Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Chapter One

Lucy

The hearth glows brighter as I pore over the worn pages of Pride and Prejudice, the distant roar of Ashby Stadium bleeding faintly through the library walls. A drumline rattles, followed by the muffled boom of the announcer and a wave of cheers big enough to shake the windows.

Another touchdown, probably.

Outside the library windows, the campus blurs into darkness beyond the stadium, leaving the glass streaked with reflected lamplight.

Every few minutes, another cheer rolls across campus, swelling through the shelves before dissolving into the hush.

The sound makes the books seem even more still, thousands of closed covers waiting patiently while the rest of Ashby shouts itself hoarse.

Elizabeth Bennet’s indignation burns my chest in that familiar way good stories always do.

Fiction makes sense. Even heartbreak does when it’s written cleanly and resolved in three hundred pages or less.

Real life, especially on Friday nights in the middle of football season, has never been so cooperative.

I’m so absorbed in Lizzie’s fury on her sister’s behalf that I almost miss the knock at the door.

My heart stumbles as a tall figure steps into the room, broad enough to block what little daylight remains. The air seems to cool around him.

Of course.

Even in my imagination, men like him always arrive at the worst possible moment.

His coat is slightly rumpled, as if he’s been pacing, and he looks immovable—solid, imposing, and entirely convinced of his own position in the world.

A warning sign, if I’ve ever seen one. For him, obviously. I already know how this story ends.

“In vain I have struggled,” he begins. “It cannot do. My feelings for you can no longer be ignored. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

I lift a hand, stopping him mid-speech. “Let’s skip to the part where you explain all the reasons you don’t actually like me.”

He blinks, clearly unprepared. “H-how did you—”

“Doesn’t matter.” I tilt my head, settling into a version of myself that only ever exists in books. Braver. Bolder. “What does matter is that you never—ever—tell a woman you like her against your better judgment. Just… no, Mr. Darcy.”

His mouth opens. Closes. He rubs the back of his neck, flustered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Intentions are irrelevant. Actions matter. We don’t need a dissertation on your inner turmoil. We need to see you do something.”

He scratches his jaw as a shadow crosses his brow, searching for the right response. But he comes up empty. “I… well. I’m not quite sure what to say.”

That’s a first.

“Lucy?”

The name snaps me out of the fantasy.

I blink, disoriented, the glow of the hearth replaced by the softer glow of library lights. Ms. Thorn stands in front of me, keys in hand and sympathy in her eyes.

“We’re closing, dear.”

I glance at the clock on the library wall. 10:58.

I scramble to close the book as heat crawls up my neck. “I’m so sorry,” I say, wincing. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Ms. Thorn takes Pride and Prejudice from my hands, hugging it to her chest like an old friend. “Jane Austen has a way of doing that,” she says. “She doesn’t let go easily.”

“I wish I could live in her world forever,” I admit. “I’d never get tired of it.”

She chuckles as we walk through the quiet rows of books, the scent of paper and ink slipping around me like a blanket. “Neither would I. Though Emma is my personal favorite.”

“I prefer Persuasion. There’s something comforting about a good second-chance romance.”

Ms. Thorn nods. “Have you ever read her shorter works?”

“Not yet.”

“You should. Lady Susan is a gem. I’ll set a copy aside for you next week.”

“Thank you.” I mean it. The library has always felt like the one place where I’m entirely understood.

At the entrance, she pauses and studies me. “It’s Friday night,” she says lightly. “Shouldn’t you be at the football game?”

“Not a chance,” I reply a little too fast.

She laughs, clearly unconvinced, and the sound fades behind me as I step through the sliding glass doors and into the night.

The air is cool and sharp, nothing like the cocoon I’ve just left behind.

The campus looks different after a game.

Paper cups tumble along the sidewalks, caught in the wind like nervous little ghosts.

Green and white banners snap from the light poles.

Somewhere nearby, a marching-band melody repeats in broken pieces, carried unevenly through the trees.

Even the air smells louder. It feels like walking through someone else’s celebration.

Thankfully, stadium lights cut white paths through the dark, bright enough to make the whole campus feel awake. Somewhere behind me, I’m sure the football players are slamming lockers shut, shouting over coaches, and reliving every touchdown like the entire campus didn’t already hear it happen.

Football has never been my thing. The noise, the crowds, the way everyone seems to move as one… it all feels like too much.

I prefer quiet corners. Places where stories are easier to read than people.

My parents always encouraged books over parties, biographies over gossip.

Teachers, both of them. Their love of learning was a gift I appreciated.

Their complete disinterest in socializing…

less so. It left me far more comfortable with fictional characters than with the very real crowd pouring out of the stadium on a Friday night.

The path to Parking Lot C is nearly deserted, which tells me the final whistle blew a while ago.

Most of the crowd has already migrated toward dorm rooms, local hangouts, or whatever postgame celebration promises the most noise.

The football team’s after-parties have a reputation, but I’ve perfected the art of avoiding them.

Usually.

Tonight, as my car comes into view beneath a flickering streetlight, distant laughter carries through the air. Bottles clink. Someone shouts triumphantly. I tighten my grip on my bag and pick up my pace.

“Hey, isn’t that Library Girl?”

My stomach drops.

I keep walking, eyes locked on my car, willing the distance to close faster.

“What’s the rush, Library Girl?” another voice calls, louder now. “Come join the party!”

I finally reach my car, slip inside, and fumble with my keys, my pulse thudding loud enough to drown out the voices behind me. The engine cranks once. Twice.

Then dies.

There’s a sudden, terrible silence.

No.

Not tonight.

With a resigned sigh, I pop the hood and step out, phone already in hand. I shine the flashlight into the engine bay, scanning for… something. Anything. I don’t know what I’m looking for, which feels like an important flaw in this plan.

“Need some help?”

I jump, yelping as the phone slips from my grip. The light swings wildly before landing on a face that looks familiar, but not enough to place. Strong jaw. Easy smile. Broad shoulders clad in a green-and-white hoodie, damp hair curling at the edges as though he’d showered in a hurry.

Must be a football player.

Should have known.

And yet, inexplicably, he doesn’t feel all that threatening.

“I have pepper spray,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“You always threaten strangers with pepper spray?”

“Only the large ones.”

He laughs, the sound low and surprisingly gentle. “Fair enough. My dad’s a mechanic. Let me take a look. I promise the pepper spray can stay in your pocket.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” I ask, bending to retrieve my phone.

“Not even a little.”

I straighten and narrow my eyes, holding the phone between us like a flimsy shield. “Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs, the movement easy. “I’ve got a little sister. I’d want someone to help her if she were stuck in a parking lot this late at night.”

It is a suspiciously convenient explanation. The sort I would question in any novel. Unfortunately, standing beneath a dying streetlight with a useless car, I believe him.

I consider him for another second, then step back. “Fine. But no funny business.”

He nods, leaning over the engine and giving me space instead of crowding me. Up close, I catch the details I missed before—the smudge of dirt on his knuckles, the way he moves with quiet confidence instead of swagger.

“Come back to the party, Sharpe!” I hear someone yell.

“Yeah!” a second voice chimes in. “Stop flirting!”

He ignores them as I shift uncomfortably.

“Looks like a loose battery terminal,” he says after a moment, adjusting something with practiced ease. “Should start now.”

I slide back into the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine roars to life, and relief floods through me so fast it leaves me a little dizzy.

He shuts the hood and leans down to my open window.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Try parking in Lot A next time,” he says, his tone turning serious. “It’s closer to campus. Better lighting. Fewer football players.”

I swallow hard, caught off guard by the concern in his eyes. For one reckless second, I wonder what it would feel like to be memorable instead of merely present.

But old habits cling tightly.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say instead.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “Anytime, Library Girl.”

I hate that nickname. Mostly because I don’t hate hearing him say it.

“Goodnight, Boy Who Fixed My Car.”

The warm sound of his amusement follows me as I roll up the window.

I watch him head back toward his teammates, who greet him with the easy familiarity of people who’ve endured practices, losses, and last-minute wins together.

A small, inconvenient part of me wonders what it would be like to follow him.

To open the door. To step out of the car instead of retreating into it.

To talk to someone new. Someone who isn’t Ms. Thorn or Gretchen the barista at my favorite coffee shop.

Or a fictional character who can’t look back at me.

Would they even notice if I tried? Or would I say the wrong thing?

Laughter. Belonging. The strange thrill of being part of something loud and alive.

My fingers hover over the door handle.

What’s the worst that could happen?

The answer comes quickly. I hesitate. I breathe. And then I let my hand fall back into my lap.

Not tonight.

The engine hums beneath me as I pull away from the curb, the library lights shrinking in my rearview mirror. Althenia Hall has always been my sanctuary. The place where stories unfold safely, predictably, with endings I can trust.

I’ve always admired women like Elizabeth Bennet, who spoke her mind without apology. Jane Eyre, who found her voice when it mattered. Even Catherine Earnshaw, reckless and passionate and unafraid of wanting too much.

I am not them.

I’m Lucy, the Library Girl. I read instead of attend. Observe instead of leap. I keep pepper spray in my pocket and courage bookmarked for another day.

Still… as I drive away, I can’t quite shake the memory of his smile. His gentle voice. The way he treated me like I wasn’t invisible. Like I belonged in the conversation.

Maybe fictional characters aren’t the only ones capable of defying first impressions.

Maybe tonight wasn’t the moment, but it was something.