Page 25 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

S unday night, I’m about to get ready for bed when my phone vibrates.

Quarterback: you busy?

Always.

Quarterback: wrong answer.

Quarterback: be ready in 10.

I don’t reply. But ten minutes later, his headlights flash through my apartment window.

And like the idiot I apparently am, I grab my jacket and go.

We drive for twenty minutes. Music low. His fingers tapping the steering wheel. Neither of us saying much.

I almost ask where we’re going. But something about the way he glances over at me every so often, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows I hate surprises, keeps me quiet.

We end up at this little run-down strip mall off the highway, half the letters of the sign burnt out.

The kind of place you’d never find unless you knew exactly where to look.

An arcade.

He parks, cuts the engine, and grins over at me. “You any good at pinball?”

I blink at him. “Are you serious?”

He shrugs before hopping out of the car, unbothered. “Why not?”

Opening my door, he offers me a hand. “M’lady.”

I can’t stop the smile that seems to be present more and more whenever he’s around.

An hour later, I’m laughing harder than I have in months.

We’ve played everything—air hockey, pop-a-shot, skee ball. He’s annoyingly good at all of them.

But the claw machine? That’s my machine.

“You’re terrible,” I say, watching the stuffed giraffe slip from his grasp again.

“Rigged,” he mutters, dropping another token in.

“No, you’re just bad at it.”

“You think you can do better?”

“I know I can.”

“Prove it.”

I slide in front of him, take the controls and, on the first try, snatch the giraffe clean.

His jaw drops as I hold the prize up triumphantly. “Told you.”

He shakes his head, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Better than being bad at claw machines.”

He leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath on my ear when he murmurs, “Careful, Princess. You keep running your mouth, I might have to shut you up.”

I freeze.

Because suddenly the air between us feels very different.

And judging by the heat I see burning in his blue eyes, I can tell he feels it too.

It’s freezing when we step out of the arcade. My hands are still warm from the hot chocolate we got, my stomach sore from laughing, but the night air cuts through all of it.

Carter’s carrying the ridiculous giraffe I won in one hand, keeping his fingers laced through mine with the other.

We reach his Jeep, parked under a flickering light at the far edge of the lot. He stops at the driver’s side, leans back against the door, and watches me with that infuriatingly lazy confidence.

I cross my arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“That little thing you do,” he says, nodding at me. “Like when you’re trying not to smile, but you can’t help it.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

He shakes his head, lips curving into a grin that’s all teeth. “Nah. You’re cuter than you think.”

Before I can fire back, he grabs my hand, tugging me closer until I’m standing between his legs, pressed to him.

His hands settle on my hips, warm even through my jacket. He tilts his head slightly, his voice dropping low.

“You’ve been driving me insane all night,” he murmurs. “Y’know that?”

I swallow. “Not my fault you can’t handle losing.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. “You keep running your mouth…”

“And you’ll do what, Hayes?” I whisper.

His grin sharpens. “Shut it for you.”

“Hmm, I think you said the same thing ear?—”

His mouth crashes into mine, hard enough to make me stumble back slightly. He follows, hands sliding up under my jacket, his fingers splaying wide over my waist as he deepens the kiss.

It’s messy, desperate almost.

I gasp when his hands dip lower, gripping my hips and dragging me even closer. His thigh wedges between mine, and before I know it, I’m pressing down, chasing the friction that makes my knees weak.

He groans into my mouth, and the sound shoots straight through me. My fingers fist into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, even though we’re already flush.

“You’re crazy, Hayes,” I mutter against his lips, breathless.

His grin is quick and crooked. “Look who’s talking.”

One of his hands slides up, tugging at the edge of my scarf just enough to brush his thumb against the hollow of my throat. The touch makes me shiver.

“You do that on purpose,” I breathe.

“Do what?” he says, all false innocence.

“Make it impossible to think.”

He chuckles, but it’s low and rough, and he presses his forehead to mine.

“Have to make sure we’re on a level playing field somehow.”

When we finally break apart, my hair’s a mess, my lips are swollen, and his hoodie is wrinkled from where I was holding onto him like my life depended on it.

I take a shaky breath, stepping back just enough to get my bearings.

“You are dangerous,” I tell him, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

He smirks, still leaning against the Jeep.

“So are you,” he says simply.

He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck, and blows out a breath like he’s forcing himself to put more distance between us.

“All right,” he says finally, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked grin. “Come on. Let me be the opposite of what I want to be and get you home at a semi-respectable hour.”

I watch the lights blur past outside the window while Carter fiddles with the radio, landing on some mellow indie station and leaving it there.

Finally, he glances at me, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“So,” he says casually. “How’s the term treating you outside of the athletic department? You’re probably destroying your GPA just babysitting all of us, huh?”

I snort. “My GPA is fine, thank you very much. I mainly just have my internship left, outside of project management, which right now they kind of tie into one another for the most part.”

He glances over again, brow quirking like he wasn’t expecting me to admit that.

“It’s just…more than I thought it’d be,” I continue, surprised at myself for saying it out loud.

“The workload. The expectations. Everyone needing something from you all the time.”

He hums. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

And then, quieter, “You’ve been killing it, though. Just so you know.”

I glance at him, wary.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “This whole thing—the branding, the social stuff, the way people talk about me now? That’s not just me. That’s you too.”

I blink, caught off guard by how sincere he sounds.

“You’ve been really helpful,” he says, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “Not just on paper. Like…it’s easier to believe I can actually do this now. Whatever comes next.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“What does come next for you?” I ask, “Are you planning on finishing out your senior year, or are you gone once the draft comes?”

He keeps his eyes on the road but chances a quick glance my way before answering. “Believe it or not, I’ve never been too great at school. Shocking, I know. My major is in business, but I hope I never have to use it. Football has always been the dream for me.”

I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I shouldn’t be shocked by his answer, but maybe just hearing him confirm that he’ll be leaving in a few months out loud, makes it that much more real. Another reason among the ever-growing list that what we are doing is a terrible idea.

There’s no ending to this in which at least one of us doesn’t end up burned. If not both of us.

We pull into my apartment lot, and he parks, but neither of us moves to get out.

The clock on the dash says it’s past one.

But we just…sit there.

And for a second—one perfect second—it feels like we’re just two normal people in a car, nothing complicated about it.

But then he leans his head back against the headrest and turns to look at me, his smile faint.

“So,” he says. “There’s a party after the game next weekend.”

I nod. “There always is.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

“You wanna skip it?”

That catches me off guard.

“What?”

“Skip it,” he repeats, smirking now. “We can be alone together. Again.”

I stare at him, unsure if he’s serious.

But he doesn’t look away.

And even though every sensible part of me is screaming not to—I hear myself agree.

“Okay.”

His grin is slow and wicked as he taps the wheel.

“Good,” he says softly. “It’s a date.”

“Weird name for a booty call, but whatever makes your little heart happy.”

“Oh, trust me, Princess. I will make you very happy.”

I roll my eyes as I grab my bag and climb out, but my cheeks are warm the whole walk to my door.

Looking back, I see his Jeep still sitting there, him watching to make sure I make it all the way inside safely before he takes off.