Page 36 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I’ll give you details tomorrow. For now, keep your head where it belongs.”

For a second, everything around me fades—the chatter, the clatter of cleats, the hum of the stadium. This is it. This is the thing I’ve been working toward for years. Early mornings. Late nights. No distractions.

“It’s an introductory meeting, not a promise. But it means you’re on the board.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you, Coach.”

As I head into the locker room, the weight of his words settles in. A scout asking specifically for me. It isn’t a contract. It isn’t even a guarantee. But it’s the first time the future has reached back and acknowledged me.

This should be the moment that fills me with nothing but excitement.

Instead, my thoughts drift back to the quiet library, the flicker of flameless candlelight, the girl watching the game from a chair meant just for her.

Lucy.

And the realization hits me harder than any tackle.

For the first time, the future I’ve been chasing isn’t the only thing that matters.

***

By the time I reach Althenia Hall, the stadium noise is still trapped inside my head. My ears ring in the quiet lobby, and every step reminds me where tonight’s bruises are forming. The library smells like old paper and chai instead of turf, sweat, and athletic tape.

Lucy’s curled up in the corner of the library, knees tucked beneath her, red curls spilling around her face as she reads Of Mice and Men. One finger follows the final lines on the page, then returns to the beginning of the paragraph. For a second, I consider not interrupting.

It doesn’t last long.

“Steinbeck?” I murmur as I take the seat beside her. “Bold choice.”

She looks up instantly. “You won.”

The way she says it hits me harder than the final score ever could.

I nod toward the book. “Still thinking about Lennie and those rabbits?”

Her lips press together, and she shakes her head. “This is a sad book, Dylan.”

“It is,” I agree.

“I forgot how hopeful George and Lennie were,” she continues quietly. “How much they believed in a different life. I think that’s what makes it so heartbreaking.”

“Why read it again, then?” I ask.

She closes the book gently. “Sometimes I need a reminder that not every story ends the way it should.”

Her answer hits me straight in the chest.

She gestures to the candles, the blanket, the laptop. “Thank you. For all of this. I can’t believe you did it just so I’d feel comfortable watching your game.”

I shrug, trying to play it off. “You’re welcome. We almost lost.”

“Your quarterback seems to enjoy the crowd more than the game,” she says, arching a brow.

“You noticed that?”

“I did,” she says, nodding. “It surprised me.”

“He’s good,” I admit.