Page 11 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T he stadium hums with that pre-kickoff buzz—low and rising, like a storm about to break.

Helmet in hand, I stretch my neck side to side, rolling out the tension I’ve been carrying all week. Another Saturday, another shot to prove I’m not just hype. Another chance to get us one step closer to playoffs.

“Yo,” Jaxon jogs up beside me, already strapped in and ready. “You good?”

I nod, eyes scanning the tunnel ahead. “Always.”

He lifts a brow like he doesn’t quite believe me but doesn’t push it. That’s one thing I like about him—he keeps his intensity on the field and doesn’t ask questions off it.

“You see the defense we’re up against?” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Linebackers look hungry.”

I grin. “Then let’s make ’em starve.”

Jaxon smirks and claps my shoulder as I fasten my helmet. “Let’s eat.”

We bump helmets before stepping into the tunnel, the roar of the crowd swelling like thunder as we jog out onto the field.

Up in the stands, I catch a flash of red curls. Lyla.

She’s not on the sidelines today—probably some media reshuffle or scheduling thing—but she’s here. Sitting next to Madison, arms folded, sunglasses on, lips set in that no-bullshit line I know too well.

I look away before I do something dumb. Like stare too long.

My teammate standing next to me looks like a lovesick puppy, smiling big enough you’d think we’d already won the championship this year.

“Dial in, Montgomery. You can flirt with your girl after you rack up some yards.”

His eyes snap to mine, and he chuckles low.

Focus. Mind clear.

Game time.

The snap is clean. The pocket forms. I’ve got a second and a half, maybe two.

I spot Jaxon breaking right—his defender a step behind.

“Go,” I mutter, already launching.

The ball sails perfectly into his hands. He cuts upfield, dodging a tackle and picking up fifteen yards before stepping out of bounds.

The crowd erupts. The chains are moved farther up the field. I nod, heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the game.

Next play—fake handoff, roll left, find Montgomery again in the flat. He drags two defenders with him before he’s pulled down.

We’re marching.

A couple more runs, one near-sack I barely escape, and then we’re in the red zone. I call the audible, lock eyes with Jaxon.

He nods once.

Snap.

Three steps. Plant. Throw.

Touchdown.

They come out swinging—more aggressive, tighter coverage. I get hit hard on a third down scramble, helmet bouncing off turf. I bite back a curse and get up before anyone can ask if I’m good.

Because I am.

I always am.

Coach barks into the headset. New plan.

We go no-huddle, pick up the tempo, wear them down. They start making mistakes—missed tackles, blown coverage.

Fourth quarter, two minutes left. We’re up by three, but they’re pushing hard. Defense holds on fourth-and-short. Turnover on downs.

All we have to do is run out the clock.

Ball’s in my hands.

I kneel. Once.

Twice.

The final whistle blows.

The locker room is a war zone of sweaty gear, shouting, and back slaps. Someone blasts music, Beck’s already halfway through his Gatorade, yelling about how he “freakin’ pancaked that running back.

Jaxon and I slap hands, a mutual grin passing between us. “Nice pull on that last catch,” I say, voice rough from yelling.

He smirks. “You keep throwing like that, I’ll keep catching.”

Fair.

I strip out of my pads and toss my jersey into the bin, muscles sore in all the best ways. My knuckles are scraped. My legs are lead. But this—the post-win high? Can’t bottle it. Can’t fake it.

I catch my reflection in the locker mirror. Just for a second.

Still here. Still standing.

And damn if that doesn’t count for something.

The party’s already in full swing by the time I show up.

The football house is packed—music shaking the walls, solo cups scattered across every surface, someone already passed out on the couch and it’s not even ten.

The scent of cheap beer, cologne, and fresh sweat clings to everything like static.

Feels like a ritual at this point. Win a game, get wrecked. Rinse and repeat.

I shoulder my way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, letting the post-game buzz carry me. Beck’s in the kitchen, making a big show of pouring a mixed drink for a girl who’s clearly only here for the social media footage.

“QB1!” someone shouts, and a cup is thrust into my hand before I can see who gave it to me.

I raise it out of habit, take a sip—sweet and spiked. Too much sugar, not enough bite. I drain it anyway.

I’m halfway through the living room when I see her.

Lyla.

Red curls loose tonight. Tight jeans. A black top that dips low in the front and higher in the back, exposing just a sliver of her spine every time she shifts her weight.

She’s talking to someone near the fireplace—Grayson Bennett again, grinning like he’s the man who invented flirting.

She laughs at something he says, not overly loud or fake, just soft and real.

Genuine.

My stomach twists.

I should walk away. Find someone else. Anyone else.

Instead, I hover like an idiot by the drink table, watching her.

She doesn’t see me right away.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

I’m not staring. I’m observing. Big difference.

She turns slightly, catches sight of me, and her smile fades. Her jaw tightens. And then—because of course she does—she turns back to Grayson, gives a little nod like he said something brilliant, and keeps talking.

She’s not going to make this easy.

Good.

I finish the rest of my drink in one swallow, set the cup down, and push off the counter, headed straight toward her.

Let’s play, Princess.

Grayson leans in closer. Too close.

I can’t hear what he says, not over the music and chatter and whatever chaos Beck is stirring up behind me, but Lyla’s eyes flash, then she laughs again—light, genuine, and aimed at him.

The kind of laugh she never gives me.

She reaches out, touches his arm lightly, and for some reason that does it. That stupid little touch.

I down what’s left of someone else’s abandoned drink, the burn not nearly enough, and lean back against the doorframe like I own the place.

Because I do. Tonight, I do.

And yet she’s across the room, standing with Grayson Fucking Bennett like he didn’t trip over his own stick three games into the hockey season last year.

She doesn’t owe me anything. We agreed—one night, no feelings, no fallout.

But watching her toss her hair over her shoulder, watching the way Grayson drinks in every move she makes like he’s already won?

Yeah. No.

She grabs his hand and leads him into the crowd. Into the pulsing mess of bodies swaying in time with the bass thundering through the floorboards. “E.T.” by Katy Perry kicks on—remixed, bass boosted, filthy with tension—and the whole room shifts.

She turns, just enough for her eyes to find me.

And she doesn’t look away.

She doesn’t stop, either. Her hips sway with the beat, back pressed into Grayson’s front like she doesn’t even feel him there. But her eyes—those sharp green eyes—never leave mine.

It’s not dancing.

It’s war.

Right now, she’s winning. And she knows it.

Somehow, I’m getting hard like a fucking idiot just watching her move against someone else.

Who knew your brain could short-circuit from jealousy and lust at the same time?

Jaxon claps my shoulder, dragging my attention away before I do something reckless.

“You uh…you good, man?” he asks, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re standing here like a statue, and I’m pretty sure you’re two minutes from launching Hockey Boy through a window.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter. It’s not even convincing to me.

Jaxon smirks like he knows I’m lying. “You keep telling yourself that. But—” he trails off, eyes catching on something—or someone—across the room. His smirk fades a little, replaced by something softer. “Huh.”

I glance over at him, then follow his gaze.

Madison.

She’s across the room now, holding a drink and talking to some girl from her psych class. Jaxon doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. His expression shifts—just for a second. It’s not loud. Not obvious. But it’s there.

He’s not looking at the party anymore. He’s looking at her.

And I don’t want to see it.

I don’t want to see any of it.

Without a word, I step away, pushing past a couple making out in the hallway, past the noise, past the static hum of bodies and bad decisions.

I take the stairs two at a time and don’t stop until I’m in my room, the door clicking shut behind me.

The walls are quieter up here. But my thoughts aren’t.

I throw myself onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling until my jaw aches from how tight I’m clenching it.

I should’ve grabbed another drink. Should’ve found someone to distract me, to erase her from my brain for one fucking night.

But no. I came up here instead.

And now I’m hard as hell, pissed off, and still stuck on the girl who walked away wearing my hoodie but is now dancing the night away pressed against some hockey bro like I never existed.

My hand moves without much thought—palm pressing low over the front of my jeans, trying to ease the tension that’s been riding me since she walked into the party.

It doesn’t help.

I shut my eyes.

Try to imagine someone else.

But it’s her I see.

That black top clinging to her skin. The curve of her waist. Her mouth slightly parted as she laughs, eyes locked on mine like she knows exactly what she is doing.

Lyla.

I hiss through my teeth as I unbutton my jeans and slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around my throbbing cock.

I picture her climbing onto my lap as I start stroking myself, the way she had that night—how warm and soft she felt, the little sounds she made when I bit her neck, the way she gasped when I reached for her bra clasp and she nodded—barely, but enough to let me know she wanted it too.

My rhythm builds, faster now. I chase the memory, that heat, that high as my balls start tightening, my muscles starting to contract. I relive the way her hips rolled against mine, her fingers gripping my hair like she couldn’t get close enough.

I imagine what it would’ve felt like to finally be inside her. How tight, how wet—fuck.

I come with a quiet groan, my free hand fisting the sheets beside me as my cum covers my lower abdomen.

It takes a second for my body to settle, but when it does, shame follows right after—low and bitter in my gut.

I pull my shirt the rest of the way off and toss it to the side, then get up and head to the bathroom, flipping on the light.

Grabbing a washcloth, I make quick work of cleaning up my own mess.

I toss it into the bin before splashing cold water on my face, trying to rinse off the guilt clinging to my skin.

There’s no way this ends without me getting burned, but that doesn’t stop me from dreaming about a redhead with a sharp tongue all night.