Page 27 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

S omething just hits different about the energy of the home crowd.

It’s the kind of noise you don’t just hear—you feel it. In your chest. In your teeth. Every shout, every stomp rattles down to your bones.

I roll my shoulders back and glance at the play clock as I jog toward the huddle, my heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through my ribcage.

First quarter. Second drive. Ball on the thirty-five.

“Trips right, forty-six counter,” I call, voice low and sharp. “On one. You know the drill. Clean and fast.”

The guys nod, breaking the huddle, and I can already feel it—the rhythm coming alive in my blood. The field feels smaller when you’re in the zone like this. Like every yard belongs to you, but only if you’re hungry enough to take it.

I drop into position behind center, fingers flexing as I scan the defense. Linebacker shading left.

Safety creeping up. Man coverage outside.

How predictable– exactly what I was hoping for.

“Set—”

The snap hits my hands clean, and I take a quick three-step drop, eyes already downfield as I sell the fake. Their end bites, crashing in hard, and I tuck the ball, cutting back inside.

The pocket collapses fast, but I feel it before it happens. My feet shift instinctively, and I roll out left, keep my eyes up, keep moving.

There he is, right on time. Jaxon streaking right up the seam.

I plant. Release.

The ball sails clean and tight through the air, a perfect spiral before dropping right into his hands as he crosses midfield before being taken down at their forty-yard line.

The crowd explodes.

I jog up to reset, clapping the back of his helmet on the way.

We drive. Play after play, eating up yards, the rhythm building with every snap. A slant here, a quick draw there. Hard count to draw them offsides. Then another shot downfield to Jaxon on a fade route—perfect placement, just inside the pylon.

Touchdown.

The stadium erupts.

I jog off to the sideline, my chest heaving, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. I can already feel the sweat running down my spine, my lungs burning with that good kind of ache.

Coach claps my shoulder as I grab some water, and I take a second to scan the sideline out of habit—just in time to catch sight of her.

Her gaze finds me for just a second before she looks away.

That’s all I get. But it’s enough to make the corner of my mouth curve even higher.

For a while, that’s enough to keep me locked in, but by halftime, something feels…off.

I don’t see her.

Not in her usual spot with the media team. Not anywhere.

I shake it off at first. But when we come off the field and head into the locker room at the half, it’s still gnawing at me.

I snag Jaxon as we’re grabbing water.

“Hey,” I say, voice low, glancing around. “Did you see Lyla?”

He gives me a weird look. “What do you mean? She was with the media team, wasn’t she?”

“She’s not there now.”

Jaxon shrugs, wiping sweat off his face. “Didn’t notice. Maybe she went to grab something or has to be up in the box?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, but the tight feeling in my chest doesn’t ease.

I force myself to dial back in as Coach starts laying into the halftime adjustments. I keep my eyes on the whiteboard. Keep my hands busy taping my fingers. Anything to keep from letting my mind wander where it wants to go.

By the time we storm back out of the tunnel, the noise is deafening again.

I shove everything else out of my head.

I settle back into the rhythm. Drive after drive, pushing downfield. Adjusting reads. Dodging pressure. Feeling that sweet burn every time the chains move.

One more touchdown. Then another.

The clock winds down to zero. Final whistle blows.

We win.

The stadium goes nuts, but my chest still feels too tight as I jog off toward the locker room.

I barely hear anything Coach says on the way in. Barely register the chaos of guys shouting, helmets slamming into lockers, music already blasting.

All I can think about is whether she’s okay or not.

And before I even think about showering, before I even unstrap my pads, I head right to my locker and yank my phone out of my bag.

I unlock it, scrolling straight to her name.

And there it is.

A single text waiting.

Princess: Raincheck on tonight. Sorry.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keys.

Something about the way she phrased it sits wrong.

And all at once, the adrenaline in my veins feels sharp and sour.

I’ve never known Lyla Harding to tap out.

Not from anything.

She’s the kind of girl who stays on her feet no matter what’s thrown at her—calm, collected, like nothing in the world can shake her. Even when she’s pissed at me, even when I push every single one of her buttons, she never lets it show. Never flinches.

I’m still staring down at my phone when Jaxon walks up, his own phone in his hand, jersey and pads long gone, but still in the rest of his uniform.

“Hey,” he says, dropping onto the bench next to me. He glances at my phone, then back at me, a knowing look crossing his face. “You still looking for Lyla?”

I don’t even try to deny it.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “You see her?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. But I texted Madison when we got in here. She said Lyla left before halftime.”

That weird, tight feeling in my chest doesn’t go anywhere. “Why?”

He shrugs faintly. “Madison said she thinks it’s that time of the month. Didn’t feel great, so she went home.”

It should be enough to let me relax. To laugh it off and go hit the showers.

But I’ve seen Lyla brush off migraines and stress that would crush most people—without so much as a crack in her composure.

If she left?

The longer I sit here pretending it’s not bothering me, the more my legs itch to move.

So, I don’t even bother showering.

I get out of my gear and slip into some shorts. Then I yank my hoodie over my head, grab my bag, and head for the door.

“Hayes, don’t forget media has you scheduled for post-game today.”

I turn to find an intern that definitely isn’t Lyla holding a door open further down the hall.

“Can’t today, sorry.” I continue walking toward the exit that will get me to the parking lot.

“What do you want me to tell them? Coach Harding won’t be happy.”

Understatement of the century.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I’m leaving.”

Making my way outside, I climb into my Jeep, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and sit there for a second with my hands on the wheel.

I could just drive straight over. Knock on her door. It would definitely get me there quicker.

I grin faintly despite myself and turn in the opposite way of her apartment.

Yeah.

If I’m gonna show up, I may as well not show up empty-handed.

The store’s only a little bit out of the way.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, the grocery store is fairly quiet, which it probably always is right after a home game on the weekend. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as I grab a basket and head down the aisles.

I don’t even need to think about it much—apparently, I’ve got her list memorized already.

I grab a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream from the freezer section, shoving it into the basket before it can start melting in my hands. Then I double back and snag a box of Midol from the pharmacy aisle, dropping it in next to the ice cream.

Staring at the shelves of feminine hygiene products, I try to remember which one exactly she got last time, but I can’t. Who knew there were so many different sizes, types, and even ones that are

made with different materials? Did she get one hundred percent cotton last time? Were they small or medium?

I end up throwing five options in my basket, though two end up under my arm as my basket is officially full.

On the way to checkout, I pass the candy aisle and look for some chocolate. Because she’ll want it, even if she rolls her eyes at herself for wanting it.

I grab a couple of the dark chocolate bars I’ve seen her eating before, then some chicken broth, as well as a pack of instant noodles. Heating those up or cracking open a meal prep is about as talented as I can get in the kitchen.

The basket’s heavier than I expected by the time I hit the checkout, and the cashier gives me a faintly amused look as she rings me up.

“Looks like somebody’s got himself a lady in distress,” she says warmly, scanning the box of Midol.

I huff a quiet laugh through my nose and shrug, leaning against the counter. “Something like that.”

She glances up, studying me for a beat, her hands stilling for a moment over the chocolate bars.

Then her smile shifts—gentler, a little sad maybe.

“You know,” she says softly. “Not every man shows up when it’s hard. Not every man even notices when a woman’s hurting or ever does much about it. But you…it looks like you’re paying attention. Doing what you can to make her more comfortable. That matters more than you think.”

I freeze for just a second, her words landing heavier than I expected.

Because the thing is…I hadn’t thought of it like that.

I just couldn’t get her text out of my head. I couldn’t stand the thought of her curled up somewhere hurting and me doing nothing.

But now, hearing this stranger say it out loud—you’re here, you’re paying attention, that matters—something in my chest tightens.

Because Lyla deserves that.

Even if she doesn’t want to let herself believe it yet.

Even if I don’t know what the hell to do with what I’m feeling.

I clear my throat and force a small smile. “Thanks,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ll…tell her you said that.”

She chuckles faintly and hands me the bag. “You do that, hon. And you make sure she knows she picked herself a good one. A love like that doesn’t come around often.”

I nod, gripping the bag a little tighter as I head for the door.

But in the cool night air, sliding back into my Jeep, the cashier’s words echo in my head.

A love like that doesn’t come around often.

Love?

Maybe I don’t have much else figured out yet.

But I know this much?—

For her?

I’ll show up. Every time.