Page 76 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Then Greg stops beside me.

He’s tossing a football between his hands like he owns the space. “Sharpe, heard you’re bailing.”

“I’m waiting for Lucy.”

“Library Girl?” His grin widens. “Maybe she decided books are more fun than us.”

“Her name is Lucy.”

Meredith appears beside him. “Relax. We all know Dylan’s devoted.” She glances toward the entrance. “Although if you ever want a night off—”

“I don’t.”

Greg’s jaw tightens, but Meredith only shrugs.

“You two finished?” I ask.

Greg raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, man. Just messing around.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I turn and walk toward the far edge of the lot, where the noise fades and the neon lights from the arena don’t feel quite as oppressive. I check my phone again.

Nothing.

Twenty-five minutes now.

Lucy’s never late like this. Not without a message. Not without a reason. Unease settles under my ribs, the kind that doesn’t let me stand still.

Then, I see her car.

Relief hits first—quick and blinding—then concern follows. She’s wearing the green sweatshirt I gave her, sleeves pulled over her hands, her smile hesitant instead of bright.

I cross the distance between us in a few strides and pull her into my arms. “Hey,” I exhale. “You okay? You’re late.”

She nods against my shoulder, but there’s a flicker in her eyes that doesn’t quite match her words. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just got caught up at home.”

I don’t push, but I don’t miss the way her voice softens around the edges. Something’s weighing on her. I have a strong feeling it has everything to do with what she overheard the other night.

I search her face. “And nothing else happened?”

“No,” she says quietly. “Dad was just running late and I didn’t want to leave Mom alone until he got home.”

I believe she’s physically fine. I don’t believe nothing is wrong.

Darnell claps his hands loudly, stepping into the center of the group like an overly enthusiastic camp counselor. The laser tag arena glows behind him, neon lights buzzing and flickering across the pavement.

“Alright, listen up!” he shouts, holding up a bright vest with a blinking sensor. “Rules are simple. No hitting. No shoving. No whining when you get tagged.”

A few guys laugh. Someone tosses an empty soda cup in his direction. Darnell dodges it easily and grins.

“We’re splitting into two teams—Red and Blue. Each team gets a base. Tag as many opponents as you can before time runs out. Highest score wins.”

Lucy leans toward me. “I thought this was just… lasers.”

I smile. “They like to complicate things.”

She grimaces slightly. She’s not built for this kind of chaos, and I know it. Libraries and quiet cafés suit her better than running around with a plastic gun. But she came anyway.

“Alright,” Darnell continues, holding up two handfuls of wristbands. “When I call your name, grab a band.”