Page 61 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Most of the team has already cleared out, leaving damp towels draped over benches and strips of discarded athletic tape stuck to the rubber floor. The showers hiss behind the tiled wall while an industrial fan pushes warm, detergent-heavy air through the room. My suit hangs from the end of the locker in a black garment bag, looking absurdly formal beside my shoulder pads and mud-streaked cleats.

The last two weeks have blurred together—film, practice reps, early lifts, coffee dates with Lucy, late nights studying in her room, and an uncomfortable hour mini-golfing with Meredith, Greg, and Darnell.

Darnell spent the entire hour positioned between Meredith and me, pretending it was accidental.

And tonight, dinner with a scout.

I have sat through film sessions with coaches dissecting every missed assignment and faced offenses designed to exploit every weakness I have. None of that has made me as nervous as the pressed white shirt waiting inside that bag. On the field, I know the rules. Tonight, I have to explain who I am when no one is handing me a play call or measuring the answer in tackles.

Coach Littlestone doesn’t arrange meetings like this casually, and the fact that the scout chose Mason’s Steakhouse tells me this is more than a quick introduction. This isn’t a burger-and-handshake situation. It isn’t an offer. It isn’t even a promise. But it could be the first serious step toward everything I’ve worked for.

The scout invited my parents, but when they couldn’t make it, Coach suggested I bring someone who knew me outside football. Lucy agreed to come with me.

Honestly, I expected Coach to hesitate when I mentioned bringing her. Instead, he nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. If anything, he looked relieved that football isn’t the only thing anchoring me anymore.

Once I’m dressed, I grab my keys and head toward the exit, my phone vibrating in my hand.

Mom.

I answer as I weave through a group of guys still lingering outside the gym.

“Dyl,” Mom says, her voice filtering through the line. “How are you feeling about tonight?”

“I feel good,” I say, dodging around a heated debate about last night’s game. My mind’s already running ahead. What the scout might ask, what I’ll say, whether Lucy feels out of place in a room like that.

“Good,” she replies, then hesitates. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, honey. Work’s been… a lot.”

“It’s okay,” I cut in quickly. “Lucy’s coming with me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then I hear the smile in her voice. “Lucy, huh? That must mean she’s important if you’re bringing her to something like this.”

“She is,” I admit without thinking.

“Well,” Mom says lightly, “if your schedule allows it, invite her to Thanksgiving.”

The suggestion catches me off guard. “Yeah… maybe. We’ll see.”

Mom sighs. “I’m glad you’ve found someone, Dylan. You deserve to be happy. On and off the field.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Please do. And tell Lucy I said hello.”

“I will.”

I hang up and tuck my phone into my pocket, my thoughts already circling back to tonight.

Lucy. The scout. The future that finally feels close enough to touch.

For years, my future has been a straight line. Film, practice, discipline, and sacrifice. Every decision narrowing toward one outcome.

I never questioned it.

But lately, when I picture that future, it isn’t just stadium lights and draft calls anymore.

Lucy is there, too. In the stands. In some unfamiliar city. Packing her books because my career tells us where to go next.

Suddenly, I’m not only asking what I’m willing to sacrifice. I’m wondering what my dream might demand from someone I care about.