Page 1 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Chapter One

Lucy

The hearth glows brighter as I pore over the worn pages of Pride and Prejudice, the distant roar of Ashby Stadium bleeding faintly through the library walls. A drumline rattles, followed by the muffled boom of the announcer and a wave of cheers big enough to shake the windows.

Another touchdown, probably.

Outside the library windows, the campus blurs into darkness beyond the stadium, leaving the glass streaked with reflected lamplight. Every few minutes, another cheer rolls across campus, swelling through the shelves before dissolving into the hush. The sound makes the books seem even more still, thousands of closed covers waiting patiently while the rest of Ashby shouts itself hoarse.

Elizabeth Bennet’s indignation burns my chest in that familiar way good stories always do. Fiction makes sense. Even heartbreak does when it’s written cleanly and resolved in three hundred pages or less. Real life, especially on Friday nights in the middle of football season, has never been so cooperative.

I’m so absorbed in Lizzie’s fury on her sister’s behalf that I almost miss the knock at the door.

My heart stumbles as a tall figure steps into the room, broad enough to block what little daylight remains. The air seems to cool around him.

Of course.

Even in my imagination, men like him always arrive at the worst possible moment.

His coat is slightly rumpled, as if he’s been pacing, and he looks immovable—solid, imposing, and entirely convinced of his own position in the world.

A warning sign, if I’ve ever seen one. For him, obviously. I already know how this story ends.

“In vain I have struggled,” he begins. “It cannot do. My feelings for you can no longer be ignored. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

I lift a hand, stopping him mid-speech. “Let’s skip to the part where you explain all the reasons you don’t actually like me.”

He blinks, clearly unprepared. “H-how did you—”

“Doesn’t matter.” I tilt my head, settling into a version of myself that only ever exists in books. Braver. Bolder. “What does matter is that you never—ever—tell a woman you like her against your better judgment. Just… no, Mr. Darcy.”

His mouth opens. Closes. He rubs the back of his neck, flustered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Intentions are irrelevant. Actions matter. We don’t need a dissertation on your inner turmoil. We need to see you do something.”

He scratches his jaw as a shadow crosses his brow, searching for the right response. But he comes up empty. “I… well. I’m not quite sure what to say.”

That’s a first.

“Lucy?”

The name snaps me out of the fantasy.

I blink, disoriented, the glow of the hearth replaced by the softer glow of library lights. Ms. Thorn stands in front of me, keys in hand and sympathy in her eyes.

“We’re closing, dear.”

I glance at the clock on the library wall. 10:58.

I scramble to close the book as heat crawls up my neck. “I’m so sorry,” I say, wincing. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Ms. Thorn takes Pride and Prejudice from my hands, hugging it to her chest like an old friend. “Jane Austen has a way of doing that,” she says. “She doesn’t let go easily.”

“I wish I could live in her world forever,” I admit. “I’d never get tired of it.”

She chuckles as we walk through the quiet rows of books, the scent of paper and ink slipping around me like a blanket. “Neither would I. Though Emma is my personal favorite.”

“I prefer Persuasion. There’s something comforting about a good second-chance romance.”