Page 137 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I think you need to.”

“You ready?” she asks.

I glance at our joined hands. “Yeah.”

She smiles.

Together, we leave the library behind and continue to walk down the path, neither of us looking back.

The sidewalk stretches ahead of us beneath the shade of old oak trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Every now and then, a leaf breaks free, spinning lazily to the ground before either of us steps around it.

“You know,” Lucy says after a while, “I used to think this town was enormous.”

I glance over. “Yeah?”

“When I was little, walking from my house to the café felt like an adventure.”

“And now?”

She shrugs. “Now, I can probably make the trip with my eyes closed.”

I laugh. “I feel that.”

She nudges my shoulder. “Do you?”

“I spent years thinking the world ended at the fifty-yard line.”

She nods. “It’s funny how places shrink.”

“Or maybe we grow.”

She looks over at me, and I can tell she’s turning the words over in her head. “We do.”

We walk another few steps before I stop.

Lucy turns. “What?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I owe you an apology.”

Her expression softens immediately. “Dylan…”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just… let me say it.”

She swallows hard.

“I spent months believing loving you meant I had to choose between you and football.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” I insist. “You never asked me to give up football.” She stays quiet. “You never asked me to stay.” She nods. “I just…” I look down at our hands. “I convinced myself that loving you meant sacrificing something. And the worst part is… I never gave you the chance to tell me I was wrong.”

Lucy’s expression crumples slightly. “I didn’t know you believed that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

I blink. “What are you apologizing for?”