Page 15 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he conference room smells like coffee and turf.

Not the good kind of turf, either—the sweat-drenched, cleat-stomped kind that lingers in your nose long after two-a-days. I take the seat farthest from my dad and try to ignore the stack of notes in front of me, trembling just slightly in my hands.

Megan Talbot, the head of marketing, breezes in a minute later, all business casual confidence and red lipstick. She offers me a kind smile as she sets her tablet down beside my dad, who doesn’t look up from his own notes.

“All right,” Megan says, clicking her pen. “Let’s dig into the mid-season review.”

Dad finally lifts his head, his jaw already tight. “Let’s not waste time. We’re five games in. How are we looking?”

Megan glances at me, then back at him. “Lyla, want to walk us through the social engagement numbers?”

“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. I open my binder and glance at the neatly color-coded charts I spent all weekend building.

“So far, our engagement is up fifteen percent compared to last season. Jaxon’s touchdown post hit two hundred and seventy-two thousand impressions.

Carter Hayes—despite barely using his account—is seeing the highest growth in follower count, mostly from reposted highlight reels. ”

My dad grunts. “Winning helps.”

Megan ignores the comment. “And video performance?”

I nod. “Reels and TikToks do better than static posts. Fans are responding more to clips with personality—mic’d up practices, sideline reactions, even pre-game rituals. Anything that makes the players seem more real and relatable.”

Megan smiles. “Exactly the kind of insight we need. Which leads me to?—”

“Hold on,” my dad interrupts, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve got a suggestion.”

Here we go.

He laces his fingers together like he’s about to deliver the gospel. “You know, if you’d let me call Coach Douglas with the Titans, he could have you working under a real media team by the end of the year.”

My stomach coils.

Megan looks between us like she’s sensing the shift in air pressure.

“With all due respect, Coach,” I say tightly, “I want to earn my place in this industry. Not be handed one because of my last name.”

His brow creases. “You’ve earned plenty. This would just get your foot in the door.”

I sit straighter. “And when they look at me, all they’ll see is the door you opened. I want more than that. I need more.”

Megan raises her brows and gives me a small, impressed nod. “Spoken like a real strategist.”

My dad doesn’t say anything.

I take a breath, flipping to a new page in my binder. “Which brings me to something I’ve been working on. A new campaign.”

Megan perks up. “Hit me.”

“We’ve focused a lot on stats and curated posts,” I begin.

“But what if we pivot a little—to personality? Show who these players are outside the helmet. Their habits, routines, playlists, even what they eat before games. Favorite pregame socks. Anything that makes them feel like someone instead of just a player.”

Megan’s smile grows. “You’re thinking give the audience someone to root for, not just cheer at.”

“Exactly.”

She taps her pen against her tablet. “You’re proposing short-form stories. Maybe build a weekly spotlight series. Could be gold.”

I nod, the idea clicking into place even as I speak. “We start with someone the fans don’t know much about. Maybe someone unexpected.”

Megan glances at my dad, who’s still unreadable.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Just don’t let it become a distraction for the players. I need them focused.”

Megan waves him off. “Just because we don’t get smelly and sweaty, doesn’t mean we aren’t working too, Coach.”

I can’t help the way my lips twitch.

As we wrap up the meeting, Megan pulls me aside with a knowing smile. “You’ve got the spark, Lyla. Don’t let anyone make you doubt it.”

I nod, my heart pounding, and gather my things. My dad walks off without another word. I’m sure I’ll be hearing about this later, but oh well. Right now, I’m happy as can be, and there’s a certain person I can’t wait to share the news with.

I find Carter out on the practice field, sitting in the grass with a towel around his neck and a water bottle resting against his thigh. He’s sweat-drenched, wild-haired, and annoyingly attractive, as always.

He looks up when I approach, blinking against the sun. “Here to critique my footwork?”

I grin. “Here to tell you I crushed that meeting. Megan approved the campaign I suggested. I’m building a player feature series. And I want you to be the first full-profile.”

His brows rise, impressed. “Damn. Look at you.”

“I need someone fans don’t already think they know. Someone interesting. Someone…complicated.”

He smirks. “So naturally, you thought of me.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” I deadpan.

“Never.” He stretches, arms over his head. “So, what does this mean?”

“It means I need time with you. Like, actual time. I want to go deeper—into your story. Background, mindset, routines. We’ll do interviews, video clips, Instagram strategy, maybe even a few challenges to humanize you a little.”

Carter raises a brow. “You wanna go deeper with me?”

I shoot him a flat look.

He chuckles, not even sorry. “Just making sure I heard that right.”

I shake my head, but I’m still smiling. God help me.

Sunday afternoon rolls in slow, golden and still warm enough for shorts.

Thank you, California.

Carter pulls up to my apartment right on time, engine rumbling, windows down like he’s stepped out of a vintage college movie. I lock the door behind me and jog out, tablet in hand and phone already prepped to record.

He leans across the passenger seat, pushing the door open. “Ready to go deeper?”

I slide in, biting back a smile. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

We drive in companionable silence for a few minutes, music low, the wind playing with the ends of my hair. I glance at him, about to ask where we’re headed, when he turns onto a road I don’t recognize.

“You’ll see,” he says, catching my look. “Figured if you want the full Carter Hayes experience, we might as well start at the beginning.”

Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up to an old brick school building with a rusted goalpost still standing tall behind a patchy field. The sign out front reads: East Ridge High School.

He throws the car into park and looks over at me, a little quieter now. “This is where I figured out who I didn’t want to be. Thought that might help you figure out who I am.”

I glance out the window, taking in the rundown bleachers and the faded scoreboard. “Looks like it’s been through a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Kinda like me.”

We sit there for a moment, neither of us speaking. Then he shifts, one arm draped over the steering wheel.

“I’ve never left California on my own,” he says. “Outside of away games, I mean. I’ve always been right here.”

I turn toward him. “You never wanted to?”

He shrugs. “I used to dream about it. But dreams felt kinda useless back then.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “Off the record? My parents were young. Stupid young. My mom was also an addict. I was taken from them as a toddler. I don’t even remember meeting them.”

My breath catches, but I don’t interrupt.

“I stayed with this one family for a few years. Thought maybe they’d keep me. But they got divorced, and neither of them wanted to adopt me alone. So, I bounced. Group homes, foster homes, you name it. Never long enough to unpack fully.”

He looks out at the field. “This was the first place I felt like I could breathe. A coach here took a chance on me, and I ended up with a family that let me stay. Nothing fancy. Just consistent.”

I swallow hard, unsure what to say that won’t sound like pity. He doesn’t want that. I can feel it.

“You turned out all right,” I say softly.

His mouth twitches into a half-smile. “Still a work in progress.”

He glances at me, and the quiet between us shifts—less awkward, more shared. Like we’re both carrying things we rarely let anyone else see.

“Anyway,” he says, sitting back, trying to brush off the heaviness. “I thought it might give your project some real content. Unless you’d rather film me doing push-ups and talking about protein shakes?”

I shake my head. “No. This is exactly what I was hoping for.”

Because this—the honesty? It’s more captivating than any highlight reel.

“What’s next?” I ask, half talking about the project, half talking about whatever this thing is between the two of us.

Carter glances over at me, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel. “Well, officially? We could grab some footage of the field, maybe shoot a few clips with me talking about where I got started. You know—brooding backstory to win hearts and boost engagement.”

I laugh lightly, but he doesn’t. Not really.

He’s looking at me differently now. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to hand over something else that matters.

“And unofficially?” I press, my voice quieter now.

His eyes flick to mine. “Unofficially…I don’t know. But it’s getting harder to pretend there’s not something more between us.”

A beat passes. The wind slips through the cracked window, warm and soft against my cheek.

I break eye contact first, glancing back at the field. “You sure you want to mix whatever this is with something tied to my grade?”

He smiles, but it’s more thoughtful than cocky. “If it means I get to spend time with you, yeah. I’ll risk a C.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart kicks up. “You better not tank my GPA, Hayes.”

“No promises.”

I open the door and step out, needing the movement to keep my thoughts from spiraling. He follows, walking beside me toward the end zone like it’s nothing at all.

Like he hasn’t just laid out pieces of his past like loose change he doesn’t expect anyone to pick up.

I glance at him, walking just close enough that our arms almost brush.