Page 83 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Darnell shakes his head. “So, you’re skipping the team dinner before break?”

“We get on a flight right after practice Wednesday,” I tell him.

Darnell’s expression softens. “I’m happy for you.”

I give him a half-smile. “Thanks.”

The familiar fatigue settles into my arms as I finish my last set of pull-ups. I drop from the bar, hands braced on my knees while I catch my breath. The rest of the guys keep grinding, but I’m done for the day.

I grab my towel and head for the locker room.

As I walk, my thoughts drift back to last night—Lucy’s hand in mine, the easy way her mom smiled when I cracked dumb jokes, how normal it all felt. Like I belonged there. After years of bouncing between my parents’ houses, it was strangely comforting to be in a home that didn’t feel split down the middle.

If only everything could be that simple.

I toss my towel into the bin and step under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water loosen the tight muscles in my shoulders.

Then reality creeps back in.

The dinner at Mason’s was a step forward, but I know better than to get comfortable. No mistakes. No distractions. No drama.

The question Ray asked Lucy at dinner keeps circling in my head. Would she go with me if football took me across the country?

We haven’t talked about that. Not really. We’ve said we love each other, but life beyond this town feels like a different kind of promise. One I’m not sure how to make yet.

The water streams down my back as I stare at the tile, knowing one thing without question.

Football isn’t slowing down.

And sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out how Lucy fits into whatever comes next.

I shut off the water and grab my towel, the cool air biting at my skin as the steam fades. I dry off and dress, but before I finish tying my shoes, the locker room door swings open.

“Sharpe.”

Coach Littlestone’s voice carries the same clipped authority it always does.

I straighten. “Yeah, Coach?”

He steps inside, arms folding across his chest. “Got off the phone with Ray Upton.”

That gets my full attention.

“He’s impressed. The film, your discipline, what he’s hearing from professors and staff. But these last few games matter. He wants to see consistency and leadership under pressure.”

“I can do that.”

“I know.” Coach claps my shoulder. “Keep your head where it needs to be. This is your window.”

“Got it.”

“And one more thing,” Coach adds, a little less direct now. “I know things are going well off the field. Keep them that way. This is the stretch where discipline matters most.”

“I’ve got it handled,” I say, maybe a little too quickly.

He studies me for a beat. “Make sure you do. This is your window, Sharpe. Don’t waste it.”

The door swings shut behind him.