Page 95 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s intrusive, but because it’s kind. Thoughtful. I nod, feeling suddenly exposed in the best way.

“A little nervous,” I say honestly. “But… good.”

“You don’t have anything to be nervous about here. We’re really happy you’re with us.”

“We’ll take good care of you,” Gemma adds from across the table, grinning.

I glance at Dylan, who’s watching me closely. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that.

Gemma tells me Dylan once spent an entire summer running drills around lawn chairs in the backyard until Kate threatened to throw them away. Dylan insists the arrangement was highly technical. Kate calls it a public nuisance.

Dinner passes easily after that. We talk, laugh, and share stories. Dylan fills them in on the latest with the scouts while Kate listens intently, pride shining in her eyes. Plates are cleared, conversations soften, and when Dylan stands and offers me his hand, his smile is unmistakably playful.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you upstairs so we can drop off our stuff.”

“Go get settled,” Kate says. “Dessert will be ready in a little while.”

Gemma smirks. “Fair warning, Lucy, his room is basically a museum of teenage football glory.”

Dylan groans. “I’ve evolved since then, thank you very much.”

I laugh as I take his hand and follow him upstairs, suddenly aware that we are leaving everyone else behind. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

As we head upstairs, the house quiets.

And when we reach the end of the hall, Dylan opens a door and steps aside.

It’s unmistakably a guy’s room.

A neatly made bed with dark blue sheets. Trophies arranged near the window. Posters, framed photos, and a jersey—number 23—mounted proudly on the wall.

I pause in the doorway for a second longer than necessary.

There’s something strangely intimate about standing inside the room where someone grew up.

The trophies on the shelf aren’t just decorations. They’re pieces of his history. The jersey on the wall isn’t just memorabilia. It’s proof of how long he’s been chasing this dream.

I imagine him here at sixteen, tossing a football in the backyard before dinner, arguing with his sister over the bathroom, staying up late studying plays.

All the versions of Dylan that existed before he ever met me.

It makes the present feel different somehow. More real.

“See?” Dylan says from behind me. “Could be worse.”

“It’s very… you,” I say, smiling.

He chuckles as he pulls our suitcases inside and drops them near the closet. “I’ve always loved football.”

“I can tell,” I tease, trailing my fingers along the edge of his desk where notebooks and an old playbook sit stacked. “Very refined,” I say dryly.

He steps behind me and slides his arms around my waist. For a moment, we stand together beneath the framed jersey, surrounded by all the versions of him that came before me.

“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs.

I turn in his arms. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

The kiss begins softly, but the privacy of the room quickly deepens it. I catch the front of his shirt and pull him close until the backs of my knees meet the bed.