Page 1 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he first day of senior year should feel like a victory lap. Instead, it feels like walking a tightrope in heels.

The Pacific Coast University athletic facility buzzes with morning energy—cleats clatter on pavement, whistle blasts pierce the air, and the ever-present scent of turf and testosterone hangs heavy.

I roll my shoulders back as I cross the lot, tablet tucked against my side, trying not to scowl.

I’ve got twenty minutes to meet with the head of player media before sprinting to my internship orientation, and my dad, the prolific PCU football coach changing the history of the team, Jack Harding, would love nothing more than for me to be late.

You’d think being the head football coach’s daughter would buy me some leniency.

It doesn’t.

It just means people watch harder, waiting, maybe even hoping for you to mess up.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Madison: u survive first contact with the enemy yet?

I don’t have time to text back before the sound of a whistle followed by a grunted “Heads up!” yanks my attention toward the field.

Too late.

A football whips through the air and smacks the pavement just inches from my sneakers, skidding to a stop at my feet. I stare down at it for a beat, pulse jumping for a moment, then slowly look up.

Fuck my life.

Carter Hayes jogs toward me, grinning like he’s the damn sun.

“Princess,” he calls, sweat glistening along his jaw as he lifts the hem of his practice shirt to wipe his face. Of course, he has a six pack that draws my gaze right to it. “You’re supposed to catch those.”

“And you are supposed to know how to aim,” I shoot back, kicking the ball toward him with the toe of my white sneaker.

He catches it one-handed, spinning it around lazily in his palm. “I did. You were just too slow.”

I arch a brow. “Are you planning to hit all your receivers that far off this year, or am I just special?”

“You’re definitely something,” he says, eyes scanning me—slow and shameless. He winks. “Not sure it’s special, though.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Just turn on my heel and head toward the tunnel.

His laughter follows me like a shadow.

God, he’s insufferable.

And stupid hot, which honestly makes it worse. Judge me all you want, but I’m not blind.

Carter Hayes is everything I’ve spent the last three years avoiding. A golden boy with a bad reputation and a smile designed to make girls forget how big of a playboy he is. He parties like it’s an actual part of his training regimen and seems physically allergic to shirts.

He’s also the star quarterback of my father’s football team.

Add in the fact that he’s my best friend’s ex-hookup turned friend, you could say that I am cursed with his presence. Constantly.

Especially now that my internship with the athletic department has been extended to include media strategy and player branding, which, of course, includes the starting quarterback.

His face is half the university’s fall marketing campaign, right along with our super star new transfer, Jaxon Montgomery.

Posters, ads, press releases—those two are everywhere.

Lucky me.

I swipe my badge at the side entrance, slipping into the cool hallway that runs beneath the stands.

The noise of the field dulls instantly, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet padding of my sneakers as I walk down the hall.

This is it. Senior year. My final chance to prove I’m more than just my last name.

No more side-eyes from faculty. No more whispers about nepotism. No more using “Harding” like a magic key to open doors. From here on out, I will earn my way in—and I slam the door behind me.

I square my shoulders and head toward the media suite.

Behind me, muffled through the heavy exit door, I hear Carter’s voice again—teasing one of the guys.

I don’t turn around.

But if I did, I know exactly what I’d see.

His signature smirk.

That easy swagger.

And those stupid, stupid muscles wrapped up in a pretty package with blond hair and blue eyes.

The media room smells like a mixture of burnt coffee and someone who put on way too much aftershave to cover up what I’m assuming is last night’s hangover.

Our workspace is modern—glass walls overlooking the field, oversized PCU banners—but behind every monitor sits a student intern clinging to opportunity with caffeine-stained fingers.

I slide into my seat at the back of the conference table, smoothing down the hem of my PCU polo and tapping my pen against my notepad, even though I already know exactly what I want to say.

This internship is the first thing I’ve truly earned on my own.

I built my portfolio, pitched myself in interviews, and got the position without a single mention of my dad’s name.

The goal? To work in player branding and NIL strategy—helping athletes build their image, secure endorsement deals, and tell their stories in a way that actually matters.

I want to be the one behind the scenes, shaping how the world sees them on and off the field.

Not just highlight reels and stat sheets—but personality, purpose, and long-term value.

Social media is where the power is now. And if I do this right, I won’t just be Coach Harding’s daughter. I’ll be the one helping the next generation of athletes take control of their own narratives.

I want to change the narrative.

The meeting kicks off with a pep talk from the program director, who thanks us for being here and mentions how crucial player perception is for both media value and NIL deals.

I’m nodding along, laser-focused, until he says, “You’ll each be assigned a group of players to follow and help craft highlight reels, social media content, and interviews.

Lyla, you’ll be working with Hayes, Harrison, and Montgomery. ”

My stomach drops.

I glance up, thinking I misheard, but he’s already moved on. I manage a stiff smile, scribble their names at the top of my notebook, and underline Hayes twice with a little too much pressure.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Twenty minutes later, I’m outside the locker room, debating whether to knock or turn around and walk straight into traffic.

The door swings open on its own right as I choose option B.

Naturally, Carter is the first person I see.

He’s freshly showered, towel slung around his neck, joggers low on his hips, and his shirt—a tight white number that makes me want to gouge my eyes out—is half tucked in.

“Princess,” he says, clearly amused. “You stalking me now?”

I hold up my tablet. “Assigned to you. Trust me, I’d rather be working with literally anyone else.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That’s a shame. I was starting to think the stalking was mutual.”

I give him a look, hoping my narrowed eyes and scowl look serious. “Careful, Hayes. Your ego’s showing.”

“So is your temper,” he fires back, that lazy grin playing on his lips. “You’re cute when you’re mad, Red.”

I hate that he’s hot.

Worse yet, I hate that he knows it.

I push past him, walking out to the hall before crossing into the film room. “Sit. We need to go over your schedule for the next two weeks.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, but drops into the chair anyway. “Not my usual, but I can get down with it.”

I ignore his comment and get right to business. “You have media availability before Thursday’s scrimmage. I need pregame soundbites, and they want a short form video package for the athletic department’s socials.”

“Cool,” he says, spinning slowly in his chair. “You want a filter? Or just my raw, devastatingly handsome good looks?”

I roll my eyes. “I want you to take this seriously.”

“I always take myself seriously.”

“That’s your first problem.”

He stops spinning and levels me with a look that’s…different. Less cocky, more observant.

“You really hate me, huh?”

I hesitate.

It’s not that simple.

“I don’t hate you,” I say finally. “I just don’t trust people who think charm or partying is their entire personality or have banged their way through half of the school’s female population.”

He whistles low. “Damn. If you were any colder, I’d see my breath.”

“Maybe next time, wear a jacket.”

His head tips back on a laugh, causing his shirt to ride up just enough to give me a view of perfectly chiseled abs and a trail of light brown hair traveling right down to his…

“Hey, Princess?”

My eyes fly up to find his waiting smirk, absolute mischief dancing around in those blue eyes.

“Got a bit of drool right there.” He uses his thumb to rub the corner of his mouth, drawing my attention right to his very pillowy looking lips.

I try to roll my eyes with as much attitude as I can muster, praying like hell he doesn’t notice the flush burning its way up my neck. “That’s all for today, Hayes. You can go.”

His deep chuckle follows him right out the door, while I busy myself looking around for the thermostat. It is way too hot in here.

Because rule number one of being the coach’s daughter—of working in the sports industry in general?

Never, ever get involved with one of the players.

And especially not that one.