Chapter Four
Dylan
“Do I smell… sandalwood and musk?” Darnell sniffs dramatically as I brush past him in the hall, the scent of soap and cologne still fresh on my skin.
Coach wanted to chat after the team meeting. Now I’m running late to meet Lucy.
“I don’t know.” I keep walking. “Do you?”
He snaps his fingers. “Are you meeting a woman somewhere? Is that where you were yesterday?”
“I’m going for a walk,” I say, keeping my tone casual.
Darnell laughs. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
I don’t want to lie to my best friend, but I’m not ready for anyone to know about Lucy yet.
Not because I’m embarrassed or hiding her.
I just don’t want to make her a thing until I know what she is to me.
Lucy doesn’t seem like the type of girl who likes attention, and that’s all she’ll get if the team finds out. They’ve already labeled her Library Girl. I don’t even want to know what nicknames Greg will come up with if he thinks Lucy and I are together.
The thought sits heavy.
No distractions. That’s been the plan for years. Football first. Everything else second.
And then Lucy happened.
I didn’t expect to like her. Didn’t expect to enjoy talking to her. Didn’t expect the way her eyes lit up when we talked about books and Shakespeare to stay with me long after I left the café.
I know I said I wouldn’t pursue a relationship while playing football, but Lucy…
She told me you didn’t have many friends. And that she thought I might be someone you’d get along with.
Mom said it like a setup.
Because it was.
“You haven’t dated in three years, man,” Darnell says, shaking his head. “No one would care if you got some action.”
“Action,” I repeat. “You mean sex?”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks for the permission,” I say dryly.
“You’re welcome.” He smirks. “Whoever she is, bring her to the banquet on Friday.”
“Bring who?” I play dumb.
“The woman you’re obviously going to see right now.”
“Sharpe has a date?” Marcus yells, popping his head out of his room like a nosy neighbor.
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t.”
“He’s wearing cologne!” Darnell shouts.
“He is?” Marcus pumps his fist. “Finally gonna give Meredith a chance?”
I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a plastic fork.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I mutter, escaping down the hall before they can dig any deeper.
“Tell Mere we can’t wait to see her Friday!” Marcus calls after me.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I head outside and shove my hands into my pockets.
Meredith is a slippery slope I want no part of. She and Greg have had an on-and-off thing for the past three years, and I’d rather stay as far away from that mess as possible.
Lucy feels nothing like that mess.
Being around Lucy is quiet without being empty. Maybe that’s why I’m heading down Oak Street toward the park more excited than I’d like to admit.
The closer I get, the busier the sidewalks become.
Couples carry folded blankets under their arms, families steer kids toward the park, and volunteers in burgundy shirts wave people toward rows of temporary seating.
Somewhere ahead, an actor tests his voice through the speakers, sending a line about love and death echoing between the brick academic buildings.
Even from a block away, the smell of kettle corn hangs in the air.
I should’ve asked for Lucy’s number yesterday. Now that I’m late, I hate the idea of her sitting there wondering if I’m actually going to show.
The crisp autumn air bites at my skin as I cut across campus, trees shedding leaves in bursts of orange and gold. It hits me that this is my last year here, and the thought sends a wave of unease through me. If football doesn’t work out, everything I’ve planned starts to unravel.
I don’t like that feeling.
But then I see her.
Lucy stands near the edge of the park in jeans and a black sweater. The setting sun turns the edges of her hair copper, and for a second I forget that I’m late.
From a distance, I can tell she’s uncomfortable. A group walks by her, and her posture stiffens as she fidgets with the strap on her purse. Her gaze scans the crowd until it lands on me.
Relief crosses her face.
The tension I’ve carried since leaving the apartment releases all at once.
“Hi,” I say as I close the distance between us.
She tucks a strand of crimson hair behind her ear and looks up at me, shy but hopeful. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say quickly. “I lost track of time after my team meetings.”
She studies me for a second, then glances toward the stage. “Do you want to get a seat?”
“Before we do, can you put your number in here?” I pull out my phone. “Just in case I’m late again.”
Her eyes widen. “What makes you think there’ll be another time?”
“Oh—I, uh—” I wince.
“I’m kidding.” She laughs and takes my phone. Our fingers brush, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt up my arm. “I’ll just… put it in.”
She types quickly and hands it back, biting her lower lip like she’s nervous, too.
“Do you want to grab a drink before we sit?” I ask, gesturing toward the concession stand.
She nods. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
We fall into step beside each other, close enough that I’m hyperaware of every movement she makes. She’s pretty in a way that sneaks up on you—gentle eyes, flushed cheeks dappled with freckles, a dimple that appears when she smiles. It takes effort not to stare at her.
“What position do you play?” she asks.
“Linebacker.”
She scrunches her nose. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I read the offense, tackle whoever has the ball, cover receivers, and rush the quarterback when the play call for it.”
“You’re speaking another language,” she says, amusement softening her expression.
“You should come to the next game.”
She shakes her head as we join the line. “Crowds aren’t really my thing.”
“They’re not always mine either,” I admit.
“But you play in front of one every week.”
“Before the snap, I hear everything. Once the ball moves, it all disappears.”
She nods, thoughtful.
“Linebacker,” she murmurs, like she’s filing it away. “I think I read a book once about a quarterback. Never a linebacker.”
Figures. The quarterbacks always get the spotlight.
“Was it a sports romance?”
“Of course.” She says it like the answer should have been obvious.
“I’m sure there are books with linebackers in them,” I say.
“Somehow, I doubt they’re as popular,” she teases.
The line moves faster than I’d like. I enjoy standing this close to her, hearing the way her voice softens when she relaxes. She isn’t trying to impress me. She’s just herself.
“Have you ever played a sport?” I ask.
“Field hockey. Freshman year in high school.”
“That surprises me.”
“It surprised everyone.” She laughs. “My parents thought I needed a club that didn’t involve books. Somehow, I made the team. They encouraged me to quit once they saw me play.”
“How bad were you?”
She flushes. “I scored a few times.”
“For your team?”
“For the other team.”
I laugh, unable to stop myself. She hides her face in her hands.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
Her smile fades as the line moves forward. “I’m sure you weren’t that terrible.”
“If you’re expecting me to be like the girls who hang around the football team, I’m not them.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be.”
Her gaze drops to the leaves scattered at our feet. She looks like she’s waiting for me to take it back.
“I know you love to read, Lucy. I know crowds make you uncomfortable. None of that bothers me.”
Her head lifts. “It doesn’t.”
“You’re still the girl who threatened to pepper spray me.”
“I’m not made of confidence and spunk. I’m—”
“You’re Lucy.” I hold her gaze. “That’s who I came to see.”
Her shoulders lower and her breath evens out, like she’s finally stopped bracing for impact.
“I like the girl who sat across from me yesterday and told me her favorite Shakespeare tragedy is Romeo and Juliet.”
Her smile wavers, something more vulnerable slipping through. “I’m not very good at this, Dylan.”
“No one is.”
A laugh escapes her, soft and surprised, and some of the tension drains from her frame.
“Why don’t we just get a drink,” I suggest, “sit on a park bench, and be ourselves?”
She lets out a slow breath. “I think I’d like that.”
“No pressure,” I add. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
We grab two hot chocolates and settle on a bench near the outdoor stage.
The park has been transformed by strings of lights looped between the trees and a wooden stage framed by painted stone balconies.
Programs rustle as the audience settles.
Someone behind us unwraps a crinkling bag of popcorn, and the metal bleachers creak beneath shifting bodies.
Lucy cups both hands around her drink, breathing in the steam.
By the time the last daylight disappears, the stage lights cast everything, including Lucy, in a warm, golden glow.
I sit close enough to feel her warmth, but I keep my hands to myself. Something tells me she needs patience more than bravado.
“If you could rewrite Romeo and Juliet,” I ask quietly, “how would you end it?”
She fingers the gold flower pendant at her neck. “I don’t know. How would you?”
“Romeo wakes up after dreaming how it all ends. He realizes loving Juliet doesn’t mean dragging her into a war between their families, so he leaves before either of them has to die.”
“And they’d both be alive?”
“They would.”
“But not together?”
“No.”
She considers that, then nods slowly. “A tragedy worse than death,” she muses. “What could’ve been but can’t be.”
“What about you?” I press. “How would you rewrite the ending?”
She mulls it over, gnawing on her lower lip. “I don’t think I’d change anything.”
“Really?”
“Forbidden love,” she says with a shrug. “Anything that starts in extremes usually ends the same way.”
“Too much momentum can be just as dangerous as having none at all,” I add.
“Exactly.” Lucy smiles, and I have to look toward the stage before she sees how much it affects me. “Shakespeare wrote the right ending. I wouldn’t change it.”
She glances down at the space between us. For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to do it. Then, almost shyly, her fingers brush mine before slowly lacing through them.
I turn my hand over and squeeze hers gently, letting her decide how long she wants to hold on.
As the stage lights brighten and the first lines of the play carry across the park, Lucy’s hand remains in mine.
Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like a distraction.
And that scares me more than it should.