Page 59 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I don’t rise to it. I just smile. “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I say calmly, Dylan’s hand firm in mine.

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Dylan’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh, but I know better. There’s no humor in it. He’s watching.

And that’s when it hits me: I’m not just surviving this moment. I’m standing in it.

“Tell us what’s in your basket, Dylan.” Her voice remains pleasant, but the demand beneath it is clear.

My eyes widen. The thought of our quiet memories being dissected under these lights makes my skin prickle.

Dylan’s grip tenses once before he answers evenly. “Hot chocolate and a rose.”

Meredith laughs too loudly, her eyes gleaming. “Come on. Tell us more. Why did Library Girl put that in there?”

The nickname drags every old label behind it. Tomato Face. Quiet Lucy. The girl people describe before they bother to know her.

Heat climbs into my cheeks, but I keep my chin lifted. Meredith can call me whatever she wants. I don’t have to answer to it.

Dylan squeezes my hand again.

“The basket is ours,” he says flatly. Final. “The memories are private.”

The room goes quiet.

No laughter. No cheers. Just a thick, uncomfortable silence as Meredith scans the crowd, waiting for validation that never comes.

Dylan shifts beside me, anxiety coiling through his body.

The words gather, but before I decide whether Meredith deserves an answer, Darnell calls from the side of the stage. “Did anyone get their basket wrong?”

Two players raise their hands, and Meredith launches into an explanation involving matching costumes and karaoke. The room’s attention shifts away from us.

Dylan leans in and asks, “How are you doing?”

I nod, forcing a small smile even as my pulse races. “Fine,” I say. “I’m good.”

And I am.

He glances toward Darnell, who’s off to the side looking far too pleased with himself. “Darnell saved us from that nightmare,” Dylan mutters.

Darnell lent him his truck during Mom’s emergency, and now he has stepped in again without being asked.

“You’ll have to thank him for me,” I say softly.

Dylan’s mouth curves with mischief. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Oh my gosh, yes.” The answer escapes before he finishes asking.

We don’t sneak away. We bolt.

Fingers laced, we slip down the stairs and pass behind Meredith while she turns back to the microphone.

We hurry, my heels striking loudly against every step.

A startled laugh escapes me when Dylan nearly hits himself with the door.

Cool autumn air hits my face like freedom.

I draw my first full breath of the night. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself until now. My shoulders are tense and my senses overloaded.