Page 22 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I don’t need to bid. I already have a date with one of them.

But I keep that to myself.

“I think I’ll stick to working,” I say lightly, “and not trying to land a date with a… what was it you said? A hunky football player in a suit.”

“Your loss.” Aunt Joss turns into the parking lot. “Could be the most interesting date of your life.”

As she parks beneath the glow of the venue lights, I release a slow breath.

Somewhere between the library and the football banquet, my life appears to have changed genres.

***

“Table twelve needs more champagne,” Aunt Joss says briskly, pointing toward a tray. “Can you handle it?”

Unease curls in my stomach. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Aunt Joss exhales sharply. “Lucy, you can’t hide in the back all night. I need you out there with Tatianna and Amari. Go.”

I have been hiding all evening, lingering in the kitchen, reorganizing trays, and pretending I didn’t hear my name called. It felt easier than facing the inevitable—seeing Dylan surrounded by teammates, laughter, and a world that still doesn’t quite feel like mine.

But Aunt Joss is right. I can’t stay invisible forever.

“Yeah,” I say, biting my lower lip. “I’ve got it.”

My heart pounds as I lift the tray and nudge the swinging door open with my hip. The banquet hall hits me all at once. Beyond the swinging door, round tables crowd the polished floor beneath white linens and green centerpieces shaped like miniature goalposts. Servers slip between chairs carrying trays above their shoulders while donors in cocktail dresses and team-colored ties lean close to hear one another. The room smells of champagne, roasted meat, perfume, and the faint chemical sharpness of freshly cleaned floors. Even the silverware seems loud, forks and glasses chiming beneath the music.

This is nothing like the library.

I weave between tables, keeping my gaze low, focusing on delivering the champagne and getting back to the kitchen without incident. The less attention I draw, the better.

As I reach the table, someone on stage announces the auction will begin in five minutes. I start setting down the glasses, careful and methodical.

“Aren’t you Library Girl?”

The nickname strips away my actual name in two careless words.

I glance up at the blonde woman seated beside a guy in a purple button-down. My throat stings.

“My name is Lucy,” I say quietly, placing the last glass on the table.

The woman leans forward, lips pursed, studying me. “No. You’re Library Girl.”

Heat rushes to my face. I turn away before I say something I’ll regret, gripping the tray a little too tightly as I head back toward the kitchen. The noise fades into a dull roar, replaced by that awful sense of being painfully out of place.

Most of the people in this room are my age. My peers. And yet, I’ve never felt farther from belonging.

Except…

My gaze lifts, scanning the crowd before I can stop myself.

There’s one person here who has made an effort to see past the nickname.

So, what if I’m working?

I didn’t know this was the event I’d be catering, and I refuse to feel embarrassed for earning money instead of sitting beside Dylan at a table.

I belong here, too.