Page 19 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

M adison’s already curled up on the couch by the time I emerge from the kitchen with the popcorn, one leg tucked under her and a fuzzy blanket draped across her lap like a throne.

She’s in her favorite hoodie, no makeup, and her hair is twisted on top of her head like she gave up halfway through trying.

This is our safe zone. Sweatpants. Snacks. Zero judgment.

I drop the popcorn bowl between us and crack open a soda. “Your majesty.”

She peeks over the blanket. “You may stay.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “Movie pick?”

“You mean my rightful turn?”

“You chose last time!”

“That was a joint decision,” she argues, grabbing a fistful of popcorn.

I shoot her a look. “You bullied me into The Notebook and cried harder than Rachel McAdams.”

“Emotional range is not a weakness.” She sniffs. “It’s a superpower.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, the kind we’ve built over years. A little bickering, a lot of snacks, and the quiet comfort of knowing someone sees you—even when you’re not at your best.

But the words keep bouncing around in my skull like a pinball machine, and if I don’t say them soon, they’re going to chew their way out of me.

I exhale. “Okay, I have to tell you something, and you’re not allowed to make it weird.”

Madison freezes mid-chew, then grins way too wide. “Oh my god. Did you finally hook up with Grayson Bennett?”

“What? No!”

“Damn. Okay, wait.” She sits up straighter, interest officially piqued. “Is this about a guy?”

I pause.

She gasps. “Oh my God. It is. You have the secret hookup face. Tell me everything.”

I groan and cover my eyes with one hand. “You’re literally the worst.”

“I’m the best,” she says, practically vibrating now. “Spill. Right now.”

I drop my hand and look at her dead-on. “Fine. It was Carter.”

Her jaw drops open so fast I hear the popcorn hit the floor. “CARTER HAYES?”

“Shhh!” I hiss, even though no one else is here.

She grabs a pillow and smacks me with it. “You two finally put yourselves out of the sexual tension war you were in, and you’re just gonna casually snack next to me like you didn’t rearrange your entire spinal alignment?”

I laugh despite myself. “It wasn’t like that.”

She squints at me. “Lyla.”

“It wasn’t! We didn’t even have sex.”

“Details. Now. Don’t spare me.”

I inhale and let the words fall out without stopping them.

“We were at that post-game party a couple weekends ago. I was already tipsy and pissed off, and then Carter showed up all…Carter. He kissed me. I kissed him back. Then, I ran into him at the gym one day, kissed again. And then the other day he, uh…” I pause.

“Went downtown, if you catch my drift. Really well, I might add. Sadly, no notes to give. But that wasn’t even the weird part. ”

Madison blinks, looking a little stunned. “Continue.”

“He didn’t even let me reciprocate. No…he made me take a bath instead.”

Her eyes literally look like they’re about to bulge out of her head. “Oh my God, Lyla.”

“It was a one-time thing,” I say quickly, before she can make it a bigger deal. “It was late, I was tired…. It just happened. Just a one-time thing to get it out of our systems.”

She grins again, annoyingly knowing. “You’re saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

I throw a piece of popcorn at her. “Shut up.”

She catches it in her mouth like a smug little gremlin. “I’m not judging. I’m just impressed. You finally cracked the Carter Hayes code.”

“I don’t want things to be weird with us,” I say, voice softening. “I know you and Carter used to—whatever. Hook up. I needed to make sure I wasn’t breaking some kind of girl code.”

Madison waves a hand. “Please. That thing with me and Carter is ancient history and had all the emotional depth of a spoon. You’re not breaking anything.”

I study her face. “You sure?”

She nods. “Swear on my favorite mascara.”

“Damn. That’s serious.”

We fall quiet for a beat. Then she nudges me. “But just so you know? I don’t buy that ‘one time’ crap. He was never like that with me. Ever. And you, my girl, currently have cheeks the same color as your hair.”

“I am not flustered.”

“You are a flustered liar.”

“Let’s change the subject before I smother you with this couch cushion.”

She chuckles. “Fine. Thanksgiving?”

I sag in relief. “Yeah. I’m going with my dad to see my grandma. Her house still smells like cinnamon and cats, but I kind of love it. His girlfriend and her daughter are coming too.”

“Emmy is going?”

“Yep.”

“The one who said you were ‘too Type A to be fun’?”

I sigh. “Mmhmm. Should be a blast.”

She cringes. “Yikes. Well, I’ll be eating my body weight in carbs at Jaxon’s house.”

I raise a brow. “He invited you home?”

“Yep.”

I grin. “You gonna survive seeing the whole Montgomery clan after this many years?”

“Unclear. But if I die, bury me in black and make it dramatic.”

I snort and toss a blanket over her. “Deal.”

The hum of low conversation fills the classroom as I flip open my laptop and click into the project proposal doc I stayed up way too late working on.

My professor’s nowhere to be found—probably still stuck in her office—and the TA, Callie, is making the rounds, crouching down at tables, giving feedback in her usual overly peppy tone.

She’s actually nice. But I’ve seen her reduce grown frat bros to tears with her “constructive criticism.”

I’m next.

Deep breath.

Callie slides into the seat beside me and rests her elbow on the table like we’re besties. “Okay, Lyla. What are you thinking for your final?”

I sit up straighter. “So, I’ve been focusing on athlete branding—specifically NIL strategy for college players.”

Her brows lift. “Go on.”

“There’s this whole gap between how athletes present themselves on the field versus online.

Most of them don’t have a team behind them, and the ones that do—they’re usually handed cookie-cutter content that doesn’t reflect who they are. I want to build a campaign for a mock athlete brand, focusing on authenticity and storytelling. Not just highlight reels and sponsorships.”

Callie nods slowly, her eyes narrowing—not in a bad way. In a calculating, this-has-potential kind of way.

“I want to show how a strategic identity—tone, visuals, even timing of posts—can elevate a player’s value, not just for NIL deals but long-term marketability. Think, building a legacy, not just chasing the next free hoodie.”

Callie taps her fingers against the table. “And your target demo?”

“College athletes. D1 level, ideally. But the campaign would be scalable for recruits or even walk-ons. Anyone trying to build their profile from the ground up.”

She pauses, then grins. “Damn. Okay, that’s…really solid. Have you picked an athlete to use as your subject?”

I hesitate for half a second too long.

Because I have. I just don’t want to admit it out loud.

“Is it…someone you know?” she presses.

“Yeah,” I admit, cheeks warming. “Quarterback. High profile. Local.”

Callie raises one perfectly shaped brow. “Anyone I’d know?”

I shake my head quickly. “He’s not really the point. It’s more about how storytelling can humanize athletes and shift public perception—especially with players who have a reputation that doesn’t reflect who they actually are.”

“Like…if someone was known as a party boy, but they’re actually more layered than that?”

My jaw tightens. “Exactly.”

Callie leans back, studying me like she’s trying to read between the lines. “I love it. Just make sure you stay focused on the strategy, not the guy. Sound fair?”

I nod. “Totally fair.”

She gives me a knowing smile, then pushes off the table and moves to the next group.

I stare at my screen for a second too long, blinking down at the words Q4 deliverables: brand voice and audience engagement analysis.

I’m not doing this for Carter.

Not really.

Okay, maybe a little.

But he’s just the subject. The variable in my case study.

Still…my heart skips when I think about how he looked at me Sunday night. Not like I was a hookup he regretted. Like I was a person he saw.

I shake it off and start typing notes.

This is about me.

My goals. My career.

And if he just so happens to be the reason I’m inspired? That’s nobody’s business but mine.

I make my way across campus to the athletic center. My head’s still buzzing from class, a mix of adrenaline and caffeine, and okay—maybe the tiniest bit of residual Carter energy from earlier.

But I push that thought aside.

Focus, girlfriend. Project. Internship. Career.

The hallway smells like gym floors and protein powder, and I’m two steps away from the media room when I hear it.

“Lyla.”

My stomach dips.

I turn and find my dad standing in the doorway to his office, arms folded, brow raised. His tone is neutral—but with him, that’s never a guarantee it’ll stay that way.

“Got a second?”

I glance down the hall, then back at him. “Sure.”

I step inside, instinctively straightening my posture like I’m in trouble.

His office looks the same as always—football helmets on the shelf, schedule magnets on the filing cabinet, a single framed photo of me from junior year track.

No pictures of his girlfriend. No pictures of Nicole.

It’s the only part of his life that still feels like mine.

He motions to the chair across from him, and I sit.

“So,” he starts, steepling his fingers. “There’s been a change in plans for Thanksgiving.”

Here we go.

“Nicole’s mom isn’t doing well,” he says, voice gentler than expected. “She took a turn this week. Nothing critical yet, but…bad enough that they want to be there. Just in case.”

I nod slowly. “So, you’re going to Ohio.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised I remember where Nicole is from.

“She asked me to tag along. It means a lot to her. Emmy’s coming too.”

“Of course she is,” I murmur.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I plaster on a tight smile. “So…what does that mean for me?”

He hesitates. “We figured you’d want to stay here, but of course, you’re welcome to come with us too. You’ve got your internship, and I know things have been…busy for you.”

Right. We figured. As if I was part of the conversation.

“Grandma’s not doing anything this year anyway, with the neighbor situation,” he adds, like that somehow makes this better. “You just let me know, and we will adjust accordingly. Are you and Madison doing Friendsgiving again this year?”

“Yeah. Sure. I think I’d rather stay back and rest up.” And avoid feeling like I’m the unwanted tagalong.

He nods, reaching for the stack of papers on his desk. “I’ll leave the emergency card with the secretary in case you need anything while I’m gone, work wise. You know how to reach me outside of that.”

“Great,” I say, standing. “Have a safe trip. Lucky we get a bye week for the long weekend. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Lyla—”

But I’m already out the door.

I don’t cry. Not in the hallway. Not for something I should’ve seen coming.

I make it to the media room and close the door behind me, bracing my hands on the table while the silence becomes louder, threatening to swallow me.

It’s not the change in plans that hurts.

It’s that they made them without me.

Again.

I set my bag down. Sit. Stand. Pace.

You’re not part of the plan.

No one said that out loud, but that’s what it meant. My dad, Nicole, Emmy—they make the decisions. I just…adjust. And now I’m supposed to smile and be mature while they take a holiday I was invited to and turn it into a family road trip I don’t belong on.

I sit down at the editing desk, open my laptop, and stare blankly at the project timeline. My hands shake on the keyboard.

Deep breath in. Out. In. Out.

Except it’s not working. The air feels too thick, my chest too tight. I blink hard, but my vision won’t clear. I try to click into the media folder—just something, anything to distract myself—but I can’t even remember my password right now. My mind is swirling as if I’m stuck in a vortex.

My fingers curl into fists.

Stop. Focus. Fix it.

But the buzzing starts in the back of my head. My palms itch. My spine locks. And suddenly I can’t move. Can’t even think.

I can’t be here.

I shove my chair back with too much force and stumble toward the corner by the supply shelf, knees giving out as I hit the wall. My back slides down to the floor. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. I press my fists to my thighs, counting under my breath, trying to get control back.

Three taps left leg. Three taps right.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

But it’s not helping.

The walls are too bright. The lights hum too loud. The pressure in my chest builds until it feels like something’s caving in.

The door creaks open.

“Whoa—Lyla?”

Jaxon.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

His footsteps pause, then shift quickly across the floor.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” His voice is soft, uncertain. “You’re all right. I’m right here, okay?”

He crouches in front of me, one knee to the ground, hands lifted like he’s not sure if he should touch me.

“I’m not gonna crowd you,” he says, calm but obviously panicking under the surface. “Can you look at me?”

I manage to lift my gaze. His face is tight with concern, but not pity. Just worry. Pure and simple.

“You’re having a panic attack, right?” he asks gently. “Madison gets them sometimes. I’ve seen this before. You’re safe, Lyla.”

I blink fast. Try to breathe. He keeps talking—grounding me, even if the words don’t quite register.

And then the door opens again.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Carter’s voice is harder. Louder. Immediate.

Jaxon doesn’t move. “She’s not okay, man.”

I can’t see him clearly, but I feel Carter’s presence the second he crosses the room. His energy shifts the air like gravity.

“She needs quiet,” Carter snaps. “Move.”

Warm hands brush my cheeks. “Hey. It’s me. I’ve got you.”

I can’t speak. Can barely move. His arms slide under me, and I don’t fight it.

He lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing and walks us straight to the storage closet off the side of the room. It’s small and dark, the air cooler. The second the door shuts behind us, everything is swallowed in a sea of darkness.

Carter sinks to the floor with me in his lap, my back to his chest, one of his arms wrapped tight around my waist, the other holding my left hand, pushing into the center of it.

“Breathe with me, all right?” he whispers, voice lower now. “Match me.”

He inhales slow and deep. Exhales just as steady.

I try. My chest jerks on the first attempt, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Again,” he says softly. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, the tremble in my limbs begins to fade. My heartbeat evens. My fingers unclench.

I’m still curled into him when the tears finally come, silent and hot and fast.

Carter just holds me tighter.