Page 5 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The room still smells like last night’s game. Grass ground into my cleats, athletic tape, and sweat trapped in the gear bag I was too tired to unpack. My shoulder aches where Rock Island’s guard caught me in the second quarter, and there’s a bruise forming above my hip from the pileup at the goal line. Nothing serious. Just the usual inventory after sixty minutes of hitting people hard enough to move them backward.

“Mom,” I say, rubbing my face, “why are you calling me so early?”

“It’s eleven,” she points out. “I thought you’d be up.”

“We won last night,” I remind her. “The guys kept everyone up until almost four.”

“I know you’re twenty-one.” Concern threads through her voice despite the teasing. “But I hope you’re being responsible.”

“You know I don’t drink.”

It’s not a rule. I just hate how it makes me feel. Foggy. Slow. I don’t smoke. I don’t mess with drugs. And I definitely don’t hook up randomly, no matter what the guys think.

I can’t afford to be off my game. Not even for a night.

“And your teammates are okay with that?” she asks, amused.

“They give me crap about it, but they’re cool.”

There’s a pause, and I know what’s coming.

“Right,” she says brightly, “the reason I’m calling is because I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor?” I squint as bright light filters in through the partially closed blinds. That word never means what she thinks it does.

“Promise you won’t hang up. There’s this girl—”

“No.”

She laughs. “Dylan—”

“I’m focused on football, Mom. I don’t have time for girls.”

“It’s just coffee.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard me out.”

“I love you,” I say, already bracing myself, “but I’m not going on a coffee date with anyone. Scouts have been around the program all season. Every snap is on film now, and one bad game can change how they see me. I have to outperform everyone to get noticed.”

“What could it hurt?”

I think about the girl from last night—suspicion written across her face, courage holding together by sheer stubbornness.

Guilt presses beneath my ribs, which is ridiculous. I didn’t promise the girl anything.

“Plenty.”

I’m playing the best football of my life, and linebackers don’t get the luxury of being average and still getting noticed. Linebackers don’t get the spotlight quarterbacks do. Most people only notice us when we miss a tackle, blow a coverage, or arrive half a second too late.

And distractions? They slow you down.

“I’m not—”

“I already told her you were interested,” Mom says breezily, “and she’s expecting you at the café this afternoon at three.”

I let my head fall back against the pillow. “You’re impossible.”