Chapter Twenty
Dylan
Lucy’s laugh is still stuck in my head, rising above the clanks of weights and the low hum of the gym.
So is her dad’s running commentary through every horror movie we watched last night.
Halloween at the Bennett house wasn’t loud or chaotic.
No costumes. No party. Just candy corn, bad jump scares, and Lucy asleep against my shoulder by the third movie.
I didn’t move.
For once, there was no film study and no next goal demanding my attention. After years of constantly pushing forward, spending a night standing still felt unexpectedly good.
It’s strange how something that simple can feel bigger than any stadium.
I shake the memory loose and focus on the dumbbells in my hands, pushing through another rep as my arms start to burn. The gym is alive with noise—metal slamming, guys shouting encouragement or trash talk. Sweat and effort hanging thick in the air.
“Yo,” Marcus calls from the bench nearby. “You good? You’re somewhere else today.”
I finish the set and let the weights drop with a dull thud. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
He wipes his face with his shirt and gives me a look that says he already knows the answer. “Thinking about Lucy.”
I roll my eyes, which fools no one. “We watched scary movies at her parents’ place last night. Real low-key.”
Marcus laughs. “Low-key? With horror movies? How’d she handle it?”
“She was fine,” I say, grabbing my water bottle. “Her dad, though? Commentated the entire time. I don’t think I’ll ever watch The Shining the same way again.”
“That actually sounds solid,” Marcus says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re turning into a family guy.”
“Maybe I always was.”
Darnell wanders over, leaning against the squat rack. “Meanwhile, you missed a legendary Halloween party.”
I shrug. “Didn’t miss anything.”
Marcus and Darnell exchange a look, the unspoken commentary clear. I don’t bother defending myself. Being with Lucy beats repeating the same party I’ve attended a hundred times.
“So, what’s next?” Marcus asks. “Thanksgiving at her place, too?”
I take a long drink before answering. “We’re spending Thanksgiving in Dallas.”
Darnell’s eyebrows lift. “Meeting your family? That’s serious.”
“Yeah,” I say. It is.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Marcus leans back against the bench. “Hope your mom doesn’t scare her off.”
I laugh under my breath. “Same.”
Darnell shakes his head. “So, you’re skipping the team dinner before break?”
“We get on a flight right after practice Wednesday,” I tell him.
Darnell’s expression softens. “I’m happy for you.”
I give him a half-smile. “Thanks.”
The familiar fatigue settles into my arms as I finish my last set of pull-ups. I drop from the bar, hands braced on my knees while I catch my breath. The rest of the guys keep grinding, but I’m done for the day.
I grab my towel and head for the locker room.
As I walk, my thoughts drift back to last night—Lucy’s hand in mine, the easy way her mom smiled when I cracked dumb jokes, how normal it all felt.
Like I belonged there. After years of bouncing between my parents’ houses, it was strangely comforting to be in a home that didn’t feel split down the middle.
If only everything could be that simple.
I toss my towel into the bin and step under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water loosen the tight muscles in my shoulders.
Then reality creeps back in.
The dinner at Mason’s was a step forward, but I know better than to get comfortable. No mistakes. No distractions. No drama.
The question Ray asked Lucy at dinner keeps circling in my head. Would she go with me if football took me across the country?
We haven’t talked about that. Not really. We’ve said we love each other, but life beyond this town feels like a different kind of promise. One I’m not sure how to make yet.
The water streams down my back as I stare at the tile, knowing one thing without question.
Football isn’t slowing down.
And sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out how Lucy fits into whatever comes next.
I shut off the water and grab my towel, the cool air biting at my skin as the steam fades. I dry off and dress, but before I finish tying my shoes, the locker room door swings open.
“Sharpe.”
Coach Littlestone’s voice carries the same clipped authority it always does.
I straighten. “Yeah, Coach?”
He steps inside, arms folding across his chest. “Got off the phone with Ray Upton.”
That gets my full attention.
“He’s impressed. The film, your discipline, what he’s hearing from professors and staff. But these last few games matter. He wants to see consistency and leadership under pressure.”
“I can do that.”
“I know.” Coach claps my shoulder. “Keep your head where it needs to be. This is your window.”
“Got it.”
“And one more thing,” Coach adds, a little less direct now. “I know things are going well off the field. Keep them that way. This is the stretch where discipline matters most.”
“I’ve got it handled,” I say, maybe a little too quickly.
He studies me for a beat. “Make sure you do. This is your window, Sharpe. Don’t waste it.”
The door swings shut behind him.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Ray’s watching. Closer than ever. The next few games aren’t just games. They’re auditions.
And somehow, even with all that, Lucy is the first thing that rises to the surface of my thoughts.
How am I supposed to carry a team, impress a scout, and protect what we’re building?
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and head outside. The afternoon air is brisk and clean. My phone buzzes.
Dad.
I hesitate, then answer. “Hey.”
“Dylan.” I’ve missed the sound of his voice. “How’s it going?”
Dad has been slammed at the dealership lately, even staying late to get ahead of the line of cars waiting to be fixed.
I exhale, staring across the practice field. “It’s a lot. Coach just talked to me. Ray’s still evaluating everything. Feels like every move I make is being judged.”
“And that’s bad?” Dad asks gently.
“Not bad. Just… a lot.” I drag a hand through my hair. “If I mess this up, I don’t know what’s next. And Lucy and I, well, things are getting serious. I don’t know how to juggle it all.”
There’s a pause. I can picture him leaning back in his chair, thinking before he speaks.
“You’ve always tried to carry the whole load yourself,” he says. “You think if you squeeze tight enough, you can control every outcome.”
“Feels like I have to.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You don’t. Ray isn’t waiting for you to slip. He’s looking for consistency.”
I lean against the side of the building, letting that sink in.
“And Lucy?” he continues. “She’s not another weight on your shoulders. She’s someone you can lean on. If she didn’t believe in you, she wouldn’t be there.”
I stare out at the empty field.
“I just don’t want to fail at either,” I admit.
“Then stop treating them like opposing teams,” Dad says. “Football matters to you. So does Lucy. They only become competitors if you treat them that way.”
I roll that around in my head.
It’s strange hearing it put that way. So simple. Like the answer was obvious all along.
Somewhere between practices and scouting reports, I started treating everything like it was a balancing act that could collapse if I leaned too far in one direction.
But Lucy never asked me to choose.
She shows up. She sits in the stands. She laughs with the guys even when it’s not really her scene.
Maybe the pressure I’m feeling isn’t coming from her at all.
Maybe it’s coming from me.
“You’ve handled pressure your whole life,” he adds. “This is no different.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah.”
“And Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t overthink yourself out of something good.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “I’ll try.”
Maybe I don’t have to choose between leading my team and loving Lucy.
Maybe I just have to trust that I’m capable of both.
I lean back against my car, the cool metal seeping through my shirt. “Any other words of advice?”
“You don’t need every answer right now. Play your game. Lead your team. Show up for Lucy.”
I stare out across the parking lot, letting myself relax. “You’re right.”
“I usually am.” He chuckles. “And Dylan, no matter how this shakes out, football or not, I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad. I mean that.”
There’s a brief pause before he says, almost casually, “Your mom mentioned you’re bringing Lucy home for Thanksgiving.”
I groan. “You know, most divorced couples stop exchanging updates after the divorce.”
He laughs. “We still talk sometimes.”
“Are you… thinking of coming?” I ask.
“Your mom invited me over while you’re home. We haven’t settled on a time yet,” he says thoughtfully.
“I’d really like to see you,” I tell him. “I want you to meet Lucy.”
“Well then,” he replies, warmth filling his voice, “I’ll be there.”
A smile spreads across my face. “I’ve gotta run.”
“Alright, son. I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I end the call and look across the empty practice field.
I don’t need to control every outcome. I don’t need to know what city I’ll be living in next year or what every change will mean for Lucy and me.
Right now, I only have to keep showing up.
For my team.
For my future.
For Lucy.
For now, that’s enough.