Page 78 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Lucy slows, but she doesn’t laugh this time. She lifts her gun and aims directly at his vest.

“My name is Lucy.”

Greg snorts. “Relax. I’m just talking.”

Her shot lands. His vest flashes, temporarily disabling his weapon.

“Then talk to someone else,” she says.

I step out from behind cover, and Greg looks toward me, clearly expecting backup or a confrontation. I only shrug. “She answered you.”

He snorts and backs off, disappearing into the glow.

I turn to Lucy. Her cheeks are flushed. She exhales slowly, then looks up at me.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay,” she says.

“Nice shot.”

She lifts her gun, eyes sharpening. “Go back to your team, Sharpe. I’ve got this.”

I raise my hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

I laugh as I retreat, but instinct keeps her in my peripheral vision. I’m still learning that trusting her means knowing when to step away

A few minutes later, Lucy’s laugh carries through the maze after she tags someone near the Blue base.

I start to look for her, then stop myself.

She doesn’t need me to track her every step.

She needs me to believe her when she says she has this.

And I do.

Chapter Nineteen

Lucy

The diner smells like grease and bacon the second we walk in. The blinking OPEN sign hums above the door, casting a dull red glow over cracked vinyl booths and chrome-edged tables. Dylan keeps his arm draped over my shoulders as we slide into a booth near the back with the team, the noise hitting me all at once—laughter, overlapping conversations, and silverware clinking against plates.

I tuck myself in beside him, and he gives my knee a gentle squeeze under the table, like he can feel the edge of my nerves without me saying a word. The guys are already debating burgers versus milkshakes, voices loud and animated as they relive the laser tag match. I glance around, feeling a little out of my depth, but Dylan’s presence steadies me.

I watch the way Dylan fits here without trying. The guys lean toward him when they talk. Marcus keeps bumping Dylan’s shoulder when he laughs. Derek tosses a napkin at him without even looking, like it’s second nature.

It’s effortless.

This is the version of Dylan I don’t always see—the one who lives in locker rooms and late-night diners, who speaks in inside jokes and half-finished sentences everyone else somehow understands.

For a moment, I wonder what it must have been like before I came along. Four years of this rhythm. Of belonging without question.

My fingers curl lightly around the edge of the table.

I’m still learning where I fit inside it.

“That last round was all you, man,” Marcus says, smacking Darnell on the back. “We were cooked if you hadn’t pulled that sneak attack.”