definitely feel ready to take a hit. That’s the most important part. And the reason my mom hates tuning in, and showing up for parents’ weekends. My dad comes to half the home games, but mom can’t handle watching me get hung up by an O-line or tackled out in the open.

As the pre-game clock winds down and we gather to head back into the locker room, I scan the crowd in search of section one-eleven. It’s the student section closest to the end zone, where I plan on spending a lot of time today. The stadium is barely a quarter full right now, but that’s because people still have thirty minutes before kick-off and this is the Midwest. They’re all getting beer. I search the rows closest to the field, counting up to thirteen, and then I spot her. Dark blue beanie, braids, and I swear she painted my number on her cheek.

I give a subtle wave and she raises her hand in response.

“Hi, Rachel!” Jax shouts, pushing up over my shoulder.

“You’re an asshole,” I huff, glaring at him before looking back to Rachel, who is now shading her face with her palm. A few students sitting nearby are straining their necks to look at her.

She lifts her palm and I mouth, “I’m sorry,” but I don’t think she can tell what I’m saying from this far. I throw an elbow behind me and catch Jax in the ribs, right where the pads end. Good.

We break our huddle and jog into the locker room, everyone taking a knee and setting our helmets on the floor. Coach calls up our defense coach, Allen, and he leads us all in prayer. Even our Amens are said with a different tone this season. We sound like winners.

For the most part, I’m in my head for the next ten minutes. Coach runs through scenarios I have imprinted in my mind. I’ve never been more ready for a game in my life, and I swear it’s because Rachel has somehow changed my brain. I study differently. Information sticks. My eyes are fixed on the board, and I’m taking in the motions, but internally I’m playing my own mixtape.

You’re going to be faster than them.

Nobody can catch you.

Ball first. Protect the ball.

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