Page 26 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

M y week is one of the busiest I’ve ever had. Everything is going so perfectly, I just know there’s going to be something that crumbles at some point.

And sure enough, by the time the next Saturday morning rolls around, my stomach feels like it’s been tied in a knot and left there overnight.

It has to just be nerves.

That’s what I tell myself as I stand in the kitchen, organizing the fridge shelves, even though they don’t need organizing. Labels facing forward. Drinks lined up perfectly.

It’s stupid how much it helps.

The tea kettle whistles, and I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around it to hide the fact that they’re clammy. My head aches in that dull, heavy way it always does when I don’t sleep enough.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Game day mornings are always stressful. This one’s no different.

By the time I’ve gone through my routine of packing my bag, double-checking the social post schedule, and triple-checking the camera batteries, I almost believe it.

After the last-minute pre-game meetings, I fall into step with my team, triple checking graphics, confirming sideline camera positions, and making sure the interns know what shots we’re prioritizing today.

It’s controlled chaos, my day to run the show on the sidelines.

Exactly how I like it.

Except…

Halfway through my checklist, I feel myself start to sweat through my jacket.

I stop just inside the tunnel, bracing a hand on the cool concrete wall as another cramp twists through my stomach.

“You good?”

I look up to see Jaxon jogging by, helmet under his arm. He slows when he sees my face.

“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.

I force a smile. “Fine. Just game day nerves.”

He watches me for a second longer before nodding and heading into the locker room.

I take a slow breath and straighten up, adjusting my jacket.

Just a few more hours.

I can get through a few more hours.

By the second quarter, I’m seriously questioning that.

The cramps keep coming, worse now, sharp enough to make me clench my teeth. My lower back aches. My skin feels hot and sticky, and it’s getting harder to focus on the field.

That’s when it hits me.

Of course.

It’s just my period.

Right on schedule, like clockwork.

Perfect.

I push through until halftime, forcing smiles and barking reminders through the headset like nothing’s wrong.

But as soon as the players file into the locker room, I slip toward the media room, pull out my phone, and fire off two quick texts. The first to Madison and the second to Carter.

Heading home. Not feeling great. Will grab your notes later.

Raincheck on tonight. Sorry.

I shove my phone back into my pocket before I can overthink it and make my way out of the stadium quietly, keeping my head down.

The drive home feels like it takes forever.

Less than ten minutes after walking into my apartment, I’m out of my jacket, into sweats, and curled up on the couch with a heating pad pressed to my stomach before the second half of the game even kicks off.

As much as it sucks to miss it, and to cancel on Carter, it’s almost a relief to finally stop pretending everything’s fine. My body feels like it’s trying to kill itself from the inside out.

I’ve always struggled with painful periods, but this is definitely the worst it’s been in a long time.

As the post-game interviews begin, I find the remote and turn off the TV. My couch just about swallows me whole. I’m curled up on my side, knees brought up toward my chest, the heating pad clutched to my stomach like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

The tea I made earlier has gone cold on the coffee table. I can still smell the faint trace of peppermint, though it did nothing but burn my tongue and make me nauseous. The cramps are still sharp and low, constant now, a steady ache that flares into stabbing pain every time I shift.

My phone buzzes somewhere behind me, but I don’t move to check it. I know it’s probably Madison or Carter, and the thought of trying to sound okay for either of them feels impossible.

Instead, I stare at the dark screen of the TV across from me and let my mind wander somewhere I usually try not to let it go.

I wonder what it would’ve been like to have my mom here for this.

It’s such a small thing, but I can’t help imagining her sitting beside me when I was twelve, brushing my hair back and explaining what to expect. Telling me what to keep in my backpack at school. Reassuring me it was all normal.

Instead, it was a pamphlet from the nurse’s office and an awkward box of pads left in my bathroom by my dad, who couldn’t even look me in the eye that day.

I close my eyes and breathe through another wave of pain.

Even now, years later, I wish she could be here to tell me how to handle all the parts of being a woman that feel so impossible some days.

Not just the physical stuff—though God knows this is miserable enough—but everything else too.

The pressure. The way my chest feels tight all the time, like I’m already letting everyone down before I’ve even had a chance to prove myself.

Would she tell me it’s okay to rest? That it doesn’t make me weak to stay home and take care of myself instead of forcing a smile through the game while my uterus is trying to make me fold over in pain?

The heating pad shifts, and I press it harder to my stomach. I can feel the perfectionist part of me simmering beneath the pain, whispering that I’m being dramatic. That I should’ve stayed. That people probably noticed me leaving and think I’m flaky now.

But I literally feel like I’m going to throw up if I move at all right.

I curl tighter into the cushions and tell myself to stop being so emotional.

Eventually, I drag the throw blanket from the back of the couch over me and tuck it under my chin, praying the Advil kicks in soon since I’m out of Midol, making a mental note to stock up on that next time I make a run to the store.