Page 29 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

W hen Megan calls me into her office on Tuesday morning, I spend the whole walk there convinced I’m about to get chewed out for something.

I run through every detail of my to-do list in my head—did I miss a post? Forget to upload stats?

Mess up a graphic? But nothing jumps out.

Still, my stomach is in knots by the time I knock on her door.

“Come in!”

Her voice is brisk as always, but when I step inside, Megan is smiling. That alone throws me.

She waves me toward a chair across from her desk. “Shut the door, Lyla. Have a seat.”

I do as I’m told, clutching my notebook like a shield.

“I’ll get right to it,” she says, folding her hands on the desk in front of her.

“You’ve been doing excellent work this semester.

Not just competent—exceptional. The way you handled Carter’s initial branding review?

Clean. Creative. Professional. And Madison’s mentioned more than once how reliable you’ve been at games. ”

I blink, startled at the praise, and feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Thank you, Ms. Talbot. That really means a lot.”

She nods once, sharp and decisive.

“Which is why,” she continues. “I think you’re ready for something bigger. I’d like you to take over managing actual NIL deals. Not just strategy. Not just content planning. You’d be the point of contact and lead rep for three athletes we’ve already identified as priorities this year.”

My heart stutters.

“Three?” I echo.

Megan slides a neat little stack of folders across the desk toward me. “You’ll still work under me, of course. But I want you handling everything day-to-day—negotiations, brand approvals, crisis management if needed.”

I glance at the folders, my pulse picking up as I read the names typed on the tabs:

Carter Hayes. Grayson Bennett. Savannah Cole.

My brows draw together at that last one, and Megan seems to read the question on my face before I ask it.

“The third is a gymnast,” she explains. “Savannah Cole. You may have seen the news already—a private video of her was leaked over the weekend. It’s a mess.

Her family wants someone who can rebuild her reputation and keep her head above water while we clean it up.

I think you’re the perfect fit. Seeing what you’ve been able to accomplish with Hayes has proven that. ”

I look back up at her, my throat dry.

“You think…I can handle all that?” I ask quietly.

Her lips twitch, just barely—what might even qualify as a smile in Megan Talbot terms.

“I wouldn’t be offering it to you if I didn’t.”

For a second, all I can do is stare at the folders. My chest is tight, but not in the panicked way it usually is. This is…something else.

Bigger. Scarier.

But also—something that feels a little like pride.

And when I glance back up, Megan’s already watching me, expectant.

“Well?” she prompts. “Can I tell them you’ll take it?”

I swallow hard. Then nod.

“Yes,” I say, steadier than I feel. “I’ll take it.”

The second I step out of Megan’s office, the folders clutched tight to my chest, my legs feel like they’re made of lead.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Like the whole building is waiting to see what I’ll do with this.

I should be thrilled. Excited. Grateful.

And I am. But mostly I feel like I might throw up.

I stop just outside the double doors and lean against the wall, sucking in a slow breath.

And before I even think about it, I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket and scrolling to his name.

It only rings once before he picks up.

“Harding,” he says, voice warm and amused. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I—” My voice cracks, and I press a hand to my forehead. “I’m freaking out.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him. “Yeah? I gathered that. What happened?”

I glance down at the folders in my arms, the weight of them somehow heavier now that I’m trying to explain.

“Megan called me into her office. Said she’s…promoting me. Sort of. She’s putting me in charge of three athletes’ NIL deals. Like, everything. Negotiations. Branding. Crisis management. Day-to-day strategy. Everything.”

I can hear the smile in his voice even before he speaks.

“That’s big time, Princess. Look at you.”

“Don’t call me that right now,” I mutter weakly.

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. “Hey. I’m serious. That’s damn impressive, Lyla. I’m proud of you.”

Something in my chest twists, and I bite down on my lip to keep it from showing in my voice.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“So, who are the three lucky souls?” he asks.

I glance at the tabs, reading them aloud. “You. Grayson Bennett, whom you know. And…a gymnast. Savannah Cole.”

I hear the faint scrape of a chair on his end, like he’s leaning back. “Huh. Lucky me.”

“Don’t start,” I say automatically, though my lips twitch despite myself.

He chuckles under his breath. Then, after a beat, he asks lightly, “So what’d Madison say?”

I freeze, the words catching in my throat.

Because it hits me all at once?—

I didn’t call her.

I called him.

Before my best friend. Before anyone.

I called Carter Hayes.

And I have no idea what to do with the way that realization makes my heart skip.

By the time Friday rolls around, I’m running on equal parts adrenaline and iced coffee.

Megan scheduled my first client meeting for the morning, telling me to “get a feel for her tone and priorities before pitching anything.” Which is corporate-speak for don’t let her eat you alive.

So here I am, sitting in a quiet corner of the athletic department conference room, my notebook open, folders neatly stacked, waiting for Savannah Cole.

She shows up exactly five minutes late—of course.

And she looks every bit the golden girl her social media makes her out to be: perfectly styled blonde hair in a sleek ponytail, full lashes, flawless skin, PCU warmup jacket fitted like it was tailored just for her. Even her sneakers are spotless.

“Hi, Savannah,” I say as I stand to greet her, forcing my best professional smile. “Thanks for meeting with me today.”

She slides into the chair across from me without offering a handshake.

“Yeah,” she says, already scrolling through her phone. “Of course. Megan said you’re my…handler or whatever now?”

I keep my smile in place and sit back down. “You could say that. I’ll be managing your NIL deals going forward—fielding offers, presenting options, making sure everything aligns with your goals and brand.”

At that, she glances up and arches one perfectly shaped brow. “My brand is me. Everyone already wants me. I don’t really think I need help making sure of that.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and nod, scribbling a note just to keep my hands busy.

“Understood,” I say calmly. “But with everything that happened this week, it’s important we control the narrative and set you up with brands that support your image long-term.”

Her eyes narrow slightly at my mention of “everything that happened” but she doesn’t correct me.

Instead, she leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest.

“Well,” she says, her tone clipped now. “Just so we’re clear—there are brands I absolutely won’t work with, no matter what. No exceptions.”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “If you have a list, I can?—”

“I don’t need a list,” she cuts in, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “There’s one in particular. Posie and Company.”

I pause, pen hovering over the page. “Posie and Company?”

She smirks, like she’s just waiting for me to ask.

“That’s who Avery Daniels signed with last month,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain.

“She’s mediocre at best, and she only got the campaign because her dad knows someone at corporate. So, no. Absolutely not. I won’t be seen in the same lineup as her. Ever.”

I jot it down, keeping my expression neutral, even though inwardly I’m already recalibrating everything I’d researched about potential partners.

“Got it,” I say smoothly. “Posie and Company is off the table.”

Savannah hums in approval, already scrolling through her phone again.

For a second, I let my pen hover over my notes, glancing up at her carefully.

I jot another note, then glance back up at her, forcing myself to keep calm and professional.

“Is there anything else you think I should know? Anything that’s especially important to you that we haven’t covered yet?”

Savannah taps her manicured nails against the table, pretending to think. “Just remember what I said—bigger and better. I don’t care what anyone else on this campus is doing. I’m not here to play second to anyone. Make sure the brands you pitch understand that.”

I nod, closing my notebook. “Understood.”

I start to stack my folders, relieved to finally have an excuse to leave, when my phone buzzes against the table.

I glance down instinctively, only to see his name light up the screen.

Quarterback.

Savannah’s eyes catch it immediately. Her smirk is sharp enough to cut glass.

“Well, well,” she drawls, her gaze flicking from the screen to me. “Is that Carter Hayes?”

I flip the phone over to hide the screen, my heart skipping uncomfortably in my chest.

“Work,” I say simply.

Her brow lifts, and she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“Sure,” she says, her tone almost teasing. But there’s something harder behind her smile, something calculating. “I’d be careful with that, though. Boys like him…they don’t usually stick around. Not when someone better comes along.”

That digs deeper than I want it to, but I don’t let it show.

Instead, I stand and gather my things, my voice cool and even as I reply.

“Thanks for your concern, Savannah. I’ll be in touch with a first draft of your pitch deck by the end of next week.”

I don’t wait for her to say anything else.

But as I walk out of the room, her words echo in my head anyway—quiet and cruel, harder to shake than I want to admit.