Page 129 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I write about Dylan. About us. About the way love doesn’t always end cleanly, or kindly, or with answers.

And beneath it all, I write about the thing that scares me most—the unknown. The not knowing if Dylan and I are truly over, or just unfinished.

By the time I stop, pages fill the screen. My eyes settle on one sentence.

Some people spend their whole lives searching for home. I found mine in another person. And I lost it by trying to protect it.

No matter how many words I write, one truth remains untouched and undeniable.

Dylan was the greatest chapter I’ve lived.

And I’m not sure I’m ready for it to be over.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dylan

I shift in my seat, the leather of the conference room chair squeaking softly beneath me. The space is sleek and impersonal—glass walls, polished chrome, the Redwood Larks logo stamped everywhere like a reminder of exactly where I am and what this moment represents.

Ray Upton sits across from me, relaxed, confident, his sharp eyes scanning the stack of papers laid neatly in front of him.

My agent sits beside me with his marked-up copy of the contract, while two members of the Larks’ legal team wait across the table.

I stare down at the contract in front of me, pages of crisp black ink outlining the next several years of my life. I try to focus, really focus, but my thoughts keep slipping.

“So, Dylan,” Ray says, looking up at last. “Everything looking good so far? We were surprised you slipped through the draft, but the moment it ended we knew we wanted you here.”

I nod. My agent has walked me through every clause twice, but seeing the terms printed beneath the Larks logo makes everything suddenly real. I’ve dreamed about this moment for as long as I can remember—signing a pro contract, stepping into the league—but sitting here now, with Ray Upton and his legal team waiting on me, it feels different than I expected. More permanent.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Looks good. I think.”

One of the lawyers gives a polite nod. “We’ll walk through each section,” he says evenly. “Just to make sure there are no surprises.”

I appreciate that more than he probably realizes. Still, part of me wants to sign my name and get it over with, to stop hovering in this in-between space.

One of the lawyers taps next page. “This section covers off-season training expectations. Facilities, trainers, resources. You’ll have everything you need to hit the ground running.”

“Sounds great,” I say, managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

Ray’s eyebrow lifts. “It’s more than great. We’re investing in you because we believe in you, Dylan. You’ve got discipline and drive. Not everyone can handle this level of pressure, but you can.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, eyes drifting back to the contract.

Everything I’ve worked for is right here. Numbers. Terms. Commitments. All of it spelled out clearly.

And yet something feels missing.

Lucy.

She’s out there somewhere, probably tucked into a corner of the library, a book open in her lap, while I sit here making a decision that’s supposed to be just about football, just about me. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m choosing for both of us… without her in the room.

“Any questions?” Ray asks.

I look around the table. At everyone waiting. At the contract. At the future staring me down.

“No,” I say finally, steady despite the chaos in my head. “No questions.”

My agent gives me one final nod. I pick up the pen and sign where the tabs mark my name.