Page 134 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Running drills.

Reading offenses.

Tackling.

Filling every spare second with something to do so I never had to sit long enough to think about home.

Because home stopped feeling like a place a long time ago.

Maybe that’s why I never noticed how beautiful stillness could be.

Until now.

Then she stops walking when we reach the parking lot her car died in last fall.

“Sometimes, I like to stop here on my way to the library,” Lucy confesses as she wraps her arms around herself. “And remember the boy who fixed my car.”

I smile. “Yeah?”

“You were wearing your football jersey.” She shrugs. “Feels like a lifetime ago to me sometimes.”

“We were kids,” I say.

Lucy playfully rolls her eyes. “It was nine months ago.”

“Exactly.”

She stares up at me. “I would have pepper sprayed you.”

“I don’t doubt that.” I chuckle.

“Thank you for helping me that night.”

I want to kiss her. Instead, I reach for her hand.

“Thank you for not pepper spraying me.”

She laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed hearing that sound.

“I almost didn’t jog over to help you,” I admit.

Lucy’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I was nervous,” I tell her. “You’ve always been somewhat intimidating.”

“How so?” she asks with a grin.

“You’re intelligent,” I say. “And I always felt like you could see right through me.”

“Some would argue intelligence is sexy,” she boldly proclaims.

I inhale sharply. “Yeah, it is.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she says, though she doesn’t sound apologetic.

“You took my advice, though,” I say. “You stopped parking here on Friday nights.”

“You scared me just enough to listen.”