Page 131 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Her voice is sharp. “Why isn’t Lucy answering me? She’s gone completely silent over the past few months. She’s not emailing Mom back anymore, either.”

I’ve dodged every question Mom and Gemma have asked about Lucy for months, answering vague comments about school and conflicting schedules.

“I’m done accepting your terrible excuses, Dylan. Why isn’t she answering?”

I lean against the brick wall and stare at the dark sky. “Gem… Lucy and I broke up.”

There’s a pause. Then a sharp inhale. “What?”

“It’s complicated,” I say quietly. “She ended things.”

“What did you do?” she snaps.

“It’s not like that,” I mutter. “She found out I was thinking about turning down the Larks to stay closer to her. She said she didn’t want to be the reason I gave up my dream.”

Silence stretches.

“Dylan, you are such an idiot,” she groans.

“Appreciate the support,” I say dryly.

“Did Lucy ask you to quit?”

“No.”

“Did she ask you not to go?”

“No.”

“Then what exactly did she ask for?”

I don’t answer because Lucy never asked me to choose. I just assumed I had to. Her or football.

I’m quiet for a long moment.

“So, what do I do?” I ask finally.

“Go get her back.” She pauses. “If you don’t at least try, I’ll disown you.”

Getting her back won’t be as simple as showing up and telling her I signed. I hurt her by turning our future into a choice she never asked me to make. Then she hurt both of us by making another choice alone.

This time, if she’ll listen, we have to decide together.

“I’m serious,” she continues. “Mom’s halfway to adopting Lucy already.”

I look down at the Larks folder in my hand.

For months, I believed there were only two choices. Football or Lucy.

I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out I’ve been wrong.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lucy

I sit in my usual corner of the café, a steaming mug of chai tea latte cradled between my palms as I lose myself in the pages of Sense and Sensibility. Outside, the morning sun filters through the window, casting a gentle glow across the tables and shelves, but I barely register it. Right now, I’m in Regency England, caught inside Marianne Dashwood’s heartbreak over a love that falters—a love that never truly chooses her.

I turn the page, that familiar ache blooming in my chest as Marianne pines for Willoughby, longing for devotion and security he only pretended to offer.