Page 72 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The hallway is dark and quiet as I move toward the bathroom, but voices drift through the thin walls before I can reach it.

My name stops me cold.

“Don’t give him a hard time about Lucy,” someone says. Maybe Darnell. “He finally found someone who makes him happy.”

At least one of them is defending us. The thought should help, but it doesn’t.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t hang with the team anymore,” another snaps. “He’s always running off instead of being around.”

A woman’s voice cuts in, light and dismissive. “It won’t matter once he’s playing pro ball. He won’t have time for dating then anyway.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Careless and final.

Is that how they see me? A distraction? A temporary detour?

I shouldn’t care what they think.

I’ve never built my identity around popularity or locker-room approval. I’ve never needed to be the loudest voice in the room.

But this isn’t about fitting in.

It’s about being tolerated.

About being seen as something Dylan will “outgrow” once his life becomes bigger and brighter and faster.

Temporary.

The word stings because it carries an assumption. That I’m part of the college chapter. That I don’t belong in the next one.

I step backward before anyone sees me listening. The bathroom door closes louder than I intend, the sound echoing down the hall, a clear signal that I heard everything.

I really need to stop hiding in bathrooms. Nothing good ever happens in them.

The woman in the mirror looks startlingly unlike the Lucy who began this semester. Bare legs, tangled curls, and Dylan’s shirt hanging nearly to her knees.

Instead of picking myself apart, I quickly splash my face in cold water, trying to cool the humiliation on my scorched cheeks.

Then, I brave the hallway and cross back into Dylan’s room.

When I climb back into bed, the conversation follows me back beneath the covers. Dylan shifts instinctively, pulling me close, his body curving around mine like he’s been waiting for me to return.

“Where’d you go?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice thick with drowsiness.

“Bathroom,” I whisper.

His hand slips beneath the shirt I’m wearing and he draws me into him. My chest presses against his, our breaths syncing, and the ache in my heart sharpens.

“My mom wants you to come with me to Dallas for Thanksgiving,” he says softly. “I know it’s coming up fast, but she’s really excited to meet you.”

The word Dallas sends a flutter of nerves through me. His family. His home. A future that feels both inviting and terrifying.

“I want to go,” I say. “But I need to talk to my parents.”

“Of course.”

“What about football?” I ask.

“We’ll have practice that week, but we can head to Dallas as soon as Coach releases us. Just think about it,” he says. “I’d really love to take you home with me.”