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Logan:Can you come get me at the stadium?
Me:Why me?
Logan:Because you’re the only I know that probably isn’t partying right now.
Me:Okay.
Logan:Walk of Champions entrance.
Me:Be there in ten.
Logan’s waiting. He’s definitely Adonis material—freshly showered, slightly damp hair and…wow, that body. When he decides to settle down, he’s going to make one lucky lady very happy. He plops in my Camry and the car sinks. “Thanks, Little A.”
“What happened to your car?”
He sighs. “Flat tire.”
“Did you call a tow?”
“Nah, Hagan has a small air tank in his car, so we’ll come by tomorrow, pump it up and then he’ll follow me to the tire store. How ‘bout that game?”
I ignore his shameless request for praise, instead asking a question I need the answer to. “Why didn’t Hagan come and get you?”
He reaches into his pocket and unwraps a few pieces of bubble gum. “Said Joe has his Rover for some reason and since I was the last to leave the locker room, I needed a ride.”
Did Hagan walk home after leaving the game? Ginger and Joe dropped me off at our apartment before they went to Joe’s house for the party. I’m sure Hagan is there too. “So, do you want me to take you to the party or to your house?” I ask.
Please say house.I don’t want to get within fifty feet of the baseball house. Even though I do love the porch swing.
“Home. I ordered a big ass pizza and I want to eat before I head out,” Logan says.
His house is only a ten-minute drive, and though he could have walked, I knew after playing a game he’s too tired. I pull into the driveway and park in front of the dark, empty home.
Logan quickly adds, “I don’t want to eat alone. Come in and eat with me.”
I pause and consider. I am a little hungry, and if I go home, I’ll just make myself crazy thinking about Hagan’s words. “Sure,” I answer. “I could eat a little.”
He jumps out, not thinking I need help out of the car. I press against the door and gingerly get out. The brace is on my left leg, which means I can drive, but it also means I have to place weight on that foot when I get out of the car. Finally, I follow him inside. He flips a switch that turns on a dim overhead light in the front room.
“I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
He takes his duffle bag and lumbers against the hardwood floor as he walks upstairs. It’s a typical guy’s house. Modular furniture, very little décor except framed photos of the football team for the past three years. Above the fireplace is a large screen television.
I walk into the kitchen, and I’m blown away. The kitchen is all new with custom cabinetry and appliances. Logan must be doing well with the new NIL agreements in place. It effectively allows student athletes to earn money from businesses using their name, image, or likeness. One opportunity came my way in the winter during the gymnastics season. The local cheerleading gym asked me to do a commercial, so I made three thousand dollars.
But Logan must make hundreds of thousands. He’s predicted to go number one or two in the NFL draft, so he’s not only getting local commercials but national ones, too. He did one for a local horse farm because they make money off of breeding their stallions, and I’ve seen one for a national hot dog.
He probably got that one for being such a hot dog on the field.
No one should begrudge student athletes from getting paid. Most students don’t understand what we have to give up—during the season, there’s little time to do anything more than train, eat, and sleep. There’s barely time to study, and definitely no time to work so the money we bring in from NIL agreements is sometimes all the money we athletes have to live on. We do get time off after our games or meets for that night only.
But for most athletes, we’re fulfilling a dream of competing at the college level, and it makes the struggle worthwhile. Which brings me back to why I’m mad at Hagan.
I was thinking about his molten gold-ish brown eyes and his laugh when I fell that night. I’ve thrown twenty years of gymnastics away over a guy. The thought that one or two piercing looks from a hot jock is altering the course of my dream and career makes me sick to my stomach. It may sound unreasonable, but a gymnast dedicates her life from an early age and to destroy my future over a guy, is a Muhammad Ali left handed jab to the gut and to the heart— because I like Hagan.
Muffled noises come from upstairs. I look around and there are no bedrooms on the first floor. I guess Logan is on the phone.
There’s a blue sticky note on the fridge that says,Hagan, Harper called. Needs you.
