Page 21 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I know. But it improves the story.”

“You really need to stop participating in Spooky Movie Night with your parents.”

“Or,” I counter, “you could finally join.”

“I did when I was four,” she says darkly. “I’ve been scarred ever since.”

We laugh as she turns toward campus, the van humming along well-worn roads.

“So,” I ask, ready for a subject change, “what event are we working tonight?”

“The Willow Creek Football Banquet.”

My stomach drops. “You’re joking.”

“No,” she says slowly, glancing at me. “But that reaction tells me there’s a story.”

There is. A big one.

“I guess it’s just not my usual scene,” I say carefully.

“Hunky football players in suits?” She gives me an incredulous look. “That’s everyone’s scene.”

“Not mine,” I lie, looking quickly out the window. “Besides, don’t banquets usually happen at the end of the season?”

“This one’s a fundraiser,” she explains. “They’re auctioning off player-hosted activities to raise money for the athletic foundation.”

“An auction?” I wrinkle my nose. “Like what kind of activities?”

“No idea.”

My palms grow damp against my skirt. Not panic, exactly. Anticipation with sharper edges. After Romeo and Juliet in the park last Sunday, Dylan and I walked hand in hand along a street-lit path, talking about football, Agatha Christie, and classes. The conversation flowed so easily I barely noticed the time slipping by.

When we reached my car, he told me he had a Thursday night game, so he would be busy all week. Then he asked if I’d go with him to the banquet on Friday.

I told him I had to work.

The disappointment in his eyes had been brief, but real.

“What about Saturday?” he’d asked instead. “Breakfast?”

“Yes,” I’d said much too quickly. “I’d like that.”

He’d smiled. “Ten at the café?”

By the time the venue comes into view, anticipation has sharpened into unease. Dylan asked me not to tell his mother about us, but somehow that secrecy has expanded in my mind until I’m unsure who is allowed to know.

“Earth to Lucy!”

Aunt Joss’s voice snaps me back to the moment.

“Yeah?” I swallow hard, forcing my attention forward.

“I asked if you knew anyone on the football team,” she says, chuckling as she shoots me a knowing look. “Where is your head tonight, girl?”

I scratch the side of my face, aiming for casual. “No. I don’t really know anyone on the team.”

“If they’re auctioning off player activities,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows, “you should bid.”