Page 5 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“I’d like to request a specific tutor. Her name?—”

“Oh, hell, Logan. Do not turn this into some excuse to meet girls,” he gripes.

I shake my head and press a palm flat against my chest.

“No, I swear. That’s not what this is. It’s only that I’ve gone the tutor route before, and I think I need someone with, well . . . gumption, I guess?” I stare into his hazed eyes, his head askew as he studies me, probably trying to read whether I’m bullshitting him or not.

“I agree gumption might be called for with you,” he relents.

I breathe out a laughing sigh in relief.

“There’s a chemistry major, she’s my year. Her name is Rachel, and I don’t know what her last name is but I’ve seen her working with other students as a teacher’s aide. She’s smart. And to be honest, I probably learned more from eavesdropping on her conversations with other students than I did from the instructor.”

Coach chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment, then nods once.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he agrees. “Now, get your ass in the weight room. You’re two-tenths of a second off your usual sixty.”

He’s being nice. I was three-tenths off in camp. And now that I’m carrying the pressure of a season and passing a subject I absolutely don’t understand at all, I’m afraid my time is only going to go up. But speed is something I can control. That and winning over Shortcake and getting her to do whatever it takes to make sure I pass.

3/

rachel

“Tutoring?”

I have said the word a dozen times, each recital with a different inflection. Never a positive tone. Because I don’t have positive bone in me in response to my professor’s request that I personally shepherd Logan Ford, Tiff’s biggest meathead, through Chem 101.

I’m still reeling from discovering that my best friend has been hooking up with my boyfriend—correction, ex-boyfriend—all summer. Then she hit me with the toxic icing on the garbage cake—she applied for the abroad scholarship, too, and got it.

“Rachel, I know you’re too advanced for this, but this is a request from the school president. It’s really an honor when you look at it that way. The school needs you.” Professor Combs is doing his best to sell me on this prospect, but under zero circumstances will I find fulfillment in swapping out a semester with brilliant minds for one where I’ll be walking a football player through the equivalent of coloring.

“You should probably work on your poker face,” Professor Combs says with a wry grin.

“I don’t have one. Because I don’t lie. And I will not accept this assignment without at least exploring every alternative possible.” I already have my laptop out and open on the edge of his desk and am searching for the president’s email and phone number.

I click the email address but before the window fully opens, Professor Combs pushes my laptop shut then raps his fingertips on the surface to make his point. I slump back in the chair and drop my shoulders and my chin.

“Fine. But I’m not responsible if he simply can’t keep up. I don’t have time to hold his hand through everything. I have my own labs.” I snap my gaze up in time to see his pursed lips, his arms folded across his chest.

“Try to be a little patient. That’s all I ask.”

My mouth pulls in on one side and I mentally imagine my first session with Logan.

“What’s up, Shortcake?” he’ll say.

And then I’ll break his nose with his chemistry book.

“I’ll be patient.” I hold my mouth in a tight line as my professor nods, sending me on my way.

There isn’t much time to prepare before our first session, so I gather my computer and notebooks, then clean up my lab and rush across the street to the library. Logan Ford’s back is to me when I walk in. He’s sitting at one of the large tables near the reference desk, books spread out in front of him and his feet propped up on the table. His hoodie is pulled up over his head, so his last name is on full display across his back.

I bet his eyes are closed.

I clear my throat as I step up behind him. He cranes his neck and pushes his hoodie back from his messy yet admittedly cute hair. With one eyebrow arched, his mouth ticks up into a half grin just before he says, “Shortcake.”

My groan is audible. I can’t help it.

“Are these your books?” I glance at the open texts on the table, a variety of subjects, and determine pretty quickly that these are simply books left behind. Logan leans forward and flips one of the books closed, revealing the cover.

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