Page 23 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)
LYLA
B y early Saturday afternoon, I’ve changed the sheets on my bed twice, deep-cleaned the coffee maker, restocked the fridge, and rearranged the entryway shoe rack—because apparently, the only thing that calms my nerves after spending three days tangled up with Carter Hayes is reorganizing my environment until my brain stops spinning.
We watched movies. Slept in the same bed. Ate toaster waffles like a married couple. He brushed my hair off my face one morning and kissed my shoulder like it wasn’t a big deal.
But it was.
To me, it was.
So, I came home.
Not because he pushed me away. He didn’t. He kissed me goodbye, slow and quiet, like it meant something to him. And that was exactly why I had to leave.
I did the only thing I know how to do when things get too big.
I made myself small again.
The door clicks open, and I hear the familiar sound of Madison dragging her duffel inside, keys jangling, and boots thudding onto the welcome mat.
I pop up from the couch like I haven’t been nervously refolding the same blanket for the past twenty minutes.
Madison steps inside, Jaxon’s hoodie swallowing her frame. She drops her bag, then her whole body onto the couch.
“I brought back pie. And news. In that order.”
I arch a brow. “You go first. I’ll go grab plates.”
“Skip the plates, just bring spoons.”
By the time I return with spoons and a can of whipped cream, she’s kicked her boots off and curled into the corner of the couch, eyes wide and already half-smiling.
“Well?” I nudge. “How was it?”
She laughs. “It was actually really fun. I was a little nervous about how it would be going there for the first time since…well, since we’re kind of together?” A blush creeps up her cheeks, and she can’t help but grin.
“Did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”
Don’t get me wrong. I am beyond happy for my best friend, and I truly hope she has her shit figured out. She deserves to be happy, more than anyone else I know. I just worry that she hasn’t figured out the healing she needs to in order for this to last long term.
“No, nothing like that. I don’t really know how to explain it, and I get a little anxious if I think about it too much, honestly.”
After a beat, she turns to me. “And what about you? How was your trip?”
Here it comes. The lie I’ve been rehearsing for hours.
“I didn’t end up going,” I say with a small shrug. “Didn’t feel great, and with everything going around…didn’t want to risk making Grandma sick. So, I just stayed home.”
Madison tilts her head. “Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve come back or even stayed home to begin with.”
“I didn’t want you to do that. You and Jaxon needed this.” I offer a tight smile. “I just needed a couple days to rest. Nothing a little couch rotting couldn’t fix.”
More like nothing a few orgasms couldn’t fix.
I scrunch my nose at the thought, but it’s not wrong.
Madison doesn’t question it. Just reaches over and squeezes my arm. “Next year, we are definitely going back to Friendsgiving.”
“Deal.”
We sit in silence for a moment, eating pie in the dim glow of the living room lamp. I can feel the weight of everything I’m keeping to myself slowly eating at me. I’m not lying to hurt her.
I’m lying because I don’t have the words for what this weekend really was. For what it felt like when Carter looked at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
And the second I admit that out loud—it won’t be casual anymore.
So, I fold the blanket, again. And I finish the pie. Then I tell her I’m going to bed early.
I slip back into Carter’s shirt that I came home in this morning. It still smells just like him—fresh, minty, with a touch of something a little spicy. I don’t know why, but it brings me a sense of peace.
Finishing my nighttime routine, I’m just getting into bed when my phone goes off.
Quarterback: Thanks for being alone with me this weekend, Princess
Quarterback: Don’t dream about me too much tonight
Unfortunately for me, I do.
Thursday morning, we have our mid-season check in with the marketing team.
I’ve been staring at the same Google sheet for thirty minutes, rechecking numbers I already know are right.
It’s just a habit.
Dad sits at the head of the table, posture straight, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Across from me is Megan Talbot, the department’s director of marketing and branding—a sharp-eyed woman in her late thirties who’s been working double-time this semester building out NIL resources for the program.
And then there’s me.
The intern with a lot to prove and basically everything to lose.
Each of the starters is scheduled to come in today to review their mid-season media performance—engagement, follower growth, brand inquiries, all of it. Part of a new pilot program Megan launched to help players understand their value before they even leave school.
Jaxon walks in first.
“Morning,” he says easily, flashing a smile at Megan, then glancing briefly at Coach. He meets my eyes and offers a quiet, respectful nod.
“Let’s pull up your metrics,” Megan says, already tapping into her laptop.
“You’ve had a twenty- two percent increase in total reach since the start of October.
Engagement’s solid. You’ve gotten two verified DMs since last week.
One from a local athletic gear brand, the other from a national hydration startup. ”
Jaxon leans forward. “The one with the blue logo?”
Megan nods. “They’re legit. We’ll schedule a call.”
Coach gives a small grunt of approval. “Keep your head down. Keep producing on the field, Jaxon. Great work.”
Jaxon gives a short nod. “Thank you, sir.”
He exits a minute later, professional as ever, and the room resets. I adjust the sheet in front of me, fingers tightening slightly on the pen I’m holding—because I know who’s next.
Carter strolls in like he owns the place.
Baseball cap turned backward, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and that lazy, cocky smirk on his face like nothing touches him.
But I know better now.
He clocks me immediately. Doesn’t flinch. Just shoots me a wink and slides into the chair across from me.
“Nice of you to show up, Hayes,” Megan says dryly.
“Had to finish an important Zoom call,” he says, stretching out.
Coach clears his throat.
Carter straightens. Slightly.
Megan doesn’t waste time. “Okay. Let’s go over your numbers.”
I pull up his tab and flick it to the main screen.
“Since the last game, your Instagram’s up fifty-eight percent in follower growth. TikTok’s doubled—mostly due to fan clips of that third-down scramble and the ‘QB1 can get it’ commentary under every video.”
Carter grins, not even pretending to be humble.
Megan continues, “You’ve received four NIL brand reach-outs this week. All verified. One’s an energy drink that’s already working with top-tier prospects. If you maintain this trajectory, you’re looking at national exposure going into bowl week.”
Coach Harding leans forward. “And you’re staying focused?”
“Yes, sir.”
Megan glances at me. “Lyla, anything to add from the content side?”
I hop right in. “Carter’s mic’d-up footage from practice is the highest-performing clip we’ve run all semester. His engagement’s not just about stats—it’s personality-driven. He’s the kind of profile that builds momentum organically. People want to root for him.”
Carter raises an eyebrow at me, amused. “You been watching me closely, Princess?”
My dad’s brows raise, but I look straight at Carter. “It’s my job, literally.”
Dad cuts in before the moment can linger. “Good work. But it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t finish the season strong.”
Carter nods, all charm gone for just a second. “Understood.”
Megan wraps it quickly after that. “You’ll get a follow-up from our NIL coordinator. Keep your content clean and stay consistent.”
Carter stands, glances at Coach, then gives me one more look before walking out.
The room settles again, but my pulse doesn’t.
Because I can play professional. I can read metrics and schedule posts, pretend I don’t remember how his hands felt on my hips just two nights ago, how his lips didn’t burn a path everywhere they touched.
But every time Carter Hayes looks at me like I’m more than just a game?
I forget how to keep score.