Page 3 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

And yet, inexplicably, he doesn’t feel all that threatening.

“I have pepper spray,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“You always threaten strangers with pepper spray?”

“Only the large ones.”

He laughs, the sound low and surprisingly gentle. “Fair enough. My dad’s a mechanic. Let me take a look. I promise the pepper spray can stay in your pocket.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” I ask, bending to retrieve my phone.

“Not even a little.”

I straighten and narrow my eyes, holding the phone between us like a flimsy shield. “Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs, the movement easy. “I’ve got a little sister. I’d want someone to help her if she were stuck in a parking lot this late at night.”

It is a suspiciously convenient explanation. The sort I would question in any novel. Unfortunately, standing beneath a dying streetlight with a useless car, I believe him.

I consider him for another second, then step back. “Fine. But no funny business.”

He nods, leaning over the engine and giving me space instead of crowding me. Up close, I catch the details I missed before—the smudge of dirt on his knuckles, the way he moves with quiet confidence instead of swagger.

“Come back to the party, Sharpe!” I hear someone yell.

“Yeah!” a second voice chimes in. “Stop flirting!”

He ignores them as I shift uncomfortably.

“Looks like a loose battery terminal,” he says after a moment, adjusting something with practiced ease. “Should start now.”

I slide back into the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine roars to life, and relief floods through me so fast it leaves me a little dizzy.

He shuts the hood and leans down to my open window.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Try parking in Lot A next time,” he says, his tone turning serious. “It’s closer to campus. Better lighting. Fewer football players.”

I swallow hard, caught off guard by the concern in his eyes. For one reckless second, I wonder what it would feel like to be memorable instead of merely present.

But old habits cling tightly.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say instead.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “Anytime, Library Girl.”

I hate that nickname. Mostly because I don’t hate hearing him say it.

“Goodnight, Boy Who Fixed My Car.”

The warm sound of his amusement follows me as I roll up the window.

I watch him head back toward his teammates, who greet him with the easy familiarity of people who’ve endured practices, losses, and last-minute wins together.

A small, inconvenient part of me wonders what it would be like to follow him. To open the door. To step out of the car instead of retreating into it. To talk to someone new. Someone who isn’t Ms. Thorn or Gretchen the barista at my favorite coffee shop. Or a fictional character who can’t look back at me.

Would they even notice if I tried? Or would I say the wrong thing?