Chapter Thirty-Two
Dylan
The sound of laughter and music echoes through Bellevue Auditorium as I grab a water bottle from one of the coolers. It’s the team’s annual awards banquet, the last official gathering before spring break and the draft.
It should feel good.
Instead, it feels like noise bouncing off something hollow.
It’s been a few months since Lucy broke up with me. A few months of unanswered calls, unread messages, and silence so loud it feels physical. I went to her place once and stood on her porch like an idiot, hoping she’d open the door.
She didn’t.
I still don’t know how we got here. I thought we were building something. I thought we were solid.
Now, I don’t even know what we are.
The worst part isn’t the silence.
It’s the absence of the little things I didn’t realize mattered until they disappeared.
The way Lucy used to send me messages before games.
The way she’d show up with coffee when she knew I hadn’t slept enough.
The way she listened—really listened—when I talked about plays or practice or the million small frustrations that come with chasing something this big.
Without her, everything feels louder and emptier at the same time.
I still go through the motions. Practice. Meetings. Training.
But the center of it all feels different now because the thing that used to steady me quietly slipped out from under my feet.
I twist off the water bottle cap, wishing anything could dull the edge of the night.
If everything works out with the Larks, I’ve got a real shot at the dream I’ve been chasing since I was a kid.
And none of it feels like a win.
The lights are dim, green garland strung lazily along the walls. Guys are laughing, dancing, arguing over music.
Darnell spots me and makes his way over, beer in hand. He doesn’t wear his usual grin. He drops onto the bench beside me.
“How you holdin’ up?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not great.”
“Still radio silence?”
I nod, jaw flexing. “Won’t answer my calls. Won’t text. I went to her place.” I stare down at the bottle in my hand. “She wouldn’t even come to the door.”
Darnell exhales slowly. “Man… that’s rough.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. Rough doesn’t cover it.
“Have you tried catching her at the library?”
I shake my head immediately. “That’s her space. The one place she feels safe. I’m not going to corner her there.” My voice hardens. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
We sit in silence for a minute, the party carrying on like nothing’s wrong. Like I’m not standing in the middle of a life that just cracked apart.
“So,” Darnell says carefully, “any updates from the Larks?”
I take a breath. “Yeah. They told my agent they want to sign me as a priority free agent if I go undrafted next month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re actually doing it.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I snap. “I can’t have Lucy. So, I might as well go after the thing I’ve been working toward since I was eight years old.” I take another drink. “What’s the point of holding back now?”
Darnell studies me. “I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah,” I say flatly.
“Isn’t this what she wanted?” he presses gently. “For you to take it?”
I shrug. “She told me not to give it up. Said it’s everything I worked for.” I stare ahead at the flashing lights. “But it doesn’t feel like everything anymore.”
He claps my shoulder. “Maybe space is what you guys need. You get settled, she realizes you didn’t give it all up for her… maybe it works out.”
“Maybe,” I say.
But deep down, I know something shifted the night she walked away. Signing with the Larks doesn’t fix that. Staying wouldn’t have either.
Darnell turns the bottle between his hands. “I keep wondering if I made everything worse.”
“You’re the one who told her.”
“I thought I was protecting your future.”
“Yeah. So did she.”
“Whatever happens,” Darnell says quietly, “don’t forget she cared. That doesn’t just disappear.”
I nod, but the ache in my chest only sharpens.
Because caring isn’t always enough.
The lights brighten slightly as the crowd starts to quiet. Coach Littlestone steps up onto the stage for the awards portion of the night. Trophies gleam under the auditorium lights.
I tuck my hands into my pockets, half-listening.
I should be thinking about the season. About the Larks. About contracts and travel schedules.
Instead, I’m thinking about Lucy.
About the way she looked at me when she said goodbye. About how sure she was that she was doing the right thing.
“Alright, gentlemen!” Coach’s voice booms. “Let’s wrap this season up the right way.”
The first few awards blur together. Offensive Player. Rookie. Most Improved. The guys who win are grinning, slapping hands, soaking it in.
I clap when I’m supposed to and smile when someone looks my way.
“And now,” Coach says, scanning the room, “this one goes to a guy who’s shown discipline on and off the field. Focused. Reliable. A leader.”
I barely register the words.
“The Most Disciplined Player award goes to… Dylan Sharpe.”
For a second, I don’t move.
Disciplined.
The word echoes strangely in my head.
I set the water bottle down and walk toward the stage, applause filling the room. Coach shakes my hand, then hands me the trophy.
“Proud of you,” he says.
I nod.
If he only knew.
Because nothing about the last few months has felt controlled. Or steady. Or predictable.
I stand there under the lights, holding a trophy while the one thing I wanted most walked away.
There’s a roar of applause, but it barely reaches me. My name echoes through the auditorium, distorted, like it belongs to someone else. I move on autopilot, crossing the stage, shaking the other coaches’ hands.
“Great work this season,” one of them says.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile.
I turn toward the crowd, lifting the trophy for the photo, and that’s when I see her.
Lucy.
She’s near the back, wearing her catering uniform, clearing plates and wiping down tables like she’s trying to stay invisible. Her hair is pulled back, her shoulders slightly rounded, her focus fixed on the table in front of her. The sight of her steals the air from my lungs.
She’s here.
Suddenly, the award means nothing.
I step off the stage before I fully realize what I’m doing, weaving through the crowd, my eyes locked on her. I just need to know she’s okay.
Then I see Meredith and Greg.
They move in close, boxing her in. Lucy straightens immediately, like she senses the shift in the air. Meredith’s mouth curls into that familiar, smug smile. Greg folds his arms, leaning in like he owns the space.
My pulse spikes.
I push through the crowd faster, close enough now to hear them.
“It was never going to work,” Meredith says.
“Thanks for your input,” Lucy returns coolly.
Greg snorts. “Dylan is going places and he knew you were only holding him back.”
“I think Dylan can speak for himself,” Lucy says.
“She’s right,” I say from behind them. “Now, leave her alone.”
Meredith opens her mouth, thinks better of it. Greg mutters something under his breath, but one look at me is enough. They back off, melting into the crowd.
I turn to Lucy.
“Are you okay?”
She nods.
I reach up instinctively, brushing my knuckles along her jaw.
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “They had no right.”
She gives me a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault.”
For a moment, everything else disappears—the noise, the lights, the team. It’s just us, standing too close, saying everything without words.
“Did you decide?” she asks quietly. “About the Larks?”
My throat burns. “Yeah,” I say. “I did. They want to bring me in if I go undrafted next month.”
She nods slowly. “Good.” Her smile is fragile, but real. “I’m so proud of you, Dylan.”
Neither of us moves.
The distance between us is barely a few inches, but it feels like the space holds everything we’ve lost.
I can see the questions in her eyes. The hesitation. The same ache that’s been sitting in my chest since the night she walked away.
I should step back.
I should let her go the way she clearly thinks she needs to.
But some part of me refuses.
Because standing this close to her again reminds me of something I’ve been trying not to admit to myself.
Loving Lucy was never something I could switch off just because she asked me to.
That’s what breaks me.
She shifts like she’s about to leave.
Then her eyes meet mine.
She doesn’t step away.
She steps closer.
The space between us disappears.
I don’t remember deciding to kiss her. It’s desperate and aching, full of everything we never said. She responds instantly, her arms wrapping around my shoulders like she never left.
We kiss with all the desperation of people who still love each other but have no idea what to do about it.
I don’t want to let go.
But I do.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’m proud of you,” she says again.
I nod, because I can’t speak.
She steps back, wiping her cheeks, steadying herself. And then she turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd without looking back.
I remain frozen, the trophy suddenly heavier than something this small has any right to be.
And in that moment, I finally understand the truth.
I always thought football was the destination.
Somewhere along the way, she became home.