Page 10 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

I practically trip down the stairs.

My shoes hit the hardwood with a smack, and the cold air outside slaps me in the face the second I swing open the front door.

My heart’s still racing, my limbs buzzing with too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen.

Carter’s hoodie swallows me, and I clutch the hem like it might shield me from the memory of what almost just happened.

God, what was I thinking?

I fumble in the pocket and yank out my shirt.

My hands are shaking as I shove my arms into it underneath the thick hoodie fabric and peel the hoodie off, careful to not give anyone a show.

I toss it into the backseat of my car without a second thought, like the act of physically separating myself from it will erase the way his hands felt on my skin.

Only after I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut do I realize something important.

Shit.

My bra.

Still on his damn bedroom floor.

Panic threatens to claw up my throat, but I shove it down long enough to grab my phone and text Madison.

Lyla: Going home.

I don’t wait for a response. I just drive.

The apartment is quiet when I get in.

Too quiet.

I shut the door behind me, lock it, then unlock and relock it. Twice.

My fingers twitch as I kick off my shoes, placing them in the open cubby, and head straight for the bathroom.

Sometimes lights are too much—too bright, too sharp—so I gave it a little makeover right when we moved in.

Now, a string of purple LED lights runs around the mirror and along the edge of the ceiling.

The second I flip the switch, a soft violet glow floods the room, instantly easing the ache building in my skull.

I turn on the sound machine next—waves crashing gently against a shore—and peel off my clothes with trembling hands. Everything feels too loud. The scrape of my zipper, the rustle of fabric, the thud of my jeans hitting the floor.

The shower’s already on, steam curling out behind the curtain.

I step in and sink to the tile floor before the water can fully hit me.

Let it come to me.

That’s what my therapist taught me. Don’t force the calm. Let it arrive. Picture the room.

The room in my mind is purple. Always purple.

Soft light. Clean lines. Everything in its place.

No voices. No chaos. No spirals.

Just breathe.

I close my eyes and let the water hit my back, soaking my hair, warming my skin. I curl my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, chin resting on top.

Inhale. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Exhale. Two. Three. Four.

I repeat it again. And again. Until the ringing in my ears dulls and the tightness in my chest loosens, if only a little.

Why did I let him touch me?

Why did I kiss him?

He’s a player—in every way. I’ve known it since the moment I met him. Flashy smile. Arrogant swagger. The kind of guy who doesn’t believe in consequences because he’s never had to deal with them.

I can’t be that girl.

The one who loses focus. Who risks everything for a few minutes of being wanted.

I’ve worked too hard to get here. Every interview, every sleepless night, every perfectly curated strategy for my career. I can’t let one heated moment with Carter Hayes undo all of it.

Especially not him.

Not the quarterback.

Not the guy who makes me want to forget how carefully I’ve built this life.

I stay in the shower until my fingers wrinkle and the hot water runs lukewarm.

But the heat inside my chest?

It doesn’t go anywhere.

The next morning, I sit at the kitchen counter, a chipped mug of peppermint tea cupped between my hands and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders like armor.

Steam curls up toward my face, warming the tip of my nose as I stare at my laptop screen.

The game is later today, and I’m already deep in prep work—watching highlight reels, reading over press schedules, and double- checking graphics that I queued up last night.

My head still aches faintly, a ghost of the spiral that gripped me last night, but the hot water and purple glow of my bathroom sanctuary helped enough to get me to sleep, even if it was only a few restless hours. I’ll be fine. I always am.

The sound of bare feet padding across the hardwood makes me glance up. Madison shuffles into the kitchen, still half asleep in an oversized tee and fuzzy socks, her hair sticking out at odd angles.

“You’re up early,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

I check the time and my stomach drops. “Shit. We’re gonna be late. Get dressed—we have to leave like now.”

Madison blinks, confused. “Wait, what? For what?”

“My study group meets before the game,” I say, slamming my laptop shut and downing the rest of my tea in one gulp. “And you promised to tag along to hit the coffee shop after.”

“Oh right,” Madison groans. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.”

Two minutes later, we’re heading to my car. Madison climbs into the passenger seat with a yawn, folding her legs under her and curling up like a cat. She shivers as the leather seat hits her bare thighs.

“It’s freezing.”

“There’s a hoodie in the back if you want?—”

Too late.

She’s already reached back and pulled it into her lap.

Carter’s hoodie.

My eyes bulge as I see the gray fabric, the slightly frayed collar, the faded letters across the chest. My stomach does a slow, nauseating flip. Madison tugs it over her head, oblivious, still half-asleep.

“Mmm, this smells good,” she says, snuggling into the soft cotton and pulling the hood up.

I clutch the steering wheel with both hands, eyes forward, trying to pretend my best friend isn’t currently wearing the remnants of my almost-mistake. I know Madison has always said there was never anything more than a friendship with…well, benefits between her and Carter.

“I’ll drop you at the coffee shop,” I say, my voice way too even. “Then I’ll meet you back there in an hour.”

Madison gives a sleepy thumbs up, eyes already drooping again.

My jaw tightens as I focus on the road. The hoodie burns in my peripheral vision. And no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I can still feel Carter’s hands, his lips, his voice low in my ear— I blink hard, swallowing.

One hour.

I just have to hold it together for one more hour.

I slide into a seat at the back of the business building’s third-floor conference room, tucking my tablet, notebook and color-coded notepads neatly in front of me. My group is already gathering, a mix of seniors and grad students all buzzing with caffeine and nerves.

Our TA starts with a rundown of our next assignment—a mock marketing case study with full creative freedom. We’ll each pick a subject or brand to build a strategy around. It can be anything, as long as we treat it like a real client campaign.

People around me start tossing ideas back and forth. Sustainable fashion brands. Local coffee shops. Nonprofits. Influencers. I jot notes but nothing clicks right away.

Until it does.

Athletes.

That’s what I care about—what I know. And not just any athlete. Someone with momentum.

Buzz. Untapped potential.

Jaxon Montgomery.

He’s new to PCU but already front and center in the school’s media. Quiet but charismatic.

Focused. Marketable. And best of all? He’s not Carter.

I flip to a blank page in my notebook and start writing.

Core values. Transfer storyline. Rising star appeal.

Off-the-field personality. I could build a whole mock NIL campaign around him—something polished, aspirational, but grounded in who he actually is.

Maybe a docu-style video series. Social media content showcasing his routine, his favorite food spots, his playlist. A campaign designed to build connection, not just clout.

Around me, my group members brainstorm their own ideas—beauty brands, fitness apps, pet rescues. I barely hear them.

This is my lane.

By the time the session wraps up, I’ve filled a page and a half with scribbled ideas and a plan already forming in my mind.

I pack up my things and head for the door, my brain buzzing.

I’ll ask Jaxon about it later. Just casually.

Time to shift into game-day mode.

And maybe, just maybe, time to reclaim some control.

The walk from the business building to the coffee shop is short, but my legs feel heavy with every step.

My brain is still spinning—half with ideas for the project, half trying not to replay last night in vivid detail.

I tug my coat tighter around myself, hoping the brisk breeze will slap some sense into me.

Madison is waiting for me, sitting outside at a corner table under a rust-red patio umbrella, her legs tucked up beneath her like she lives there.

She’s still in Carter’s hoodie, a large iced coffee in front of her, phone in hand.

She looks up as I approach and grins like she didn’t just walk around in my biggest secret.

“You’re late,” she says, lifting a to-go cup toward me.

I drop into the seat across from her, grateful for the steam rising from the lid of the coffee she hands me. She knows me too well.

“Thanks,” I mutter, blowing across the lid.

She watches me over the rim of her coffee. “So…anything you’d like to tell me?”

I blink, too quickly.

Play it cool.

“Like what?”

Madison gives me a look. The look. The one that says don’t even try me right now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says casually, taking a slow sip. “Like why Carter’s hoodie was in your backseat, and is now on my body?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“Nothing happened,” I say, too fast.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a weird way to start a sentence about nothing.”

I sigh, curling my fingers tighter around the warm cup in my hands before telling her what happened last night.

“It was a stupid mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”

Madison snorts. “Right. Totally believable. You accidentally climbed on top of him and made out until your clothes were half off.”

“I’m serious,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “It’s not going to happen again.”

Madison holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No judgment. I just…don’t think you’re the type to do things that don’t mean anything.”

I look away, swallowing hard.

That’s the problem.