LTs#1: What!!??!!?? 😱😱😱 Y???? Noooo!!! ILY LT!

HuskyFan98052: Cute girl. 👍 NOW BEAT USC!!!!

LT-Marry-ME: What'd that bitch do the rest of us couldn't? 🕳️🏃‍♀️

LogansBitchhh: WTF slut stole him away. 🔪🔪

Grace.Hightower: Logan + Ellie = 🥰❤️‍🔥🥰❤️‍🔥🥰.

With a sigh, I gently pinched the bridge of my nose with the index finger and thumb that wasn't on my hand that tightly clenched my phone. After the interview, my social media sites exploded in reaction and, as I expected, initial reactions were bipolar. Not that Ellie looked at my page anymore, but I spent more time than I comfortably admitted twenty-four hours after our interview aired and deleted all the hateful messages directed at Ellie and only posted a link to Mike Vorrell's pregame article.

My email and text messages were similarly flooded but thankfully those messages, from people who truly knew me, were all positive.

Mom: Logan + Ellie = 🥰❤️‍🔥🥰❤️‍🔥🥰.
Mom: Did I do that right??
Mom: Oh, I'll post it anyway. Love you two!!

The in-person reactions, the eyes, whispers, and pictures snapped of Ellie were similar to when I'd been named the starting quarterback after Emmitt's injury. However, this time the interest was solely personal and I clamped my hand tightly around hers whenever I walked her to her classes.

Extra attention aside, I assumed that Ellie felt better because her mood improved over the next few days during our normal schedule. Her bathroom groans stopped and she told me the antibiotics worked very quickly, although I still griped at her until both the cranberry juice and yogurt containers were empty. Unfortunately, she was right and her pee was definitely blood-red, which I ignored as much as I could. Thankfully, Ellie was my cleanest roommate but that was an unfair comparison because my only prior roommate was Brody and he was an absolute slob.

Tuesday our Anatomy group presented our group research on the endocrine system to the whole class. Despite how her voice trembled, Ellie's first part of the presentation that started from skin inward, was amazing. By the time I presented last, half of the auditorium looked bored and half asleep while the other half skimmed over their own presentation notes, but Dr. Groves listened intently and praised us afterwards. Our presentation wasn't the most thrilling or ground-breaking performance but we covered all the requirements, finished in our allotted time, and Ellie and I answered all of Dr. Groves' follow-up questions while Emmitt stood up silently and Amy picked at her fingernails.

At least it's over.

After that, the week progressed quickly and, as I walked across campus, fistbumps, handshakes, and well-wishes greeted me at almost every step. Among my practices, Ellie's job, and all our courses headed towards midterms, the week flew by and the game against USC quickly approached.

While the entire campus acted supportive behind me, behind the closed locker room and film study doors, we knew that the Trojans' powerhouse team was bigger than our program. But Coach Vaughn practiced us quarterbacks like a man possessed, drove us through extra hours of harder practices, and pushed me further into so much fatigue I almost fell asleep in my ice bath Wednesday night.

I won't say USC is better, we'll still give every ounce of effort that each of my teammates has, but reality in the team rankings says otherwise.

Friday rolled around and after my morning classes, while Ellie worked a couple of early afternoon tutoring shifts, I drove off campus for almost an hour to the Seattle Golf Club course at the address Coach Peterson had given me. The clubhouse reminded me more of a hunting lodge, with white and dark brown walls, lots of peaked roofs, and enormous windows.

The five-year age of my truck showed against the sea of white, silver, and black luxury cars in the parking lot and gravel crunched under my feet as I walked toward the covered wood awning at the entrance. My feet pounded up the double-wide cement stairs up to a pair of heavy wooden doors that creaked as I pulled the right side open.

A buzz of mixed conversations hit me as I stepped inside into a large, maroon-carpeted sea of Husky-purple polo shirts and gray- and white-haired heads. A quick glance down at the white polo shirt and khakis I'd worn revealed I not only stood out, but dressed just like all of the clubhouse employees except for the small SGC logo on their left chest pocket.

Fabulous.

"Logan!" Thankfully, Coach Peterson called out to me before someone handed me a drink tray and told me my shirt wasn't properly tucked in.

One advantage to my tall height was how easily I spotted someone within a crowd and Coach Peterson's brown-haired head was no exception. I plastered my most polite politician-impersonated smile while he stepped out of a small semi-circle of men who I assumed were alumni by their wide grins and slight nods in my direction.

"Hi Coach," I greeted him with an extended hand.

"Glad you could make it, Logan," he said loudly enough like he announced who I was. His hand tugged on mine, he leaned slightly forwards, then murmured in my ear, "A lot of these donors are saligaters, they catch the games from Lake Washington."

Meaning they own yachts and have deep pockets, got it.

"On my best behavior," I promised with a stiff nod and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

"As you can see." Coach swept his arm around the room, which I now saw was scattered with semi-circular tables with a white-shirted guy seated at each one. "It's a poker tournament."

"Coach, I don't -" I started to protest that my Husky card money wasn't enough to blow on a poker game I had no chance in when he interrupted me with a raised hand.

"It's all for charity but your table is number ten, naturally." He pointed to a table in the far corner, where the poor dealer guy couldn't have looked less enthused being here. "Your chips are complimentary."

In a lower voice, Coach added, "Most of these donors are members of the Suzzallo Society. Just today, these guys dropped ten-K for your table seats, so you're expected to stay the duration of the tournament."

Suzzallo... The library where Ellie works.

My mouth dropped slightly open at the idea that anyone spent ten thousand dollars just for a table seat next to me but I quickly snapped it shut and nodded silently. Coach Peterson clapped my shoulder lightly with his palm, then guided me into the crowd.

"And practice today?" I raised my eyebrows since I wasn't immune to not needing practice.

"Coach Vaughn put in extra hours all week. Donovan said offense is clicking so today's focus is special teams and defense," Coach answered me but a flicker briefly flashed through his brown eyes. "Gut feeling says this game will be down to inches."

"Let's get your chips," before I responded, Coach nodded at a centrally located round table, with rows of white, red, and blue chips lined up in trays on both sides of a guy in a white polo shirt. As we approached, he slid a small plastic tray of chips across the table to me, which I clutched in my hands and thanked him for what I knew I wouldn't have held onto long anyways.

"Wow, LT." A kind pair of gray eyes, edged with wrinkles, twinkled at me. "You weren't lying, you are terrible."

"Yep," I conceded and pushed the last pile of my chips in his direction. "Take 'em, Arnie."

"Good thing you're faster on the field," he joked, swept his hands across the purple felt table, and collected my pride along with the last of my chips.

While I knew the rules of poker, I'd proven in twenty minutes that I had no business gambling and lost every hand I'd played, then the rest of my chips left me in folds. The table assured me it wasn't my poker face but they were more than kind as they picked off my chip stash like vultures.

During those twenty minutes, I'd also been peppered with questions that ranged from extremely personal probes like my family situation growing up, why I was a science major, and even Ellie, who they'd seen from the ESPN interview, to very detailed football-related questions.

In return, I'd gotten an introduction to how most of these donors came into the Suzzallo Society, which donated large scholarships and endowments through estates. Most of the seven guys at the table were businessmen and almost all inherited their wealth.

Out of the seven, six were definite armchair quarterbacks and two had played for the Huskies. Arnold, or 'Arnie' he'd insisted, Daves was a hilarious, outspoken bald guy who now possessed half my chips played fullback ten years ago. Across the table, Jerome Bates, who was the flashiest smile and name-dropper here, played linebacker fifteen years ago. My neck nearly cramped from my bobblehead impression with how much I nodded at the barrage of unsolicited advice for tomorrow's game.

"Not sure why you're dishing out advice, Arnie," Jerome chirped up at one point. "Huskies never beat the Trojans during your four years."

"Opposed to your one game," he quipped back with a small shake of his head.

The quietest man at the table only introduced himself only as Ed Smith. He sat back in his seat, mostly listened to our conversations, and studied the table with quiet, pensive brown eyes. His tall, thin stature hinted he wasn't athletic but the sharp, calculated moves he'd made in the game showed he definitely hid more than his cards close to his chest.

While the table broke for the complimentary bar tab, Ed was the only one who stayed behind with me. He shifted back in his head, cupped his hand in his angular jaw, and studied me with his clear, brown eyes.

"Thanks for coming today," he finally spoke up. "Thought I would've sat with Emmitt Verns but appreciated the... entertainment."

"He's..." I paused and scanned the room until I found Emmitt's large frame surrounded by hearty laughter and chips tossed into the center of their table. "Here."

"This is all fun and games..." Ed stood up, then sat down at the empty seat next to me. His silver hair up close was streaked with more white than gray but his eyes fixed on me with greater intensity when up close. "You seem like a smart kid, how are you about real gambling?"

"I don't leave anything up to chance," I answered honestly. "I keep what I can in my control and forget about the rest."

"Clever answer." He chuckled quietly but his gaze never wavered. "What are the real chances UW will win tomorrow?"

I faltered for a moment, then plastered a smile I hoped looked polite enough considering what I thought he'd suggested. "All I can promise is that I'll do everything I can so we'll win."

"Sure you will, LT." He leaned back then winked one eye at me. "Sure you will."

Well, on that note, I need some fresh air.

"Good luck in round two." I reached out and shook his hand, even though the guy gave off a serious creep factor. "I'm going to use the restroom, I'll be back."

I weaved my way through the dull smell of expensive drinks, hearty laughter, and the clink of chips across tables as the first round concluded. Once I finished my business in a bathroom so fancy it made mine and Ellie's look like a Porta-Potty, my thoughts turned back to Ed from my table.

He wasn't seriously asking if I'd throw the game, was he?

No, that's insane.

I wasn't sure how long I stood at the sinks but a familiar form soon joined me.

"Some event, huh?" Emmitt's voice snapped me out of my thoughts and I met his dark brown eyes in the mirror reflection.

"Yeah," I replied absently then washed my hands and dried them with a towel on a pile in between the two sinks. "I lost out pretty quickly. Looked like you had fun."

"I pretended for a while, then gave in to the egos at my table," he admitted with an eyeroll. With a much lowered voice and quick scan that we were alone, he added, "Total bullshit kissing up but we've gotta do it sometimes."

"Right." I tossed my towel into the basket set up for dirty towels, then crossed my arms over my chest because frankly I wasn't sure. The only schmoozing event I ever attended at UCD was a team and family picnic on the stadium grass, where Dal had handedly beaten me three times straight in cornhole.

"Hey Emmitt?" I grabbed his arm as he turned towards the door. "Have you ever had anyone ask about... throwing a game?"

"All the time," he groaned. "I just smile and nod at the old codgers for their pathetic attempt."

I exhaled two lungs' worth of relief I hadn't realized I'd held onto. "So they're just bullshitting."

"Nope, they really bet on the games," Emmitt replied as he palmed the door open. "I've never thrown one, although USC is a better team."

Not in my mind.

"Hmmm," was all I replied since gambling on games was a part of college football I'd definitely shied away from.

"They're probably just testing you," he mumbled quietly as we walked back to poker tables. With an abrupt stop, he turned and smirked at me. "It's just shit-talk to gauge your character. You know, like me in the locker room before the season started."

"What?" I stopped quickly too, more in shock than anything else as some of our earlier conversations refreshed in my mind. "You were testing me... About Ellie?"

"Yeah." His smirk faded into an actual sheepish smile and he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Sorry, bro. Didn't know if you were a complete tool who'd try to take advantage of her or not."

I had no answer other than a most likely dumbfounded look on my face because my mind was stripped completely blank. At that moment, I had no idea what I believed anymore since I was sure Emmitt was the biggest tool, especially if he was involved in the Zetas' pledge hazing events.

Before I responded, Emmitt's expression shifted again, his smile faded into a thin line while he locked his eyes on mine. "And as far as Lydia, I meant what I told Ellie about the hazing event. I only picked her to get her out, I haven't done shit with those girls. Obviously, Ellie's not... that kind of girl."

"No," I finally found my voice and it came out tight and strained. "She's not."

"Don't need to tell me that." He chuckled, slapped one palm into my chest, then turned his gaze back to the poker event. "Let's get back in there and play entertainment monkeys."

"Right..." I muttered and walked a step behind him silently because at this point, I expected that a rainbow-colored elephant sat in my poker table seat.

What the hell is the truth then?

_______________________

Q: What's the hardest part of writing a 'funny' story?

A: Humor is subjective. What I think is funny might not be and there's a fine line (which Harper & Jake's characters probably get the closest to) between funny and offensive. 

The IHFP books are more dialogue/situational funny but with IJPS, I was a little worried because the humor was on a different level for me and some reactions might be like