Page 16 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

S pending last Sunday with Lyla was eye-opening.

Not in the dramatic, lightning-strike, soul-altering kind of way. Just quiet. Subtle. The kind of shift you don’t notice until you’re lying awake at two a.m., replaying every second like it matters more than it should.

Because maybe it does.

She asked real questions. She listened like she gave a damn about the answers. And she didn’t look at me like I was some broken charity case with a sob story. She looked at me like I was worth seeing. Like she wanted to know the real shit underneath the pads and the cocky smirk.

And that’s terrifying.

I scrub a hand through my hair and check the time. 7:03 a.m.

Time to get moving.

I head down the hallway and bang once on Beck’s door, then push it open without waiting for a response. “Rise and shine, lover boy.”

He groans from under his comforter. “It’s Sunday.”

“Yeah, and we’ve got a bunch of kids waiting to be wowed by our dazzling charm and superior athleticism. Get your ass up.”

Next stop, Jaxon. His room’s neater than Beck’s—of course—but he’s sprawled face down on his mattress like he lost a fight with sleep itself.

I lean in after knocking twice. “Hey, Montgomery. You alive?”

He lifts his head just enough to shoot me a glare. “Barely.”

“Come on. It’s for the kids.” Ever since I graduated high school and came to PCU, I’ve made it a point to give back to the community that helped raise me, that helped mold me into the man I am today.

A big piece of that is the football team that I dedicated four years to, keeping me so busy that I stayed out of trouble.

He groans but sits up, rubbing his face. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Ten minutes later, we’re in my car, drive-thru coffee in hand, heading toward East Ridge High. I don’t say it out loud, but it feels different bringing them here. Like the past and the future are finally brushing up against each other in a way that doesn’t make my skin crawl.

The field’s already buzzing when we get there—cones set up, stations marked, a group of wide- eyed kids buzzing with energy and nervous excitement. A few coaches are milling around, tablet-in-hand types, while parents set up folding chairs and snap photos.

The moment we step onto the field, all the kids zero in.

“That’s Carter Hayes!” one of them yells, pointing.

“And Jaxon Montgomery!” another chimes in.

Beck grins and points at himself. “Y’all gonna learn who I am real quick.”

I smirk. “Only if you stop trying to do backflips during warmups.”

“Zero promises.”

We split up—Jaxon takes the receiver station, Beck handles defensive drills, and I end up with the quarterbacks. Teaching them how to grip the ball, how to plant and throw. Most of them can’t even reach the five-yard mark, but they’re trying, and that’s what matters.

One kid in particular, Luis, keeps glancing at me like he’s trying to gather courage.

“You got a question, man?” I ask, kneeling beside him.

He nods, then whispers, “Were you always good?”

I shake my head. “Not even close.”

He looks relieved.

“You keep showing up,” I tell him. “That’s what matters. You show up, put in the work—you’ll be surprised what you’re capable of.”

His chest puffs out just a little.

We keep running drills, and every time I glance over, I see Jaxon laughing with the kids, Beck making them do pushups for fun, the sun glinting off cones and cleats, the whole place humming with a kind of joy that’s rare. Earned.

This—right here? This is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not surviving. Not just getting through the day.

Belonging.

By the time we wrap up, we’re sweaty, starving, and half sunburned. Jaxon’s peeling off a sweaty T-shirt, and Beck’s downing the last of a Gatorade like it’s oxygen.

“That was actually kinda fun,” Jaxon says, tossing his towel over his shoulder.

I nod. “Yeah. Worth waking your ass up for.”

Beck pulls his phone from his pocket, taps a quick message, then looks at me. “Hey, can you stop at Angie’s? She’s not home, but I left my charger there Friday before she left for her friend’s bachelorette weekend.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

It’s not out of the way, and I figure we’ll stop for food after. Everyone’s in good spirits, tired in a satisfied kind of way.

We pull up to Angie’s place—a modest townhouse, cute little garden flag out front. Beck hops out, jogs up the steps, and punches in the code.

Jax and I are halfway through debating whether to hit a burger place or get tacos when he comes flying back out.

No charger in hand.

Just fury.

“What the—” Jaxon starts but stops when Angie appears behind Beck.

She’s in nothing but a towel.

“Beck, wait—” she calls, chasing him barefoot onto the porch.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t yell.

Just gets in the car, jaw locked tight.

My stomach drops.

He slams the door and stares straight ahead. “She was in bed. With someone else.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Eleven fucking years,” Beck says, voice low, raw. “Since we were kids. And she—she?—”

He chokes on the words.

No one says anything for a long minute.

Jaxon’s face is a mix of shock and anger. “You want us to go say something?”

Beck shakes his head. “What’s the point?”

I put the car in drive.

And for the first time in a long time, none of us say a word on the way home.

We don’t need to.

Half in shock, half in solidarity. I always knew she was evil, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.

When we pull into the driveway, Beck’s already unbuckling before I put the car in park.

“I’m just gonna chill in my room,” he mutters.

“Whatever you need, man,” Jaxon says gently.

Beck nods once, eyes still rimmed red. He disappears inside without another word.

Jaxon and I head into the kitchen. I grab two waters from the fridge and hand him one.

“He didn’t even get mad,” I say, twisting the cap off. “That’s what’s messing me up. If it were me…”

“You’d burn her apartment down,” Jaxon says, cracking a tired smile.

“Damn right I would.”

We both go quiet, the silence heavy.

Jaxon leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You think he’ll be okay?”

“He will be,” I say, more certain than I feel. “Not today. Not this week. But we’ve got him.”

Jaxon nods slowly, then glances toward the hallway. “We gotta keep him busy. Keep his mind off it.”

“Agreed.”

And we do. Because that’s what brothers do.

Even the ones you choose.

Dragging my phone out of my pocket I see I’ve got a few texts, but one stands out.

Lyla: You alive? Or did the kids run you into the ground?

I smirk and type back.

Barely survived. I think one of them tried to challenge me to a push-up contest.

Lyla: And?

I let him win. Obviously. Can’t go around crushing ten-year-old dreams.

Lyla: Wow. Personal growth.

Don’t get used to it.

A beat passes, then:

Lyla: You free later? I have some stuff I want to go over.

For the princess? Always.

Lyla: I’m hungry, so I’m bringing snacks. Dealing with you is stressful enough without sustenance.

Jaxon walks back into the kitchen just as I’m grinning at my screen.

He eyes me, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge. “What’s that look?”

“What look?” I say, too quickly.

He smirks. “That stupid smile you’re trying to hide. That I’m falling for my coach’s daughter look.”

I toss a chip bag at him. “Shut up.”

Jaxon just laughs, already halfway down the hall. “It’s going good, huh?”

I don’t answer.

Because maybe it is.