Page 30 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T hat night, the apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the dishwasher and the occasional scratch of my pen against my notes.

I’m still sitting at the kitchen island, laptop open, with Savannah’s folder spread out in front of me. I’ve been working on her draft pitch deck for hours now, trying to block out her voice from earlier, those sharp little words that keep replaying anyway.

Boys like him don’t usually stick around. Not when someone better comes along.

I press my pen harder into the paper than necessary and tear off a sticky note, setting it aside.

My phone buzzes next to me, breaking my concentration.

It’s a text from Carter.

Quarterback: you home?

I stare at the screen for a second, then type back before I can overthink it.

Yeah.

It only takes two more seconds before I hear it—three firm knocks on my door.

I blink, glancing toward the hallway, my chest already tight.

When I open the door, he’s leaning against the frame like he owns it, hoodie loose over his shoulders, hair still damp like he just got back from the gym.

And in his hand?

A paper bag from my favorite burger place.

“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” he says, holding it up like an offering.

I just stand there for a second, staring at him, something unspoken catching in my chest.

Finally, I step aside and tug the door open wider.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter under my breath, even as I feel my lips curve despite myself.

He grins faintly as he brushes past me into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says easily, setting the bag on the counter and glancing over his shoulder at me. “You tell me that a lot, but you seem to like me anyway.”

He’s not wrong.

We sit at the island, the two of us side by side, the paper bag crinkling between us as he pulls out two burgers and a container of fries.

He pushes one wrapped burger toward me, then the fries, and leans back on his stool to unwrap his own like he’s done this here a hundred times.

“Don’t just stare at it,” he says when I hesitate, quirking a brow at me. “You’re not impressing anyone by pretending you’re not hungry.”

I roll my eyes and peel the wrapper back, ignoring the little curl of something warm in my chest when his mouth twitches into a faint smirk.

For a while, it’s quiet, just the sound of the wrappers and the faint noise of the TV in the living room. The burger’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed—warm and salty and grounding somehow—and even though I’m still thinking about Savannah’s words, the ache in my chest softens with every bite.

Carter pops a fry into his mouth and glances sideways at me.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally.

I shrug, wiping my hands on a napkin. “Just a lot on my mind. Work stuff.”

He watches me for a beat, like he wants to push, but just nods like he gets it.

We fall into another stretch of silence, the kind that’s somehow comfortable with him. Every now and then his knee brushes against mine under the island, and each time it sends this stupid, low thrum through me that I try to ignore.

It isn’t until he’s down to the last few fries that he leans back on his stool and asks, almost casually, “When’s Madison getting home?”

I pause mid-bite, blinking at him.

I shake my head faintly, my lips quirking into something small and wry.

“I don’t think she is tonight,” I say, setting my burger down.

His brows lift slightly.

“She texted me earlier,” I add, tearing off a corner of my napkin to give my hands something to do. “Said she’s probably staying at your guys’ place.”

Carter lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head like he’s not even surprised.

I ball up the wrappers, and Carter grabs the bag, tossing everything in the trash before turning back to me with that little grin of his.

“All right,” he says, leaning against the counter. “You’ve worked enough for one night. Couch. Now.”

I arch a brow at him. “You’re very bossy, you know that?”

He smirks. “And yet, here you are, still listening to me.”

I shake my head but slide off the stool anyway, grabbing my blanket as I pass him. He follows me into the living room like he owns the place, dropping onto the couch beside me and stealing the remote before I can even reach for it.

“What are you—hey!” I protest when he scrolls past the dramas I usually pick.

He ignores me, settling on some ridiculous episode of Baking Wars—overly dramatic music, bakers shouting about soufflés collapsing, sprinkles flying everywhere.

I stare at the screen for a second before sinking back into the cushions with a reluctant laugh.

“Good at football, hot as hell, and he likes to watch baking shows,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “All of that and more, Princess. You’re welcome.”

The banter falls away as the show plays on, the warmth of him next to me sinking into my side.

His thigh brushes mine every so often, his fingers idly twisting the corner of the blanket where it drapes across both our laps.

This feels…easy. Which only makes it more dangerous.

Halfway through the next episode, he shifts slightly, angling his body toward me.

I glance over to find him watching me—not the TV—with that calm, unreadable look he sometimes gets.

“What?” I ask softly, trying to keep my voice even.

He tilts his head, his eyes steady on mine.

“This might sound weird and it also might not be my place to ask, but…” he rubs his hand up and down his arm, obviously nervous. “Beck had mentioned a while ago that you two had a thing during one of the times he and Angie were off before they were on again.”

I try my best to make sure my lips don’t twitch into a smile. “What did he tell you?”

“That he was sad, you were lonely, and one thing happened after the other.”

I can’t help but burst out laughing at that.

“We hung out, that’s it. I think he kissed me on the cheek a couple times, but that’s about the extent of anything.

I could tell he needed a friend, and we did go on a couple dates, so I would consider it sorta dating?

I’m not really one to take anything to the physical level unless the feelings are there to back that up.

But it was never serious, and nothing physical happened. It’s cute that you’re jealous, though.”

“I’m not jealous. I was just…clearing the air,” he says, his cheeks turning a little bit redder than normal.

Crossing my arms over my chest and turning to face him fully, I bite back. “Oh really? Would you like me to clear the air with any and all women at this college you’ve been rumored to be with?”

He groans at that, mumbling a barely coherent “no” as he sinks under the blanket he’s now using as a shield.

“Aw, what’s wrong, Hayes?” I move over to where I can poke him in the side. “You don’t want to go over your dating history with me?”

He groans even louder from under the blanket, his voice muffled. “Not exactly high on my list of favorite topics, no.”

I grin, scooting a little closer, and peel the blanket down just enough to see his face. His cheeks really are pink now, his jaw tight, even though he’s trying to play it off.

“Why not?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Afraid I’ll keep a running tally?”

He glares up at me, though it’s more sheepish than menacing. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore.”

That throws me for just a second.

I blink at him, my teasing faltering. “What do you mean?”

He exhales and sits up a little, dragging a hand through his messy hair. The blanket slips off his shoulders, pooling in his lap as he finally looks at me straight on.

“Because you’re here,” he says simply.

The statement hangs in the air between us, quiet but heavy, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.

I’m still floundering for words when his lips twitch.

“You’re overthinking,” he murmurs, and before I can even process what that means, his hand shoots out and grabs my side, giving it a quick, sharp squeeze.

I yelp, jerking away instinctively, and that’s all the opening he needs.

“Oh, no,” I warn, but he’s already grinning, leaning in closer.

“Ticklish, huh? Good to know,” he says, and then he attacks—his fingers digging into my ribs and my stomach until I’m gasping and writhing under the blanket, laughter spilling out before I can stop it.

“Carter—stop!” I half-laugh, half-gasp, trying to twist away.

But he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he doubles down, his grin downright evil as he shifts over me, his knees bracketing my hips as he pins me to the couch.

“You think you can just talk shit and not pay for it?” he says through his own laughter, shifting closer as I squirm away.

I try to shove his hands off me, but he’s stronger, faster, and suddenly we’re both sliding off the couch, landing in a heap on the carpet.

I’m breathless, half-laughing, half-protesting, my hair falling into my face as I try to crawl away.

But then his hands are on either side of me, and I realize he’s straddling me now, pinning me to the floor.

The laughter dies between us almost instantly.

He’s leaning over me, breathing hard, his hoodie hanging loose as his eyes lock on mine.

Instantly, the air shifts.

No more teasing.

No more pretending.

I swallow hard, my pulse thudding in my ears as he studies me.

His voice drops, quiet but sharp, cutting right through me.

“Why do you let me touch you like this,” he murmurs, his gaze searching mine. “If you don’t want this to mean anything?”

I can’t breathe.

Because for the first time all night, I don’t have a single clever thing to say back.

The air feels thick between us, every inch of space charged.

He is staring down at me like he’s trying to figure out how far he can push before I finally crack.

My lips part, but no sound comes out.

And he notices.

Of course he notices.

His jaw tightens, and he dips his head just slightly, his breath brushing across my cheek.

“If you don’t want me to kiss you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You need to tell me right now.”

My chest rises and falls too fast, my heart hammering against my ribs as his words settle over me.

“I’m serious, Lyla,” he adds, his eyes locked on mine. “You tell me to stop, and I swear I will. But if you don’t…”

His words hang between us, but I don’t say anything.

I can’t say anything.

Instead, I let my actions speak for me.

My fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, tugging him down to me until his lips meet mine.

It’s like a spark igniting gasoline—instant, hot, completely consuming.

He exhales sharply against my mouth, his body sinking lower as he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding under the back of my neck to tilt my head just the way he wants it.

I gasp when his tongue sweeps against mine, my hands tightening in the fabric of his hoodie as he presses me harder into the carpet.

Every inch of him is heat and muscle, impossible to ignore, and the sound he makes—low and rough when I arch up into him—goes straight to my core.

His hand moves to my waist, fingers flexing as he drags my hips up against his. The friction steals what little breath I have left, and I feel my legs shift automatically, parting just enough for him to settle more fully between them.

The kiss turns messier, hungrier, his teeth catching my bottom lip as my nails rake across his shoulders.

I can feel his chest rising and falling against mine, his heartbeat pounding just as fast as mine, and the weight of him on top of me has my thoughts scattering into nothing but heat.

But then reality cuts through the haze just enough for me to remember where we are.

Madison.

The possibility of her walking in at any second.

I tear my mouth away from his, my chest heaving as I whisper, “Carter…”

He freezes instantly, his eyes searching mine, concern flashing there.

But instead of telling him to stop, I tug at his hoodie again, my lips still barely brushing his as I murmur, “We…we should go to my room. In case Madison decides to come home.”

For a beat, he just stares at me, his pupils blown, his breathing ragged.

Then he grins—slow, dangerous—and pushes himself up just enough to help me to my feet.

“Lead the way, Princess,” he murmurs, his voice so dark and low it makes my knees weak.

And when I turn to head down the hall, I can already feel his hand on my hip, following close behind.