Page 52 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Lucy Bennett,” he says, eyes bright. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

My mouth falls open. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He looks so hopeful that my answer escapes before I can overthink it.

“Yes,” I blurt, barely containing the rush of excitement.

The word echoes inside me, louder than I expect.

I’ve spent so long believing that stability meant staying still.

That courage belonged to other people. Louder people. Braver people.

Yet here I am, saying yes before fear can turn the decision into a debate.

Sometimes it’s as simple as saying yes and trusting yourself enough to mean it.

I rest my hand against the back of his neck, and the way he leans into my touch makes the new title—girlfriend—feel startlingly real.

“I told your dad I wanted to ask you,” Dylan admits.

“You informed him?”

“I asked for his blessing. Not permission. I know the answer belongs to you.”

“I appreciate you doing that, Dylan. And, speaking of girlfriends…” I hesitate, nerves creeping in. “Meredith mentioned something called the Boyfriend Basket Swap on Friday.”

“Oh… yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot Meredith was organizing it this Friday. You don’t have to go. Or participate. It’s really not that great.”

“Oh.” I try to hide the disappointment and fail.

“Unless you want to,” he adds quickly. “Zero pressure.”

I take a breath. “I think… I might want to.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and his hands settle at my hips, drawing me closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “It feels like a way to ease into your world. On my terms.”

Pride warms his expression. “Does this mean you might even come to a game?”

I shrug, pretending to be casual. “I just might.”

“I’d really like that.” He smiles, leaning in.

His kiss is slow and sure, making everything else fade. Dylan isn’t rushing me. He never has.

Stepping outside my comfort zone still scares me.

But now it also feels possible.

Chapter Twelve

Dylan

Bellevue Auditorium is a blur of green-and-white streamers, reflective silver tablecloths, and a disco ball scattering light across the room. The noise hits first—laughter, overlapping conversations, the electric anticipation that always surrounds the Boyfriend Basket Swap.

Folding tables line one wall beneath strings of metallic fringe, each crowded with baskets wrapped in crackling cellophane. Perfume, sugary punch, and buttered appetizers compete in the overheated air. Someone has dragged the auditorium speakers far past a reasonable volume, making the floor vibrate beneath my shoes. Near the stage, phones are already raised as people record introductions no one will care about tomorrow.