Page 64 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The hostess returns. “How many?”

“We’re meeting someone,” Dylan starts, but she’s already nodding.

“Right this way,” she says, leading us through the restaurant. “They’re waiting for you.”

Mason’s is dark wood, brass fixtures, and white tablecloths so crisp they look untouched. Servers move between tables with practiced silence, carrying plates that smell of pepper, butter, and charred meat. The muted clink of silverware never rises above the low conversation. Even the lighting feels expensive—small amber pools carefully positioned so everyone looks composed, whether they feel that way or not.

His arm drops from my waist, but his fingers immediately find mine again, holding tight as we walk past polished tables. My steps slow as we approach the private room.

A glass door separates it from the main dining room, turning the restaurant noise into a distant murmur. Four place settings wait around a round table, each arranged with too many forks and spotless water glasses. A framed photograph of the city skyline hangs above the empty chair reserved for Dylan. The privacy should make the meeting feel easier. I’m not sure it does.

This isn’t just dinner. It’s the future Dylan has envisioned for most of his life.

“Dylan,” Coach Littlestone says as he stands when we reach him.

Dylan releases my hand just long enough to shake his firmly. “Coach.”

Then he turns to me, his smile easy and reassuring. “This is Lucy.”

Coach Littlestone’s expression softens. “You can call me Bill.”

I shake his hand, then glance toward the man beside him as he rises from his chair. He wears a charcoal suit and a team logo pin at his lapel.

“And this is Ray Upton,” Bill says. “He’s with the Redwood Larks.”

Dylan’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Your defense has been playing faster since the bye.”

Ray smiles. “We’re not complaining.”

Dylan pulls out my chair, and when he sits, he immediately takes my hand again, resting it on his thigh and covering it with both of his. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I know he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.

The waiter arrives, takes our drink orders, then disappears.

“So,” Ray says, settling back, “when did you start playing?”

Dylan answers easily, confidence returning as he talks about football—his dad, his first team, the way the game became part of his identity. Bill adds a few words of praise, and I watch Dylan carefully, seeing him through new eyes. He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s a player on the edge of something big.

Ray’s gaze shifts to me. “What about you, Lucy? What’s your major?”

“English,” I reply.

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“I want to write,” I admit. “I’m still deciding whether teaching or publishing will be the work that supports that.”

He nods, then asks the question I wasn’t expecting.

“And how do you feel about your boyfriend potentially moving across the country to play professional football? Would you go with him?”

The question catches me completely unprepared. Dylan squeezes my hand beneath the table.

We haven’t talked about this. Not really.

But I don’t look away.

“I support Dylan,” I say honestly. “And his dreams. Whatever he decides, I’m with him.”

The words come easily. Almost too easily.