Chapter Fifteen
Lucy
He’s falling for me.
The admission follows us into Mason’s Steakhouse, changing the pressure of his hand around mine and the space between every breath. I said it back, but my thoughts are still catching up to the conviction in my voice.
We’re not in love yet.
But for the first time, I can see exactly where we’re going.
It’s not as if this came out of nowhere. We’ve been building toward it. The quiet moments, the shared laughter, the long conversations that stretched late into the night. But hearing the words out loud, saying them back, changed something. It snapped everything into focus.
This is really happening.
Dylan squeezes my hand, and I glance up at him just as the hostess finishes seating the group ahead of us. There’s a flicker of nerves in his smile, subtle but unmistakable. He looks confident on the field, unshakable under stadium lights, but tonight matters in a different way.
I lean into him as he slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close.
“You’re going to do great tonight,” I whisper, believing it completely. Believing in him.
He dips his head and kisses my forehead, lingering a second longer than necessary.
“I’m proud of you,” I say softly, the words slipping out without hesitation.
He looks down at me, his expression open and sincere.
The hostess returns. “How many?”
“We’re meeting someone,” Dylan starts, but she’s already nodding.
“Right this way,” she says, leading us through the restaurant. “They’re waiting for you.”
Mason’s is dark wood, brass fixtures, and white tablecloths so crisp they look untouched.
Servers move between tables with practiced silence, carrying plates that smell of pepper, butter, and charred meat.
The muted clink of silverware never rises above the low conversation.
Even the lighting feels expensive—small amber pools carefully positioned so everyone looks composed, whether they feel that way or not.
His arm drops from my waist, but his fingers immediately find mine again, holding tight as we walk past polished tables. My steps slow as we approach the private room.
A glass door separates it from the main dining room, turning the restaurant noise into a distant murmur.
Four place settings wait around a round table, each arranged with too many forks and spotless water glasses.
A framed photograph of the city skyline hangs above the empty chair reserved for Dylan.
The privacy should make the meeting feel easier. I’m not sure it does.
This isn’t just dinner. It’s the future Dylan has envisioned for most of his life.
“Dylan,” Coach Littlestone says as he stands when we reach him.
Dylan releases my hand just long enough to shake his firmly. “Coach.”
Then he turns to me, his smile easy and reassuring. “This is Lucy.”
Coach Littlestone’s expression softens. “You can call me Bill.”
I shake his hand, then glance toward the man beside him as he rises from his chair. He wears a charcoal suit and a team logo pin at his lapel.
“And this is Ray Upton,” Bill says. “He’s with the Redwood Larks.”
Dylan’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Your defense has been playing faster since the bye.”
Ray smiles. “We’re not complaining.”
Dylan pulls out my chair, and when he sits, he immediately takes my hand again, resting it on his thigh and covering it with both of his. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I know he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.
The waiter arrives, takes our drink orders, then disappears.
“So,” Ray says, settling back, “when did you start playing?”
Dylan answers easily, confidence returning as he talks about football—his dad, his first team, the way the game became part of his identity.
Bill adds a few words of praise, and I watch Dylan carefully, seeing him through new eyes.
He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s a player on the edge of something big.
Ray’s gaze shifts to me. “What about you, Lucy? What’s your major?”
“English,” I reply.
“And what do you plan to do with it?”
“I want to write,” I admit. “I’m still deciding whether teaching or publishing will be the work that supports that.”
He nods, then asks the question I wasn’t expecting.
“And how do you feel about your boyfriend potentially moving across the country to play professional football? Would you go with him?”
The question catches me completely unprepared. Dylan squeezes my hand beneath the table.
We haven’t talked about this. Not really.
But I don’t look away.
“I support Dylan,” I say honestly. “And his dreams. Whatever he decides, I’m with him.”
The words come easily. Almost too easily.
Support him. Stand beside him. Go wherever he goes.
I’ve spent most of my life anchored to one place. One rhythm. One predictable horizon. The thought of leaving it all should scare me.
And maybe it does.
But being with Dylan feels bigger than geography. Bigger than comfort.
Still, somewhere beneath that confidence, a quieter question whispers…
Would I still recognize myself in a life built around his dream?
Bill offers me a reassuring smile from across the table, but it does little to settle the stress radiating off Dylan.
I can feel it in the way his hand grips mine, as if he’s bracing himself against something unseen.
We’ve only just begun. We just admitted how deeply we feel.
Everything still feels tender, newly formed.
Ray seems to sense the shift in the room and lifts his eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to put anyone on the spot,” he says smoothly as the waiter arrives with our drinks. “But having a strong support system matters. Especially for someone with Dylan’s kind of potential.”
The waiter sets a glass of ice water in front of me, but I barely register it. My thoughts are tangled in Ray’s comment, looping back again and again. Support system. Potential. Wherever he ends up.
The reality of what a professional football career could mean—for Dylan, for us—makes the future suddenly concrete.
The rest of dinner moves quickly, blurring together in fragments. Dylan talks animatedly about his goals, his passion unmistakable as he describes what it would mean to play at the next level. His answers become more confident and precise.
Inside, I’m unraveling.
Unease gathers beneath every answer, growing harder to ignore.
The composure I’m holding together feels as though it might splinter if I look too closely at what he’s saying.
Instead, I focus on the crisp white napkin in my lap, smoothing its edges as if I can press my fears flat the same way.
I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod at the right moments.
All of my energy is spent keeping myself together.
Dylan glances at me twice, concern sharpening each time.
I give him the smallest nod I can manage.
Not now. This is his night. About something he’s worked tirelessly toward.
I won’t let my uncertainty cast a shadow over it.
Still, as he talks about a future that may pull him far from everything familiar, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.
“I’ll be back for next Saturday’s game,” Ray says.
“Think we’ll finally get you into the stadium, Lucy?” Bill’s voice cuts through my thoughts, gentle but direct. I look up, startled, and find him watching me with an easy smile.
“I—sorry,” I say quickly. “What was the question?”
“Will you be at the game next week?” he asks again.
The invitation affects me more than it should. I blink hard.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet but sincere.
I haven’t been to one of Dylan’s games since we started dating. Crowds, noise, attention—none of it has ever been my world. But Dylan has always made room for me, always met me where I feel safest. If he’s stepping into something new, then I can, too.
“Really?” Dylan’s face brightens, hope flickering across his features.
“Yes,” I repeat, this time with more conviction.
Ray chuckles softly. “First game?”
“She prefers the library,” Dylan says fondly. “She usually watches on my laptop.”
Ray watches me for a second longer than the question requires. “Not big on crowds?”
“Crowds overwhelm me. I’ve been working up to it,” I answer carefully. “But I’ll be there.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns his attention back to Dylan. “How long have you two been together?”
“A little over a month,” Dylan replies without hesitation.
“They’ve just started dating, Ray,” Bill says with a sigh. “Let them make it through dessert before assigning moving boxes.”
“What are the next steps?” Dylan redirects.
Ray leans back. “We’ll be watching the next few games closely. If you keep playing this way, postseason all-star scouts will notice. I’d be surprised if your name isn’t already circulating.”
Dylan’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
“We’ll keep evaluating the film, talk to your coaches, and learn what we can about how you work when no one’s watching,” Ray adds. “We look at the whole picture.”
“Is there anything I should be doing differently?” Dylan asks.
Ray smiles. “Keep showing range in coverage and finish the season healthy. Your instincts are helping you. Now we need to see consistency.”
The private room begins to feel smaller with every answer. I excuse myself, needing air and space.
In the restroom, I lock myself into a stall and brace my palms against the door. I close my eyes and try to separate Ray’s questions from my own fears. An hour ago, the biggest thing on my mind was intimacy, closeness, the thrill of being seen. Now everything feels bigger. Scarier.
I’ve always believed love should expand you, not shrink you. That it should feel like stepping forward, not disappearing into someone else’s shadow.
But what if supporting Dylan means slowly rearranging myself until I don’t fit the outline I once knew?
I picture cities I’ve never seen. Stadiums filled with strangers. Unfamiliar apartments where my books are the only things that recognize me. Weeks spent alone while he travels.
Would I be brave enough for that life?
Or would I slowly resent it?
After a few steadying breaths, I head back out.
And nearly collide with Ray.
“Sorry,” I say, moving aside.
“No, that’s my fault.” He pauses, studying me for a moment. “Are you doing okay?”
The question catches me off guard. “I’m fine.”
His expression suggests he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. “These conversations can make the future feel very immediate.”
I glance toward the private dining room. Through the glass, Dylan is listening intently as Bill speaks, his entire posture focused.
“He’s wanted this for a long time,” I say.
“He has,” Ray agrees. “And he has a legitimate chance. But professional football is unpredictable. Players move. Schedules change. Careers take off quickly or end before they have time to settle.”
I fold my arms loosely across myself. “I would never ask him to give it up.”
“I didn’t think you would.” His voice remains calm. “Supporting someone’s career doesn’t mean surrendering every part of your own life, either.”
I look at him then.
Ray motions to the table. “I’ve watched young players make promises before they understood what they were promising. Their families do the same. Everyone says they’ll figure it out later, but later usually arrives faster than expected.”
A knot forms low in my stomach. “What are you saying?”
“That the two of you should talk honestly.” He gives me a measured look.
Ray stands straighter. “Dylan’s future may take him away from Willow Creek. That doesn’t mean you automatically follow, and it doesn’t mean he automatically leaves you behind. It means the two of you will eventually have choices to make together.”
Together.
The word should reassure me.
Instead, all I can think about is how little Dylan and I have discussed what his dream might require from both of us.
Ray nods toward the dining room. “For what it’s worth, he talks about you differently than most players talk about the people waiting at home.”
“How?”
“Like you’re part of the future he’s working toward, not something distracting him from it.”
Before I can answer, he gives me a polite nod and returns to the table.
I remain in the hallway for another moment, staring at the closed restroom door.
Ray didn’t tell me to leave Dylan.
He didn’t tell me to follow him either.
I’ve never chased anything that required me to abandon who I am. I’ve built my life carefully around books, quiet, and belonging.
The idea of becoming an afterthought in someone else’s story terrifies me more than distance ever could.
And I wonder if loving Dylan means risking that.
Dylan is laughing with Bill when I return, his whole face alive with possibility.
I love seeing him like this. That’s what makes the fear so difficult to admit.
His dream is not asking me to disappear. Not yet.
But I’m finally beginning to understand that loving Dylan will eventually require choices neither of us can make alone.
Dylan reaches for my hand as I sit.
I give it to him.
And I wonder when holding on is no longer the simplest answer.
As I arrange my expression into something that might pass for calm, a quiet, unwelcome fear follows me through the rest of dinner.
Loving him might not be enough.