Page 3 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

I ’m fine.

That’s the lie I repeat as I walk through the glass doors of the PCU athletic complex on Monday morning with my head high and stomach tangled in knots.

The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, and the rhythmic thud of weights from the nearby gym are setting my OCD on edge this morning.

Some days, the extra hustle and noise doesn’t get to me. But, when I’m already feeling guilty and still spiraling over the fact that I have no fucking filter in social interactions, you could say I’m on edge this morning.

I shouldn’t still be thinking about Friday night. About the party game. Definitely not about him.

But my brain won’t let it go.

Carter is a mystery that I want to solve. Why? I have no clue, but there’s just something about him that almost draws me in. Madison considers him a great friend, and I do believe she has great taste, so there has to be more to him than what I’m seeing.

Not because I care, obviously. But because from what I see on the outside, Carter Hayes doesn’t do real.

He does cheap beer, late nights, and that smug smile that makes girls trip over themselves to get his attention and lose their panties soon after.

I push the thought down and force my focus back to the tablet in my hand. I’ve got a schedule to finalize and a player media meeting in ten minutes. No time to unravel.

I step into the main media suite, where a dozen interns are already hunched over laptops and production boards. My favorite camera assistant, Gabe, waves as I walk by.

“You’re late,” he teases.

“You’re needy,” I reply without looking up, dropping into my seat just as the director walks in.

“Morning, everyone,” he says, clapping his hands.

“We’re adjusting our rollout schedule for the fall player profiles.

NIL exposure is up this quarter, so we’re doubling down on short-form content.

That means curated clips, custom interviews, personality-driven footage—make them look like the stars they are. ”

I nod along, already drafting a mental checklist to go alongside the list I’m jotting down.

“Assignments will be updated today. Lyla, you’ve got Hayes again. Then Montgomery and Harrison. You’ll start with Hayes—he’s waiting in the film room.”

I blink. “Again?”

The director looks up. “Problem?”

Yes. No. Definitely yes.

“No,” I say quickly. “All good.”

The walk to the film room is short, but somehow I manage to cycle through an entire emotional breakdown in the span of thirty seconds.

He’s just a player. You’re doing your job. This is fine. Totally fine. God, why does my mouth feel dry?

I stop outside the door, press my hand to my stomach, and take a deep breath.

I push the door open and find Carter already lounging in one of the chairs like he owns the place, spinning a football lazily in one hand. He looks up when he sees me—and grins.

That grin.

The one that says he knows exactly how much trouble he is.

“Princess,” he drawls. “Was starting to think you bailed on me. Couldn’t handle the aftermath of the game, huh?”

I lift a brow. “You mean the game where you admitted to sexualizing a woman who is here to further your education?”

His smile doesn’t fade. “You asked the question.”

“And you answered it exactly as I thought you would.”

He shrugs and tosses the football from one hand to the other. “Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

I ignore that as I walk straight to the equipment table and start unpacking the mic and camera gear.

I can feel his gaze on me the entire time.

“Come on,” he says after a beat. “Admit it. You’ve been thinking about me.”

I glance up. “I’ve been thinking about how to professionally edit around your ego. It’s harder than it sounds.”

He chuckles, that low rasp a sound that grates on my nerves and sends tingles straight between my legs.

I hate that sound.

Mostly because I don’t.

The filming setup takes longer than usual—for the most part because I’m hyperaware of how close I have to stand to him while adjusting the mic and how warm his skin is under my fingers when I clip it to his shirt.

Why does he have to smell so good? It’s earthy, woodsy even? With a hint of…well, him.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make it worse. “You keep touching me like that and people might start talking.”

I step back fast, scowling. “People already talk. I just really don’t care what they say about you.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes this time.

“Is that so?”

I hit record without replying.

The questions are standard—what motivates you, favorite part of game day, one piece of advice for younger athletes—but his answers aren’t what I expect. They’re quieter. Thoughtful.

Genuine.

“Who inspires you most?” I ask, not even looking up from my notepad.

There’s a pause.

Then: “People who fight to be more than what the world expects them to be.”

My eyes flick up to him before I can stop myself.

He’s not looking at the camera.

He’s looking at me.

After I call cut, the silence stretches.

Carter shifts in his chair, voice softer than usual. “Do you really think I’m just some party boy with a decent spiral? Or is that easier than figuring out the rest?”

I stare at him.

And for one brief, dangerous second—I almost let myself answer.

But I start packing up the gear instead.

He watches me do it.

When I move past him to unplug the light, he speaks again.

“You know what your problem is?”

I don’t respond. Not yet.

“You wear armor like it’s a personality trait. But I’ve seen you when it slips. You’re sharpest when you’re not trying to cut.”

That gets to me more than I want to admit.

I zip the gear bag shut and walk to the door. “And you’re still talking like you’ve got me figured out.”

“I don’t,” he says, standing. “But I know you look at me like I’m everything you hate, wrapped up in a single package.”

I turn the handle.

“And I think,” he says quietly. “You’re just scared of what might happen if I’m not.”

I step into the hall without answering.

And I don’t look back.