Page 55 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Thank you for coming. Really.”

“Hopefully you can find my basket. But I should warn you that there isn’t a single book in it.”

“Are you trying to throw me off?”

“I didn’t want it to be obvious,” she admits.

I squeeze her hand lightly. “I know you thought about it.”

She nods, earnest. “I did. A lot.”

And suddenly, some of my concern eases.

Whatever Meredith has planned, Lucy and I will deal with it together.

“Alright, ladies,” Meredith’s voice crackles through the speakers, slicing cleanly through the noise. “Grab a random basket from the table and head to the front of the stage.”

“That’s my cue,” Lucy says brightly.

I follow her over to the table full of colorfully woven baskets.

The baskets are anonymous by design. Every girlfriend made one, but another woman will hold it onstage so the guys cannot simply walk toward the person they arrived with. We move down the line one at a time, choose a basket we think belongs to us, and hope we know our girlfriends well enough not to embarrass everyone involved.

I watch as Lucy picks one out. She tilts the basket toward me just enough for us both to see. Chips. Socks. Condoms.

Then, I huff a laugh. “Someone’s prepared for all possible outcomes.”

Lucy’s cheeks flare a deep, unmistakable pink. “That’s not even the worst one. You should see some of the others.”

“It’s always like this,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’ll see you up there,” she whispers before hurrying toward the stage.

I watch her go. Pride hits first. She came because she chose to, and she is holding her ground. Lucy may be stepping into my world tonight, but she’s doing it her way. And that makes me want to win this stupid game more than ever.

“The rules are simple,” Meredith announces, soaking in the attention as the girlfriends line up, each holding a basket that doesn’t belong to them. “Find your basket. Win. If you don’t…” She pauses until the room quiets. “…suffer the consequences.”

I roll my eyes. Last year, the losers wore ridiculous matching costumes to the next home game.

Meredith’s father donated enough money to the athletic foundation that no one wanted to be the person who challenged her.

Moments later, we—the boyfriends—are waved onto the stage.

The spotlights erase most of the audience, leaving only scattered faces beyond the glare. Cellophane flashes beneath the lights as the women hold the baskets against their dresses. Somewhere below, Darnell calls Carla’s name and earns a burst of laughter. The stage boards creak as the guys move down the line, lifting ribbons, checking labels, and trying not to reach when the contents become increasingly personal.

I move down the line, scanning baskets with growing focus. One packed with cheese crackers, spicy chips, and the ridiculous energy drink Darnell buys by the case. Another stuffed with comic books and neon sports drinks—Marcus.

I’m not looking for flashy.

I’m looking for her.

Something thoughtful. Intentional. Something that feels like Lucy.

As I pass her, our fingers brush. The smallest contact, but grounding.

Then I see it.

The basket Meredith is holding.