Chapter Two
Dylan
A shrill ringtone slices through the quiet, dragging me out of the best dream I’ve had all year. We won the national championship.
I groan and crack one eye open, the vibration of my phone drilling straight through my skull.
Great.
Even though I didn’t touch alcohol last night, my head feels like I spent the night face-down at the bottom of a bottle.
“Hello?” My voice comes out rough, my throat dry as sandpaper.
“Did I wake you?” Mom’s voice crackles through the line. She’s far too cheerful for someone calling before noon. “Oh good. I was hoping I did.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “Already ran five miles,” I lie, stifling a yawn. “Just finished making breakfast for the guys.”
“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Dylan.”
“And you’ve always been obnoxious first thing in the morning.”
She laughs. “Your childhood must have been a nightmare.”
“Well…” I clear my throat and push myself upright. “My parents got divorced when I was thirteen, and I spent my teenage years living out of a suitcase.”
“The trauma is trauma-ing,” she teases.
It wasn’t like that. Not really.
Mom and Dad didn’t fight. Not much, anyway. One day they just stopped loving each other. Gemma and I split our weeks evenly, shuffling back and forth like it was normal.
It worked.
The only thing I hated was the suitcase. Still do. Funny thing is, this cramped campus dorm I share with three guys is the most stable place I’ve ever lived.
The room still smells like last night’s game.
Grass ground into my cleats, athletic tape, and sweat trapped in the gear bag I was too tired to unpack.
My shoulder aches where Rock Island’s guard caught me in the second quarter, and there’s a bruise forming above my hip from the pileup at the goal line.
Nothing serious. Just the usual inventory after sixty minutes of hitting people hard enough to move them backward.
“Mom,” I say, rubbing my face, “why are you calling me so early?”
“It’s eleven,” she points out. “I thought you’d be up.”
“We won last night,” I remind her. “The guys kept everyone up until almost four.”
“I know you’re twenty-one.” Concern threads through her voice despite the teasing. “But I hope you’re being responsible.”
“You know I don’t drink.”
It’s not a rule. I just hate how it makes me feel. Foggy. Slow. I don’t smoke. I don’t mess with drugs. And I definitely don’t hook up randomly, no matter what the guys think.
I can’t afford to be off my game. Not even for a night.
“And your teammates are okay with that?” she asks, amused.
“They give me crap about it, but they’re cool.”
There’s a pause, and I know what’s coming.
“Right,” she says brightly, “the reason I’m calling is because I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor?” I squint as bright light filters in through the partially closed blinds. That word never means what she thinks it does.
“Promise you won’t hang up. There’s this girl—”
“No.”
She laughs. “Dylan—”
“I’m focused on football, Mom. I don’t have time for girls.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard me out.”
“I love you,” I say, already bracing myself, “but I’m not going on a coffee date with anyone. Scouts have been around the program all season. Every snap is on film now, and one bad game can change how they see me. I have to outperform everyone to get noticed.”
“What could it hurt?”
I think about the girl from last night—suspicion written across her face, courage holding together by sheer stubbornness.
Guilt presses beneath my ribs, which is ridiculous. I didn’t promise the girl anything.
“Plenty.”
I’m playing the best football of my life, and linebackers don’t get the luxury of being average and still getting noticed. Linebackers don’t get the spotlight quarterbacks do. Most people only notice us when we miss a tackle, blow a coverage, or arrive half a second too late.
And distractions? They slow you down.
“I’m not—”
“I already told her you were interested,” Mom says breezily, “and she’s expecting you at the café this afternoon at three.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow. “You’re impossible.”
“She’s lovely,” Mom continues, completely unfazed.
“Our publishing company hosted a writing competition over the summer and she won. I’ve been mentoring her since then, and we’ve been emailing back and forth.
She’s smart. Thoughtful. And she happens to be in her senior year at Willow Creek. Just like you.”
“Small world,” I mutter, already feeling boxed in.
“I think you two have a lot in common,” she presses. “Lucy’s majoring in English, and you’re minoring in it.”
“Lots of people major in English,” I counter. “That doesn’t mean I have anything in common with them.”
“Please.” The teasing disappears from her voice. “I’d go meet her myself, but I’m stuck in Dallas.”
“You could fly out here,” I offer half-heartedly. “Meet her yourself.”
“I’d rather you meet her,” Mom says gently. “And tell me what she’s like in person.”
I huff out a breath. “You know, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”
“If it helps,” she adds quickly, “it took a month of emails before she agreed to meet you.”
It doesn’t.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises.
I let the silence stretch while I stare at the ceiling.
Mom has always believed she can nudge people toward the lives she thinks they should have. Usually, I’m better at refusing to move.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But I’m only showing up to tell her I’m not interested.”
“So dramatic.” Mom laughs. “It’s just coffee, Dyl. Not a marriage proposal.”
“Text me the details,” I say as a loud knock rattles my bedroom door. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Love you, son.”
The line goes dead just as the door swings open and Darnell barrels in, phone held aloft like it’s sacred. “We made the top story, baby!”
“Seriously?” I grab the phone from him and sit up, squinting at the screen.
Willow Creek Dominates Rock Island, Extending Winning Streak to Six.
A grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
This is why I protect my routine. One bad decision can undo months of work.
Football is the plan.
Coffee at three is not.
Outside my bedroom, the apartment is already coming back to life.
A cabinet slams. Grease crackles in a skillet.
Someone has turned the game replay on, and the commentator’s voice rises over the noise as Willow Creek’s defense lines up for another third down.
I know the play before it happens. I remember the cadence, the shift in the offensive line, the instant I realized the ball was coming through my gap.
Whoever Mom set me up with, I’ll give her ten minutes, explain the misunderstanding, and leave. Mom gets her favor. I get my afternoon back.
Darnell slaps me on the back hard enough to rattle my ribs. “We gotta celebrate, man!”
I hand his phone back and follow him down the hall.
Marcus and Derek are already in the kitchen, filling the apartment with the smell of burned toast and bacon grease.
They’re cooking breakfast for two girls still wearing last night’s Willow Creek jerseys.
I wrinkle my nose—at the jerseys, not the girls.
“You guys are up early,” I say, stifling another yawn.
“Who says we went to sleep?” Marcus wiggles his eyebrows as one of the girls giggles and runs a hand down his arm. “We’ve been partying since you crapped out and went to bed.”
“It was a long game,” I say. “I was tired.”
“Sure you weren’t tired from helping out Library Girl?” Derek asks, eyebrow lifting.
I grab an orange off the counter. “I reconnected her battery. Took two seconds.”
“This dude never talks to women,” Darnell tells the girls, jerking a thumb in my direction.
“Except Library Girl,” Derek adds.
One of them tilts her head. “You mean the girl who’s always in the library?”
“That’s her,” the other one says. “I had an English class with her once. She sat in the back corner and never said a word all semester.”
I don’t like how easily they dismiss her.
“She threatened to pepper spray me,” I say, peeling the orange.
Darnell bursts out laughing. “Library Girl sounds feisty.”
“Not feisty.”
Tough, I think. The quiet kind you only notice if you’re paying attention.
“Why’d you even go over there?” Derek asks, frowning at me like I don’t make sense.
I shrug. “If Gemma were stuck in a parking lot full of college football players, I’d want someone to help her get out safely.”
“Are you saying we’re not safe?” Marcus teases.
“Not you.” My mind flashes to Greg and Clyde—too loud, too drunk, too eager to push boundaries. “Some guys don’t know when to back off.”
The room goes quiet for half a beat.
Then Darnell claps his hands. “Yo, did you hear Greg hooked up with Meredith last night?”
“I thought Meredith had a thing for Dylan,” Derek says, glancing at me again.
“She does,” Marcus replies easily. “But he won’t give her the time of day.”
Meredith—the brunette with a talent for persistent flirting—has been a thorn in my side since freshman year. She’s nice enough. Friendly. Sort of.
And for reasons I can’t quite articulate, she makes my skin itch.
“Football comes first,” I remind them, heading for the hallway. “Why does no one understand that?”
As I retreat, one thought keeps circling, stubborn and unwelcome.
I didn’t step in because Library Girl was a distraction. I stepped in because I was worried about her.
And that feels like something I’m not supposed to ignore.
“We’ve got that banquet dinner next Friday,” Darnell calls after me as I reach my bedroom door. “You should invite her.”
“Who?” Marcus swivels around. “Library Girl or Meredith?”
“He’d have way more fun with Meredith,” one of the girls chimes in. “She’s a blast.”
I stare at all of them.
“Fun or feisty?” Derek adds, pointing down the hall at me. “So many choices, bro.”
“I think I’ll go alone,” I say flatly, motioning toward the two girls. “Less complicated.”
“Hey!” one of them protests, clearly offended.
“I’ve got a… thing to do this afternoon,” I add quickly, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
Darnell folds his arms in exaggerated suspicion. “Like a distraction thing?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Just a thing for my mom.”
He smirks firmly in place. “Sure. Totally not suspicious at all.”
I glance toward the floor, buying myself one second too many. “I’ll catch you guys later. Don’t party too hard. We’ve got a short week before Thursday’s game.”
“Yes, Mom,” Derek jokes, already reaching for another slice of toast.
I roll my eyes and step into my room.
They can joke all they want. I’ve got my priorities straight.
Football.
School.
And today, I’m doing my mom a favor.
The future I’ve spent years building comes first.
Everything else can wait.
***
This definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
From the sidewalk outside the café, I spot her immediately. Library Girl.
She’s tucked into the back corner, wrapped in a navy scarf, completely absorbed in a book. Her red hair spills over her shoulder and arm, catching the window light, while her finger follows the lines across the page. Her lips move silently, shaping the words like she can hear them in her head.
She’s somewhere else entirely, untouched by the noise around her. I don’t know why that gets to me, but it does.
She’s exactly where Mom said she’d be.
I check the message again anyway.
Back corner. Navy scarf. Her name is Lucy. Be nice.
Last night, beneath a flickering parking lot light, she looked ready to bolt. Through the glass, surrounded by coffee and books, she looks untouchable. Completely at home.
I pace in front of the door. This is supposed to be quick. I’ll introduce myself, explain that my mother overstepped, and leave before either of us mistakes this for a date.
Five minutes. Maybe ten. Then I’m gone.
There was a detour once, back in high school.
My girlfriend called me selfish when I chose football over us.
Maybe she wasn’t wrong. She eventually got tired of coming second to workouts, games, and recruiting visits.
I couldn’t blame her, but I couldn’t change it either.
The relationship ended, and I promised myself I wouldn’t put someone through that again.
Not until football was over. If it was ever over.
Most people don’t understand it.
I don’t even think the guys on the team get it.
The door swings open as a few people exit, and before I can overthink it, I step inside.
Lucy lifts a ceramic mug, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down without looking up. She doesn’t notice the laughter from the table beside her. Doesn’t flinch when the waitress brushes past.
She’s completely lost in that book, and I find myself crossing the room before I’ve made the decision to move.
By the time I stop, I’m standing right in front of her table.
She finally looks up, her gaze lifting through a curtain of crimson hair. Her eyes are sharp and curious, honey-colored, and entirely unimpressed.
“Library Girl.” The name slips out before I can decide whether using it is a good idea.
She frowns, just slightly.
“Boy Who Fixed My Car.”