I scan my surroundings, letting my eyes move from left to right surveying the crowd. I can't see more than a few yards in front of me on account of all of the bodies, but I don't need to. I should be focused on the ones directly in front of me, the ones interested in joining the paper or at the very least learning more about it.

There are over a thousand student clubs and organizations on this campus. Nearly every one has some sort of booth or representation today all wanting the same thing. To spread the gospel of their purpose or achievements, hoping to raise awareness and recruit the incoming freshman to join their cause.

When my eyes make it all the way back to the right, I can see Grey sitting in his chair still, reading some book with a boring cover, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. If he truly wants new students to believe in the power of print journalism he doesn't show it. He's fine leaving it up to the other staffers to spread the good word.

I can't blame him as I shift on my feet once again, using the clipboard in my hands as a fan against the still lingering August heat. I've only talked to a handful of students since the fair started an hour ago, and I still have two more to go.

Compared to the other booths though, we are a little lackluster with our basic red table cloth and blown up past editions of the paper standing behind it. We are mostly showing a deficit in the form of free things that you don't actually need.

I had suggested handing out some sort of refreshment to entice incoming students into stopping at our booth, but Grey shut it down immediately, using more adjectives than I thought possible to describe how stupid handing out popsicles to prospect writers is.

I took everything in me not to grab the free ice cream cone from the Student Government booth a few tables down and smash it into Grey's stupid face. But of course, their line is too long.

I'm half tempted to break out into song and dance to at least attract a few more. If I can get even two more emails to spam send our meeting flyers to, I think Grey wouldn't notice if I left.

When it comes to print journalism though, people don't want to hear it. Or if they do stop, it's long enough to question the actual necessity for a physical copy of the news in an era where everything is digital and available within seconds right there at your fingertips. They always ask if we only publish online, or if we're some sort of bloggers.

My answer is always the same as I politely smile, hoping to at least rope them in with that welcoming gesture before I proceed to explain that I don't disagree with them. Digital media is an excellent way to spread the news and topics we so desperately let consume our lives, but there is something so powerful in having a physical copy of it in your hands. I often attune it to reading a physical copy of a book. Sure I own an e-reader, and I often find sources on my phone, but there is something different in having multiple senses activated at once. Having the weight of the paper in your hands, the smell of wood pulp and ink congealing together into one. Thumbing through sections, looking for the continuance of a front page article, or that of your favorite topic.

Nowadays we search for specific topics and ideas, only seeking to have our questions answered and nothing more. Reading a newspaper gives access to so many different stories, allowing you to still get the answers to the hard hitting news, but perhaps stumbling into something new and interesting without even knowing. Printed news is a form of literature in its own right, a time honored tradition just like Saturday's being reserved for college football in this town.

I look back into the crowd as a roaring of instruments sounds from across the quad. The marching band has begun a dissent across the only open grassy area. The deep belting of the brass instruments sounds off as they begin a cover of "Don't Stop Believin'". The precise rattling of the snare drums quickly rumbling alongside them.

Any shot that I had of speaking with any prospective freshman has vanished, at least until this show is over. Whether you give a damn about college football or not, our band could stop anyone in their tracks and command their attention.

And they do just that, a small half circle forms around them as the smaller version of the actual band and of each instrument section moves into another song. This one is referred to as the Bulldog War Cry, another time honored tradition of our school and football team. The very song that plays as our players storm from the locker room onto the field before each and every home game. The members of the band drop their instruments in synchronized fashion in time with the cadence of the song. But only because the last part of the song is meant to be sung by the members and the crowd.

I allow myself to join in, always a sucker for this feeling, a smile growing on my face with each lyric that leaves it.

The band members move with accuracy and preciseness straight into their next song. The beat of the drums continues to penetrate the air around me, as do a few of the players from the team, alongside our mascot Billy Bulldog. The crowd instantly erupts at the sight, as if the president of the United States himself just walked through the parted band.

I cheer with them, still riding the euphoric feeling of hearing a crowd harmonizing, and let myself begin to clap and chant our mascot's name.

My chanting quickly stops when I spot Cal amongst the other six players and the cheerleading team that has now joined the chaos. The muscles of his arms are present through the material of his red State Football shirt as he moves through the crowd, stopping to shake hands and lean in for selfies with fans.

The band begins to pick up again, this time floating through the fight song, which again the crowd erupts for. I however remain neutral, only watching and now waiting for it to be over, for him to leave.

I still haven't been able to approach him, or even ask if he'd be interested in letting me write about him. But of course I haven't, because after I fled the kitchen to find Jake last night, Cal followed me. I ensured he kept his distance by nuzzling safely under Jake's arms. And I couldn't talk to him then because I had already let him see too much. I know he could tell that he was getting to me even if I didn't speak any words to him. And I didn't want to cause Jake to question if I stumbled over my words.

I want the conversation to be in a professional setting, to show him that this offer is strictly business, and that I want it and myself to be taken seriously. Nothing more and nothing less to come from the interactions.

I watch as Cal squats to the ground, allowing one of the cheerleaders to climb onto his shoulders. She hesitates at first, probably worried about how it will make her look to climb onto the shoulders of someone whose reputation precedes him. Knowing that he chose her, which means we will probably choose her again in a different more casual setting. But maybe not, he also has a habit of not choosing the same girl twice no matter the occasion.

The cheerleader however, gives him a subtle nod before following his lead and throwing her legs over his shoulders and then tucking her feet around his sides to anchor herself in place as he brings himself back to a standing position.

He then begins to move in time to the beat of the drums, smiling and working the crowd. This is exactly why Grey wants the player profile to feature Callan. Why when I offered up other players, Jake included, he quickly shut down the idea.

College football itself is a phenomenon that I'm sure is studied closely by other countries. Even then, State's program is still an anomaly. Not only do we recruit the best players in the country we also win the Championship nearly every year.

So anywhere Callan walks-on or off this campus- he has a following. He is a god amongst the football community for his innate ability to call a play and then follow through, but also with the rest of the population because of his devilish good looks and smooth words.

Which can be the only explanation why I allowed myself to be so foolish, to allow him to have his way with me and the only reason now, that I still care. That I still can't bring myself to talk to face him or talk to him. It has to be why I'm once again walking away and searching for Jake, looking for him to protect me. To provide me with comfort while he still can, and still wants to.