Page 32 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“So much.”

But the truth falls quietly between us.

I’m not sure the difference matters anymore.

For a second, it feels as though the rest of the scene has been edited away. The clink of dishes, the low hum of conversation, even the rhythm of my own breathing fades away. Every impossible declaration I’ve ever underlined suddenly feels less exaggerated. For once, it feels less like fiction and more like something I might actually be standing inside.

“French toast,” Gretchen announces, setting a plate in front of Dylan. Then she turns to me. “And Eggs Benedict.”

I blink, the spell breaking, and swallow hard. “Thank you.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

We both shake our heads, and she disappears, leaving us in the space she accidentally created, charged and a little terrifying.

“When’s your game this week?” I ask, needing something solid to hold on to.

“Thursday,” he says easily. “You should come.”

The invitation twists every excuse I’ve ever made about football games into a single knot of dread. Being pulled into Dylan’s world is terrifying for me. Safe, quiet spaces are easier. Less noise, fewer chances of someone calling me Library Girl.

My fingers tense around my fork. “I don’t know… I don’t really—” I hesitate. “I wouldn’t have anyone to go with.”

It’s not a great excuse, but it’s the truth. Dad works late on Thursdays. Mom would never be caught dead at a game. Besides, crowds make my chest feel tight, and the idea of navigating one alone is exhausting before I even try.

Dylan goes quiet for a moment. “Will you be in the library Thursday night?”

I nod, suddenly embarrassed by how predictable the answer is. “Yeah.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Then I have an idea.”

Whatever idea he has already sounds dangerously difficult to refuse.

***

By Thursday evening, the library has settled into its familiar after-dark hush. Rain taps softly against the tall windows, blurring the stadium lights beyond the trees into green-and-white smears. The shelves cast long shadows across the carpet, and the heating vents breathe warm air through the reading room. Somewhere upstairs, a return cart squeaks along an aisle. I expect the ordinary comfort of my chair and book. Instead, my corner glows.

“Is that a laptop?” I whisper to Ms. Thorn.

“It is indeed,” she says, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Streaming Dylan’s game?”

“Streaming Dylan’s game.”

I gesture toward the desk. “And the candles?”

“Flameless,” Ms. Thorn assures me. “I may be a romantic, but I’m still a librarian.”

A blanket is folded over my favorite chair. Beside it sits a fresh BLT from the café.

“And the blanket?” My voice cracks just a little.

“A very comfy blanket,” she confirms.

“That looks like dinner,” I add, noticing the neatly plated sandwich beside the setup. “In the reading area?”

“Gretchen brought by your favorite BLT from the café ten minutes ago. I’m prepared to pretend I never saw it,” Ms. Thorn says, clearly pleased with the arrangement.