Page 118 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I’m not sure I want to play for the Larks. And I don’t know if I want a future that puts three time zones between us.”

Her expression falls. “You can’t turn it down because of me.”

“I’m not saying I am.”

“You can’t walk away from everything you’ve worked for because I’m afraid to leave home.”

“This isn’t only about what you’re afraid of.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “It’s about what I want now.”

“And what do you want?”

“You,” I say. “Football, too. But not a version that means losing you.”

Her eyes shine, but she shakes her head. “I love you too much to let you decide this before you know what you’d be giving up.”

“And I love you too much to pretend you aren’t part of the decision.”

Neither of us speaks.

The track roars beyond the wall, people moving and laughing while our whole future seems to press into the space between us.

Finally, I understand that there may be no choice that leaves everything untouched.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lucy

I’m so absorbed in the courtroom scene of To Kill a Mockingbird that the café around me fades away. For a moment, it feels like I’m sitting there in Maycomb, a silent witness to one of the most powerful moments in literature. The air in the courtroom is heavy, thick with prejudice, tension, and truths no one wants to face. Atticus Finch stands at the front, calm and unwavering, even though I know the weight of what he’s up against must feel unbearable. He’s fighting a battle he already knows he can’t win. And still, he stands there and gives everything he has. For justice. For truth. For what’s right.

I can almost see the jury’s faces, their expressions guarded and unmoved, shaped by beliefs they refuse to question no matter how eloquent Atticus’s words are. Even Scout, watching from the balcony beside Jem, senses the gravity of the moment. She doesn’t fully understand it yet, but she knows something important is unfolding. Something that should change the world, even if it won’t.

I reread the passage slowly, the injustice settling deep in my chest. Atticus stands firm despite the odds, delivering his argument with grace and quiet conviction. He chooses to believe that some things are worth fighting for, even when the outcome feels predetermined. Especially then.

My life has nothing in common with the injustice of these pages. But Atticus’s willingness to do what he believes is right, even knowing it may not change the outcome, stays with me.

One side of me feels guilty, like I’m betraying the life and family that shaped me. Another part feels selfish because Dylan has worked his whole life for his dream, and now I might be standing in its way.

But what stays with me isn’t the courtroom. It isn’t even the verdict. It’s Atticus himself. The quiet conviction that some choices are worth making, even when they cost you something.

I’ve never loved a place the way I love this one. Willow Creek is my constant. My safe ground. But Dylan is my everything. And if he’s moving to the West Coast to play for the Larks, then where does that leave me? What’s the right thing to do when every option feels like a loss?

I wish I had that kind of clarity. I wish doing the right thing felt obvious instead of impossible.

Maybe that’s what scares me most. Not that I’d regret leaving, but that someday I’d regret staying.

Especially when I love Dylan more than I ever thought possible.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I barely register the presence beside me until someone clears their throat.

“Hey.”

I blink, disoriented, the courtroom dissolving back into the café. Darnell stands there, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unusually serious. It’s jarring to see him like this—no grin, no easy confidence. Darnell is usually the loudest voice in the room, the one who fills silence without trying. This version of him makes my stomach knot up.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, offering a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Sure,” I say as I push Atticus and Maycomb aside.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence feels heavier than it should. Darnell stares down at the table like he’s rehearsing something he doesn’t want to say.