Page 57 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Dylan stops in front of Meredith.

Even from across the stage, I recognize the plaid blanket beneath the green cellophane. My basket.

Meredith says something I can’t hear. Dylan’s expression hardens, but he never looks away from the basket. Then he lifts it from her hands and turns toward me.

“This one,” he tells the emcee clearly. “Lucy made this one.”

He says my name loudly enough that no photograph or whispered rumor can rewrite the moment.

I try to keep my eyes on Dylan, but the stage is packed shoulder to shoulder, the noise crashing over me in waves. I tense every time a player pauses in front of the basket I’m holding, only to relax when he moves on.

I tell myself I’m here for Dylan. That this is worth it.

But standing under the harsh lights, exposed and very aware of how little space I take up compared to everyone else, I’ve never felt more out of place.

“Well, looks like you’ve got my basket, Library Girl.”

The voice is lazy. Drawling.

I look up and find myself face-to-face with a shaggy-haired guy, his arms folded over a broad chest, his smile all confidence and entitlement. He looks like someone who’s never had to work for attention and expects it anyway.

“You think so?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

“I know so.” He studies the contents, and lifts the basket from my hands. “Knew it.” He pauses before adding, “What do you say we sneak out of here and find somewhere more—”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I interrupt, nodding toward the basket as evidence.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Meredith doesn’t have to know.”

I glance toward Meredith. Apparently, whatever exists between her and Greg doesn’t stop him from flirting with other women or her pursuing Dylan.

Disgust replaces my nervousness immediately. I knew tonight would be uncomfortable, but I wasn’t prepared for this. My fingers curl into fists as I fight the urge to tell him what I think of him.

“Not interested,” I say coolly.

Greg leans closer instead of leaving.

Before he can respond, someone steps between us.

I don’t need to see his face to know it’s Dylan.

“She answered you,” Dylan says from beside me. “Back off.”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

Greg doesn’t flinch. If anything, he seems more entertained than embarrassed. “Relax, Sharpe. I’m just having some fun.”

“Find someone else,” Dylan replies. “Now.”

Greg lifts his hands in mock surrender, laughter spilling from him as he backs away. “No need to get territorial.”

He disappears into the crowd, condoms dangling shamelessly from the basket in his hands.

Only after Greg leaves do I realize how tightly my fists are clenched—not from fear exactly, but from the aftermath of holding my ground. Beneath the lingering nerves is something unfamiliar. Pride, maybe. Or relief.

I didn’t freeze. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t soften my voice or try to make him comfortable at my expense.

That feels new.