Page 80 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

It’s fun. The teasing, the exaggerated stories, the way they all talk over each other like no one’s keeping score. I’m starting to see why Dylan loves this, why he protects it. These guys aren’t just teammates. They’re history. Shared bruises. Early mornings. Wins and losses that bind people together.

Across the table, Meredith watches me over the rim of her glass, her expression expectant. She takes a long sip of her drink before leaning forward slightly.

“Well, it’s nice that Lucy’s fitting in,” she says lightly. “I just hope you’re not overwhelmed. It can be… a lot.”

There it is.

I meet her gaze calmly. “I think I’m surviving,” I say. “I had fun.”

Marcus laughs, nearly choking on a fry. “See? We need her. Dylan’s been way too intense lately.”

I glance at Dylan, surprised.

Intense isn’t the word I would have chosen. Focused, maybe. Driven. When we study together, he can spend twenty minutes breaking down one play from memory, sketching imaginary formations on the edge of my notebook like the field lives inside his head.

But here, with his teammates, that intensity looks different.

It turns into teasing. Competition. A language built out of jokes and shoulder bumps and arguments about plays that happened three seasons ago.

I realize then that this is how they take care of each other.

By pretending nothing is serious at all.

“Hey,” Dylan protests.

Derek grins. “Nah, she’s good for you, man.”

Meredith’s fingers tap against her glass. It’s subtle, but I catch it. She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like that I’m not floundering.

Dylan leans in and steals one of my fries. “She is.” He smiles, like it’s something he’s proud of.

And in that moment, sitting there in a greasy diner booth with ketchup on the table and laughter ringing in my ears, I understand something: I don’t have to be loud to belong. I don’t have to compete. I can just be me.

The night starts to wind down slowly after that. Conversations lose their edge. The adrenaline from the game fades into heavy eyelids and stretched arms.

“Alright, I’m out,” Marcus announces, pushing back from the booth. “If I don’t sleep, tomorrow’s recovery lift is going to destroy me.”

“Same,” Darnell agrees, sliding out after him. “Early lift.”

The group stands in waves—jackets grabbed, last fries stolen, playful insults tossed across the table.

Dylan stays beside me, thumb brushing lazy circles against my elbow. He looks relaxed in a way he doesn’t always get to be.

“You coming to the morning workout tomorrow, Dyl?” Marcus calls from near the door.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dylan replies. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

A chorus of groans follows him.

Eventually, the booth empties, and I realize I’m disappointed the night is ending. It wasn’t perfect or effortless. But it was good.

Most of the team filters out the door, but Darnell lingers. His posture shifts. He’s less animated, more grounded.

“Hey, Lucy?” he says. “Can I grab you for a second?”

I glance at Dylan. He nods once and eases his arm from my shoulders. “I’ll be right here.”

Darnell steps a few feet away, near the jukebox, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s working up to something.