Chapter Twelve
Dylan
Bellevue Auditorium is a blur of green-and-white streamers, reflective silver tablecloths, and a disco ball scattering light across the room. The noise hits first—laughter, overlapping conversations, the electric anticipation that always surrounds the Boyfriend Basket Swap.
Folding tables line one wall beneath strings of metallic fringe, each crowded with baskets wrapped in crackling cellophane.
Perfume, sugary punch, and buttered appetizers compete in the overheated air.
Someone has dragged the auditorium speakers far past a reasonable volume, making the floor vibrate beneath my shoes.
Near the stage, phones are already raised as people record introductions no one will care about tomorrow.
I’ve attended this thing three years in a row and never cared who won.
But tonight, Lucy is here.
She chose to step into this world on her own terms, but Meredith is the one who invited her. That’s enough to keep every instinct I have on alert.
Every year it’s the same. Too loud. Too flashy. Too much pretending. Guys posturing. Girls performing. Everyone acting like this stupid basket swap game means something more than bragging rights and hangovers.
I usually treat it like background noise. Blend into the crowd. Watch the guys grab a basket. Laugh when I’m expected to. Keep my head down and my future intact.
But Lucy doesn’t live in background noise.
She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t posture. She shows up carefully, with purpose. Lucy doesn’t walk into rooms like this casually. If she is here, she fought through every reason to stay home.
This room is built to reward confidence that takes up space. Lucy’s confidence is quieter than that. Deeper. It doesn’t announce itself. But if you’re paying attention, you’ll see it. And I know—without needing to look—that Meredith will be paying attention.
Not the game.
Not the baskets.
To Lucy.
To me.
To us.
“Where is she?” Darnell cranes his neck, searching the room like someone might break open downfield.
“Who?” I ask, already searching for a familiar flash of red.
“Carla. My date.”
I blink. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Darnell gives me a look like I’ve personally offended him. “She’s the woman Marcus set me up with on that app.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please don’t tell me this is your first date.”
“Nope,” he says smugly. “We video chatted last night.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It counts, and yes, she brought a basket.”
“That’s cheating.”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
I snort. “Is it, though?”
Darnell shrugs, unbothered, but my mind drifts again—back to Lucy. This is her first time in a room like this. First time surrounded by my teammates and their girlfriends, by expectations she never asked for.
She’s stepping way outside her comfort zone for me.
I want this night to go smoothly. I need it to.
A couple guys from defense drift past, already loud and carrying plastic cups they probably didn’t fill with soda.
Coach thinks this is a team social. He definitely does not know what is in half these cups.
“Sharpe finally brought his mystery girl,” someone mutters.
“Library Girl?” another asks.
I don’t turn around. Don’t react. But the nickname stings, especially now that I know Lucy doesn’t care for it.
Most of them probably don’t mean anything by it. That’s the problem. They say things like that without realizing how hurtful they sound to someone who’s spent her whole life being reduced to a single trait.
Lucy reads. She’s quiet. She’s been taught to believe she doesn’t belong here.
Except she does.
She belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
I check the entrance again. I want to be the first familiar face she finds, before anyone else gets the chance to make her question why she came.
This isn’t about embarrassment.
It’s about control.
And I’ve spent too long watching Meredith use one to gain the other.
The doors swing open, and a wave of women enters. Lucy isn’t with them.
“How do you think Library Girl’s gonna handle all this?” Darnell gestures broadly.
“Lucy,” I correct.
Darnell glances at me, then nods. “Right. Lucy.”
I rake a hand through my hair, feeling ready for trouble before any has started. Between Meredith, Greg’s lingering hostility, and this event, I feel like I’m bracing for impact.
“She’s right there!” Darnell suddenly yelps. “Carla’s here!”
I barely register it.
Because I see Lucy.
She doesn’t rush in.
Lucy pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room and locating the exits before she finds me. Then, she squares her shoulders and walks forward.
She is wearing a sleek black dress and heels that catch the disco-ball light every time she moves. But the most striking thing about her is that she came at all. Not because anyone pressured her.
Because she decided she could handle it.
It takes guts to walk into a room where no one knows you. Not really. Where the rules aren’t written down, but everyone seems to know them anyway.
Her shoulders ease when she finds me.
I close the distance fast, before doubt can creep in. Before someone else tells her what this night is supposed to mean.
She reaches for me first, catching the front of my jacket. I pull her close and kiss her.
She kisses me back, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. For a moment, everything else disappears.
“You look incredible,” I murmur against her lips.
Her cheeks flush. “Aunt Joss loaned me the dress. I panicked.”
“Thank you for coming. Really.”
“Hopefully you can find my basket. But I should warn you that there isn’t a single book in it.”
“Are you trying to throw me off?”
“I didn’t want it to be obvious,” she admits.
I squeeze her hand lightly. “I know you thought about it.”
She nods, earnest. “I did. A lot.”
And suddenly, some of my concern eases.
Whatever Meredith has planned, Lucy and I will deal with it together.
“Alright, ladies,” Meredith’s voice crackles through the speakers, slicing cleanly through the noise. “Grab a random basket from the table and head to the front of the stage.”
“That’s my cue,” Lucy says brightly.
I follow her over to the table full of colorfully woven baskets.
The baskets are anonymous by design. Every girlfriend made one, but another woman will hold it onstage so the guys cannot simply walk toward the person they arrived with.
We move down the line one at a time, choose a basket we think belongs to us, and hope we know our girlfriends well enough not to embarrass everyone involved.
I watch as Lucy picks one out. She tilts the basket toward me just enough for us both to see. Chips. Socks. Condoms.
Then, I huff a laugh. “Someone’s prepared for all possible outcomes.”
Lucy’s cheeks flare a deep, unmistakable pink. “That’s not even the worst one. You should see some of the others.”
“It’s always like this,” I say, shaking my head.
“I’ll see you up there,” she whispers before hurrying toward the stage.
I watch her go. Pride hits first. She came because she chose to, and she is holding her ground. Lucy may be stepping into my world tonight, but she’s doing it her way. And that makes me want to win this stupid game more than ever.
“The rules are simple,” Meredith announces, soaking in the attention as the girlfriends line up, each holding a basket that doesn’t belong to them. “Find your basket. Win. If you don’t…” She pauses until the room quiets. “…suffer the consequences.”
I roll my eyes. Last year, the losers wore ridiculous matching costumes to the next home game.
Meredith’s father donated enough money to the athletic foundation that no one wanted to be the person who challenged her.
Moments later, we—the boyfriends—are waved onto the stage.
The spotlights erase most of the audience, leaving only scattered faces beyond the glare.
Cellophane flashes beneath the lights as the women hold the baskets against their dresses.
Somewhere below, Darnell calls Carla’s name and earns a burst of laughter.
The stage boards creak as the guys move down the line, lifting ribbons, checking labels, and trying not to reach when the contents become increasingly personal.
I move down the line, scanning baskets with growing focus. One packed with cheese crackers, spicy chips, and the ridiculous energy drink Darnell buys by the case. Another stuffed with comic books and neon sports drinks—Marcus.
I’m not looking for flashy.
I’m looking for her.
Something thoughtful. Intentional. Something that feels like Lucy.
As I pass her, our fingers brush. The smallest contact, but grounding.
Then I see it.
The basket Meredith is holding.
The plastic wrap is reflective green, the exact shade of my jersey. The basket itself is dark brown. Inside is a folded plaid throw matching the one from our movie date.
The same kind we lay on under the stars after Casablanca.
Two flameless candles. Hot chocolate mix. A single rose.
She avoided the obvious version of herself and built the basket from moments only we would understand.
Lucy’s basket.
Meredith’s smile sharpens as I stop in front of her.
She didn’t grab Lucy’s basket by accident.
Meredith organized the lineup. She knew exactly where every basket was placed before anyone entered the room.
She’s betting the room will photograph the moment I choose the basket from her hands and let gossip rewrite the rest.
I scan the room. Phones are already half-raised. Teammates waiting for spectacle. Lucy standing onstage, hands clasped around a basket that isn’t mine, trusting that I’ll find the one she made for me.
If I react, Meredith gets the spectacle she wants. If I refuse the basket, Lucy pays for it.
Meredith rigged the game.
If I identify the basket while Meredith holds it, half the room will post pictures before Lucy can read me. If I refuse, Lucy will think I failed to recognize the memories she chose for us.
“See something you like, Sharpe?” Meredith asks, pitching her voice loudly enough for the nearby phones to catch it.
I ignore her eyes and focus on the basket.
“Is this your basket?” she presses.
I inhale once. Slow. Controlled.
“Yes.”
Satisfaction flashes across her face. “Lucy is so nice,” she says, tilting her head. “I just adore that little café she hides out in.”
She doesn’t say it casually. She says it like she’s been watching.
The room’s noise becomes suddenly unbearable.
This isn’t about winning.
It never was.
“What do you want, Meredith?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs, like the answer should be obvious. “One real date.”
Anger threatens to answer before I do. But Lucy is standing ten feet away, trusting me to remember that this is her choice, too.
I need to end this without giving Meredith the spectacle she wants.
And without making Lucy pay for it.