Chapter Eight
Dylan
There are thirty-two seconds left in the fourth quarter, and we’re down by four.
The stadium clock burns red above the end zone, the rain obscuring the scoreboard.
My shoulder pads feel twice as heavy as they did at kickoff, and sweat has turned cold beneath my jersey while the offense gathers near midfield.
The student section pounds against the metal bleachers, creating a rhythm I can feel through my cleats.
Coaches shout personnel changes along the sideline, but every voice blurs beneath the same urgent fact: one possession, no room for another mistake.
My helmet is clutched in one hand as Greg lines up under center, and every instinct tells me he’s about to abandon the call. I know him well enough to know what’s coming. Some last-second hero move that ignores the play and leaves the rest of us scrambling.
Sure enough, Clyde snaps the ball, and instead of throwing to Darnell—who’s wide open—Greg tucks it and takes off himself.
He’s tackled almost instantly.
I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the scoreboard. 24–28. The Wildcats are still up, and time is bleeding away. Coach Littlestone is shouting, face flushed, while Greg casually adjusts his helmet like we’re not seconds away from blowing this game.
“Come on!” Marcus yells beside me.
Greg jumps up, signaling first down, then turns toward the crowd as if he has done something worth celebrating. Meanwhile, the clock keeps moving.
“Showboating,” I mutter.
“Classic Greg,” Marcus grumbles, turning away. “I can’t watch.”
Coach burns our final timeout with nineteen seconds left.
We line up again. Clyde snaps the ball. Greg fakes the quick throw to Darnell, then slips it to Tristan as he cuts behind the formation.
The defense bites on Darnell.
Tristan turns the corner untouched.
That’s all he needs.
He dives across the goal line with six seconds left. Touchdown.
The stadium erupts.
Our offense races off as the kicking unit takes the field. The extra point splits the uprights, putting us ahead 31-28.
Six seconds remain after the extra point, which means the defense has to finish it. I grab my helmet and run back onto the field, every nerve sharpened.
The Wildcats try a desperate lateral on the return, but Marcus wraps up the ball carrier as the clock reaches zero.
Then it’s real.
We won.
Marcus drops his hands. “Greg’s a genius.”
“Or the luckiest guy alive,” I say under my breath.
“Either way, we’re still undefeated.” Marcus bumps his helmet against mine.
“Yeah.” I nod, but the win feels strangely hollow.
“You hitting the parking lot after-party?” Marcus asks.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
He gives me a sideways look. “Let me guess, off to see the girl you think none of us know about?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie.
Darnell barrels into me, nearly knocking me over. “WE WON!”
“Barely,” I say, steadying him.
He lowers his voice. “You ever gonna tell me how things are going with Library Girl?”
“Shh,” I hiss. “Not so loud.”
He laughs. “Fine. But I want details.”
“I’ll tell you when there are details,” I say. “Right now, we’re just… getting to know each other.”
“Uh-huh,” he says knowingly. “You seeing her tonight?”
“After I shower,” I admit, already thinking about the library.
“You got it bad,” Darnell says, clapping me on the back. “But I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.”
As we head toward the locker room, Greg and Clyde fall into step beside us.
“You guys picking up the keg?” Clyde asks.
Darnell doesn’t miss a beat. “Marcus and Derek’s turn.”
I shoot him a grateful look as he jogs ahead to deliver the bad news. They’ll murder us tomorrow.
Just as I reach the locker room door, Greg catches the back of my shoulder pads and pulls me aside.
He moves into my space. “Saw you getting cozy with Meredith at the banquet,” he sneers.
I shove him off, wiping sweat from my face. “You saw wrong.”
His eyes narrow as he jabs a finger into my chest. “Stay away from her.”
“I’m not interested in Meredith,” I say evenly. “Never was.”
“Good,” he growls. “Keep it that way.”
He storms off, leaving me ready for a fight I have no interest in having.
Greg’s temper is no joke. I’ve seen him snap before. Some guy got a little too close to Meredith at a party last year. Greg broke his nose.
Greg can threaten me all he wants. Meredith has heard my answer, and it isn’t changing.
“Sharpe!”
Coach Littlestone’s voice cuts through the noise. I turn just in time to see him striding toward me, his expression indecipherable.
“Yeah, Coach?”
He stops in front of me and claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Great job tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“One of the area scouts who’s been through here wants to sit down with you in a few weeks when he’s back in town,” Coach says. “He’s watched the last three games and likes your film.”
My pulse jolts. “Which team?”
“I’ll give you details tomorrow. For now, keep your head where it belongs.”
For a second, everything around me fades—the chatter, the clatter of cleats, the hum of the stadium. This is it. This is the thing I’ve been working toward for years. Early mornings. Late nights. No distractions.
“It’s an introductory meeting, not a promise. But it means you’re on the board.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you, Coach.”
As I head into the locker room, the weight of his words settles in. A scout asking specifically for me. It isn’t a contract. It isn’t even a guarantee. But it’s the first time the future has reached back and acknowledged me.
This should be the moment that fills me with nothing but excitement.
Instead, my thoughts drift back to the quiet library, the flicker of flameless candlelight, the girl watching the game from a chair meant just for her.
Lucy.
And the realization hits me harder than any tackle.
For the first time, the future I’ve been chasing isn’t the only thing that matters.
***
By the time I reach Althenia Hall, the stadium noise is still trapped inside my head. My ears ring in the quiet lobby, and every step reminds me where tonight’s bruises are forming. The library smells like old paper and chai instead of turf, sweat, and athletic tape.
Lucy’s curled up in the corner of the library, knees tucked beneath her, red curls spilling around her face as she reads Of Mice and Men. One finger follows the final lines on the page, then returns to the beginning of the paragraph. For a second, I consider not interrupting.
It doesn’t last long.
“Steinbeck?” I murmur as I take the seat beside her. “Bold choice.”
She looks up instantly. “You won.”
The way she says it hits me harder than the final score ever could.
I nod toward the book. “Still thinking about Lennie and those rabbits?”
Her lips press together, and she shakes her head. “This is a sad book, Dylan.”
“It is,” I agree.
“I forgot how hopeful George and Lennie were,” she continues quietly. “How much they believed in a different life. I think that’s what makes it so heartbreaking.”
“Why read it again, then?” I ask.
She closes the book gently. “Sometimes I need a reminder that not every story ends the way it should.”
Her answer hits me straight in the chest.
She gestures to the candles, the blanket, the laptop. “Thank you. For all of this. I can’t believe you did it just so I’d feel comfortable watching your game.”
I shrug, trying to play it off. “You’re welcome. We almost lost.”
“Your quarterback seems to enjoy the crowd more than the game,” she says, arching a brow.
“You noticed that?”
“I did,” she says, nodding. “It surprised me.”
“He’s good,” I admit.
“Or,” she says thoughtfully, leaning in, “he performs well under pressure.”
I tilt my head. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.” She leans closer. “Being good means skill. Performing under pressure just means you can handle stress. They’re not always the same.”
“You’re right.”
Satisfaction brightens her expression.
“There’s a scout who’s interested in me,” I say suddenly.
Her eyes widen. “Dylan, that’s incredible.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I’ve wanted this for so long, and now that it’s real…”
“That’s normal,” she says. “Dreams are scary when they start coming true.”
I wonder what dreams she has. Maybe of staying here. Building a life in one place.
Before I can overthink it, my hand lifts slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn’t, my fingers brush lightly through her curls, and her shoulders slowly relax.
“You’re beautiful, Lucy.”
“Wh—what did you say?”
“I said you’re beautiful.”
She looks down. “Thank you.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” She shakes her head, then glances up at me. “I’m still not used to hearing that.”
I hate how matter-of-factly she says it. “That’s a shame.”
She tries to hide her smile and fails. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
The shelves seem to close around the quiet between us.
“Lucy?” Ms. Thorn calls from across the library. “We’ll be closing soon. You and Mr. Sharpe should start cleaning up.”
“We will,” Lucy says.
When Ms. Thorn disappears between the stacks, Lucy turns back to me, lowering her voice. “She was so excited to show me all of this when I arrived.”
“She helped me plan the whole thing. Even arranged the flameless candles.”
Lucy laughs softly. “Ms. Thorn must really like you. She never lets anyone break the rules.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I feel rebellious,” I say, reaching for the duffel bag and slinging it over my shoulder.
As we fold the blanket, she tells me the contest was the first time anyone outside her family treated her writing like it mattered.
“It did matter,” I tell her.
In return, I explain that football was the first thing in my life that stayed mine, no matter which parent’s house I slept in.
At the door, Ms. Thorn gives me a knowing wink as we say goodbye and step into the cold night.
“I parked in Lot A,” Lucy says.
The small detail affects me more than it should. “You remembered.”
“I did,” she says softly. Then, after a beat, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“You’re not like most of the guys on your team.”
“I’m not.”
“But you still hang out with them?” She hesitates. “Party with them?”
“I don’t drink,” I say. “I show up, stay for a bit, then leave. Being on a team means showing support, even when it’s not really your scene.”
She nods thoughtfully. “You network.”
I laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’ve never been good at that,” she says. “I’m always afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.”
“So what if you do?” I ask as we stop beside her car.
She shrugs. “I embarrass myself.”
“Is that the worst thing in the world?”
She looks down at the pavement. “When I was a kid, my cheeks used to turn bright red. They still do, sometimes. In school, everyone called me Tomato Face.” She lets out a quiet breath. “It hurt.”
Suddenly, the nickname makes sense. It’s not the words themselves, but the way she hears them. Another label chosen by people who never bothered to ask her name.
Without thinking, I drop the duffel bag and slide my fingers into her hair, grounding us both. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers, leaning into my touch.
The moment stretches, quiet and right.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes.”
“They’re showing Casablanca in the park,” I say. “Will you go with me?”
She steps closer. “I’d like that.”
My heart pounds. “Can I kiss you?”
Her answer is a soft, steady, “Yes.”
I move slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She keeps her eyes on mine, nervous but steady, and rests her hands against my shoulders.
When our lips meet, the kiss is tentative. Her breath catches against my mouth, and I stay still enough for her to decide what comes next.
For a second, she freezes. Then her fingers curl into my jacket, drawing me closer.
When I pull back, just enough to look at her, her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted in quiet surprise.
“Okay?” I murmur.
She nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah.”
And somehow, that single word feels bigger than every cheer I’ve ever heard in a stadium.
I pull her close, my hands settling at her waist as her arms wrap around my shoulders. When I kiss her again, it’s unhurried and sure and unmistakably real.
For once, I don’t feel like I’m moving between places. I’m exactly where I want to be.