Page 126 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

She steps back, wiping her cheeks, steadying herself. And then she turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd without looking back.

I remain frozen, the trophy suddenly heavier than something this small has any right to be.

And in that moment, I finally understand the truth.

I always thought football was the destination.

Somewhere along the way, she became home.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lucy

Lady Susan is unlike any other protagonist I’ve encountered in Austen. Calculating. Manipulative. Brilliantly deceptive. A woman who bends the world to her will without apology. And somehow, in all her villainy, I can’t help but admire her—the precision of her charm and the way she navigates social landmines with a hidden smile. I’m so absorbed in the story that it feels like I’m standing beside her, watching as she orchestrates every interaction to her advantage. The subtle curve of her lips. The sweetness she performs while concealing an agenda sharp enough to cut.

I can almost feel the weight of her gown as she paces the drawing room, weaving lies so seamlessly they sound like truth. There’s something intoxicating about being inside her head, about a woman who refuses to apologize for wanting more. She takes what she wants, consequences be damned.

And maybe, there’s a part of me that envies her.

Not because she’s kind.

Lady Susan isn’t kind. She’s ruthless in ways I could never be.

But she knows what she wants. And she believes, without apology, that she deserves to pursue it.

I’ve spent most of my life doing the opposite. I wait, observe, stay inside the lines of the world I already know.

Lady Susan doesn’t wait.

She moves first and deals with the consequences later.

I can’t decide if that makes her reckless or brave.

Maybe both.

If I’d had even a fraction of Lady Susan’s confidence, would I have let Dylan go?

The question pulls me out of the story more effectively than Ms. Thorn ever could. I blink, shaking my head as if that alone might dislodge it. But it lingers. It always does. The ache of what I lost. What I chose to let go.

A throat clears nearby, pulling me sharply back into the present.

“Lucy?”

Ms. Thorn’s voice interrupts the world of Jane Austen, and the library snaps back into focus. The scent of old paper, the quiet shuffle of pages, and the low murmur of a study group tucked into the far corner. Reality settles in around me, heavier than before.

I look up. “Ms. Thorn?”

She smiles. “I hate to be the one to interrupt, but the library closes in twenty minutes.”

“Oh.” I glance at the clock, surprised by how much time has slipped past me. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“That’s how you know it’s a good story,” she says, nodding toward the worn copy of Lady Susan in my hands. “What do you think of her?”

I smile faintly, tracing the edge of the cover with my thumb. “She’s… complicated.”

Ms. Thorn lifts a brow. “Complicated? Or just unapologetic?”

I hesitate. How do I explain that I admire Lady Susan not because she’s good, but because she’s decisive? That confidence feels like something I misplaced somewhere along the way.