Page 125 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

She nods.

I reach up instinctively, brushing my knuckles along her jaw.

“I’m fine,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “They had no right.”

She gives me a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault.”

For a moment, everything else disappears—the noise, the lights, the team. It’s just us, standing too close, saying everything without words.

“Did you decide?” she asks quietly. “About the Larks?”

My throat burns. “Yeah,” I say. “I did. They want to bring me in if I go undrafted next month.”

She nods slowly. “Good.” Her smile is fragile, but real. “I’m so proud of you, Dylan.”

Neither of us moves.

The distance between us is barely a few inches, but it feels like the space holds everything we’ve lost.

I can see the questions in her eyes. The hesitation. The same ache that’s been sitting in my chest since the night she walked away.

I should step back.

I should let her go the way she clearly thinks she needs to.

But some part of me refuses.

Because standing this close to her again reminds me of something I’ve been trying not to admit to myself.

Loving Lucy was never something I could switch off just because she asked me to.

That’s what breaks me.

She shifts like she’s about to leave.

Then her eyes meet mine.

She doesn’t step away.

She steps closer.

The space between us disappears.

I don’t remember deciding to kiss her. It’s desperate and aching, full of everything we never said. She responds instantly, her arms wrapping around my shoulders like she never left.

We kiss with all the desperation of people who still love each other but have no idea what to do about it.

I don’t want to let go.

But I do.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I’m proud of you,” she says again.

I nod, because I can’t speak.