Page 39 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Are you all right?”

I exhale and widen my eyes as I look to Logan.

“I didn’t think I was going to be nervous until right now. I kind of wish I wore my glasses tonight. They’re like a shield.”

His lip quirks up.

“I’ll be your shield. Come on. You got this.”

He leads me up the stairs and opens the screen door as I step inside. Professor Combs spots me first, and is quick to rush to my other side and point out the most important people in the room.

“Mr. Ford. How nice to see you here,” he says, taking a step back and eying Logan with what feels like suspicion.

“Nice to see you, too,” Logan responds, jutting out his palm. There’s a slight tic in his jaw as he waits for my professor to shake his hand, and the moment they’re done, Logan drops both of his hands into his pockets.

“Right, well. I’m not sure if they have seating placements. You may want to check, Rachel,” Professor Combs says, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat. There’s a warning to them, and my chest grows heavy. Logan is an outsider here. That’s what he’s saying with that look. I feel it. And I think Logan feels it, too.

“Okay, thank you,” I answer, glancing over my shoulder to Logan and nodding toward the hallway that leads to several more rooms packed with so many other academics.

Logan’s mouth stretches into a tight-lipped smile, but I can tell his teeth are pressed together underneath. I recognize the small dent above his brow, too. He gets it when he’s struggling with one of the chemistry subjects. He wears his frustration. I wear my panic, and it looks very similar.

Despite how uncomfortable I can tell he is, Logan follows me to the next room, and he remains at my side while I introduce myself to a science dean from Stanford and another one from Northwestern. A few Tiff professors recognize him and ask questions about the season, only one realizing he was injured. His shoulders stiffen and his jaw starts to work more as he gets cornered. I catch his gaze across the room and lift my brows, offering a rescue, but he shakes me off, waving his hand to encourage me to go on.

I finally find the rep from Iowa State and reintroduce myself, having met Dr. Rebecca Callahan once last year at a symposium. She says she remembers me, but I think she’s being polite. Regardless, when she asks questions about my studies this year and is piqued by my latest research on hormones, my jitters subside.

“Do you have your resume with you tonight? Or a card?” My pulse jacks up at her request.

“I do! Yes, I mean. Yes, ma’am. I do.” I twist and lift up on my toes, my height already nearly maxed thanks to the two-inch heels. I catch Logan’s attention above the heads in the crowded library room and Logan excuses himself from the conversation he’s been trapped in for at least ten minutes.

“Thank you,” he exhales, turning his attention to Dr. Callahan.

“Hi. I’m Logan,” he says, holding out his hand just as he has all night. Dr. Callahan’s gaze drops to his hand as she quakes with a short, and rather judgmental, titter. She’s a fairly formal individual, and I think Logan’s casual greeting has thrown her.

“Logan’s one of our most talented football players. He’s projected to go high in the draft,” I brag, leaving the whole bubble out of the picture. I give Logan a quick glance and when our eyes meet, his mouth twitches for a brief crooked smile.

“Well, how nice for you, Logan,” Dr. Callahan says, finally taking his hand. She meets his firm shake with her own, and it feels a little like a pissing match. Maybe that’s how I’m reading it, though.

“Can I get something out of my bag?” I tug on the strap, which he’s carried on his shoulder for the last forty minutes.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, enthusiasm coloring his words. He winks at me as he holds my bag open for me to reach inside, and his genuine thrill on my behalf tempers my worries.

I pull out my resume and one of the business cards I made last semester, when I applied for the scholarship I didn’t get. I hand them to Dr. Callahan and she pulls a pair of reading glasses from her clutch purse and gives my credentials a quick scan.

“Very impressive. Let’s set up a meeting. Call my office on Monday,” she says, pulling a card from her clutch as she puts her glasses away. I take it in my hand and stop myself from staring at it in awe, instead pocketing it and doing my best to play it cool.

A bell rings, calling us all to the dining room in the very back of the house. It’s an awkward stampede of well-dressed students and professors through the narrow opening, but once inside, the room is large enough to breathe in. Long tables form a square, white linens draping them, and golden chairs pushed close to mark each place setting.

I’d forgotten about the place cards, and as I scan the names and find mine on a corner near the fireplace, I realize I don’t have a plus-one next to me. I twist and flash my eyes to Logan’s, but he brushes my chin with the back of his thumb and smiles.

“I’ll be fine. I’m sure there’s a place somewhere. Go. Do your thing.”

I swallow hard, taking his hand and squeezing it. His palm is sweaty, and mine is cold.

The mess of bodies scurrying around the room in search of their assignments eventually sweeps me toward my chair, so I settle in and wait to see who I’m seated near. I introduce myself to a chemical engineering professor from Berkeley to my right and another rep from Northwestern to my right. When everyone finally seems to have found a place, I scan the room until I spot Logan, tucked in the center of the table opposite me. I hold up a hand.

He gives me a thumbs up and promptly pulls apart the folded napkin to lay it on his lap. Dinner and conversation take over for the next thirty minutes, and while I’m keeping up with the talk of research papers and who was recently published, my attention never fully strays from the man twice the size of everyone else. His tie now loosened and his jacket on the back of his chair, he’s staring at his half-eaten plate of chicken piccata, pushing around the garnish with his fork.

The second Dean Fisher, our host, finishes his toast, I excuse myself from my place and make my way back to Logan. Cocktails are flowing, and more mingling is in the works, but I don’t feel any desire to stay. I can tell Logan wants to bust out of this place, too, so when I find him and offer to leave, his grin is instant. He slips his jacket on in one smooth movement.

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