Page 37 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Or,” she says thoughtfully, leaning in, “he performs well under pressure.”

I tilt my head. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.” She leans closer. “Being good means skill. Performing under pressure just means you can handle stress. They’re not always the same.”

“You’re right.”

Satisfaction brightens her expression.

“There’s a scout who’s interested in me,” I say suddenly.

Her eyes widen. “Dylan, that’s incredible.”

“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I’ve wanted this for so long, and now that it’s real…”

“That’s normal,” she says. “Dreams are scary when they start coming true.”

I wonder what dreams she has. Maybe of staying here. Building a life in one place.

Before I can overthink it, my hand lifts slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn’t, my fingers brush lightly through her curls, and her shoulders slowly relax.

“You’re beautiful, Lucy.”

“Wh—what did you say?”

“I said you’re beautiful.”

She looks down. “Thank you.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” She shakes her head, then glances up at me. “I’m still not used to hearing that.”

I hate how matter-of-factly she says it. “That’s a shame.”

She tries to hide her smile and fails. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

The shelves seem to close around the quiet between us.

“Lucy?” Ms. Thorn calls from across the library. “We’ll be closing soon. You and Mr. Sharpe should start cleaning up.”

“We will,” Lucy says.

When Ms. Thorn disappears between the stacks, Lucy turns back to me, lowering her voice. “She was so excited to show me all of this when I arrived.”

“She helped me plan the whole thing. Even arranged the flameless candles.”

Lucy laughs softly. “Ms. Thorn must really like you. She never lets anyone break the rules.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I feel rebellious,” I say, reaching for the duffel bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

As we fold the blanket, she tells me the contest was the first time anyone outside her family treated her writing like it mattered.

“It did matter,” I tell her.

In return, I explain that football was the first thing in my life that stayed mine, no matter which parent’s house I slept in.