Page 33 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T here’s nothing like this.

Nothing in the world like standing on the field under the lights, with thousands of fans screaming your name, and knowing everyone’s watching to see if you’ll rise or choke.

And tonight, I’m not planning to choke.

Final regular season game. My last one in this uniform if things go how they’re supposed to in the spring.

But right now?

All that matters is beating these guys.

And maybe—if I’m being honest—impressing the girl who keeps glancing at me from the sidelines when she thinks I’m not looking.

The ref blows the whistle.

The first quarter starts fast.

We take the kickoff, and I’m already calling my cadence, reading the defense as we line up.

“Blue eighty! Set—hike!”

The ball’s in my hands, the line’s crashing down around me, and the pocket holds just long enough for me to spot Beck cutting across the middle. I fire it in, and he snags it out of the air before getting dragged down at the thirty.

First down.

I slap his helmet when we jog back to the huddle, my breath already clouding in the chilly air.

Next play’s a run. Then another slant. Then a fake screen that I keep myself, ducking around a linebacker and diving over the line to move the chains again.

Every drive, every snap, we chip away at them.

And every time I come off the field, my eyes find her.

Lyla.

She’s standing at the thirty with her notepad and mic, hair pulled back tight, her cheeks pink from the cold. She keeps pretending to scribble something every time I look her way.

But I see the way her gaze lingers on me just a second longer than it should.

By the second quarter, we’re up by a touchdown.

But they’re tough.

They come back swinging, hitting a big run right up the middle that ties it up with three minutes left before halftime.

We regroup on the sideline, and I pace like a caged animal while the defense does their job.

When the ball’s back in my hands, I call the guys into the huddle.

“This is ours,” I bark, my voice cutting through the noise of the stadium. “No panic. No stupid shit. Just do your jobs.”

They nod, and I can feel the energy shift.

Snap. Drop back. Hit Jaxon on a corner route that gets us twenty.

Snap. Fake handoff. Roll right. Thread the needle to Beck between two defenders.

The clock’s running down, but I don’t care—I’m locked in.

Thirty seconds left, we’re on the eight-yard line.

I call the play at the line, nod to my center, and take the snap.

The pocket collapses, and I can feel a linebacker right at my back, but I spin, keep my eyes downfield, and see Jaxon just as he breaks free toward the corner of the end zone.

I let it fly.

Perfect spiral.

He hauls it in, drags his toes inside the line.

Touchdown.

The crowd explodes, and my guys mob me as we jog off the field.

Halftime. Up by seven.

In the locker room, everyone’s loud, pumped, but I sit on the bench and grab some water, my mind already on the next two quarters.

And—if I’m honest—on her.

Her face keeps flashing through my head. The way she looked last night, lying beneath me, whispering my name like she actually meant it.

I shake it off because I have a job to do.

We come out after halftime, and it’s a slugfest.

They push back hard in the third quarter, hitting a deep ball that ties it up.

Then we answer with a long drive, Jaxon pulling down two impossible catches to put us in field goal range.

We go up by three.

They come back with a field goal of their own.

Fourth quarter. Tied.

This is where we find out what we’re made of.

We get the ball on our own twenty with three minutes left.

I call the guys in.

“All we need is three,” I say, my voice low and steady. “We’ve done this a hundred times. You do your jobs, I’ll do mine.”

They nod, and we line up.

Snap.

I drop back, see the rush coming, and dump it off to the running back for eight.

Next play, I keep it myself on a read option, diving forward for another first down.

The clock’s ticking.

One minute left.

We’re on their thirty-five.

I fake a slant to Beck and hit Jaxon on a deep out, putting us on the twenty.

The crowd’s deafening now.

Thirty seconds.

We spike it to stop the clock.

Second down, I take the snap and roll right, looking for Beck in the corner. Covered.

I plant my foot and cut back left, weaving through traffic until I’m inside the ten before they drag me down.

The guys haul me up, and I grin, already calling the next play.

Fifteen seconds.

First and goal.

I glance at the sideline just once, and I see her there—watching me, eyes wide, her notepad forgotten at her side.

This one’s for her.

I take the snap, fake the handoff, and loft a quick fade to Jaxon in the back corner.

He comes down with it.

Touchdown.

Game.

The stadium erupts, my teammates piling on me as the final whistle blows.

We’ve won.

We’re going to the playoffs.

And for the first time in my life, that’s not even the best part of my night.

When we finally file back into the locker room, the guys are still hollering, throwing towels, spraying water like champagne.

But I sit at my locker, peel off my helmet, and let myself breathe for the first time in four quarters.

Because all I can think about is getting cleaned up, walking back out there…

And seeing her again.

The locker room’s loud after the game.

I’m leaning back on the bench, still half-laced into my cleats, letting the adrenaline finally bleed off.

Good game. We’re playoff bound, our first undefeated season in decades. And I can already feel the corners of my mouth twitching just thinking about seeing Lyla later.

I’m mid-way through unwrapping the tape from my wrist when I hear it.

“Did you see Montgomery run straight for Madison? That girl’s got a type, huh?”

The words cut through the noise.

I freeze, my fingers stilling, my head lifting toward the voice.

Some second-string wide receiver, laughing like he thinks he’s clever.

Another guy chuckles. “What do you mean?”

The first one snorts. “I mean, first Carter, now Jaxon? Girl sure knows how to pick her athletes.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

But not from me.

Because the second I glance toward Jaxon, I know.

His whole body’s gone still, his jaw tight enough to crack, his eyes locked on the idiot who said it.

And by the time I’m on my feet, it’s already too late.

Jaxon stands. Turns. And the whole room goes quiet.

Shit.

Everyone knows what’s coming.

“Jax,” I start, but he’s already moving.

The guy’s mid-smirk when Jaxon grabs him by the jersey and slams him into the lockers so hard it makes the entire row rattle.

“Say that shit again,” Jaxon growls, low and dangerous, his face inches from the kid’s. “I dare you.”

The receiver’s eyes go wide, his hands coming up defensively as he sputters. “I—I didn’t mean?—”

I step up behind Jaxon, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Jax—man. Let it go. He’s not worth it.”

Jaxon doesn’t even flinch.

His voice stays calm, but there’s an edge to it, sharp enough to cut. “You got something to say about my girl, you say it to me. And I’ll make sure you never say it again.”

The guy swallows hard. “I—I swear, man. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Jaxon just holds him there for another second before shoving him back and stepping away.

The air is thick and heavy, everyone watching him like he might still throw a punch.

But he doesn’t.

He just grabs his duffle, yanks his hoodie over his head, and storms toward the door.

I catch his arm before he can leave, leaning in just enough to lower my voice. “Jax. Breathe, man. Don’t do something stupid.”

He shakes me off, not even looking back as he shoves his phone into his pocket and stalks out of the locker room.

And everyone else?

They know better than to say a damn word.

The door slams behind Jaxon, and the silence he leaves behind is thick.

The wide receiver he lit up sits frozen on the bench, staring down at his hands.

And everyone else?

They just…stare.

At the floor. At the lockers. At me.

I run a hand over my face, letting out a sharp breath before stepping into the middle of the room.

“Y’all think that shit’s funny?” I say, my voice calm but carrying.

A few heads snap up.

I let my eyes sweep the room, from one guy to the next, until they all meet my stare.

“Because it’s not. You don’t talk about a teammate’s girl. You don’t talk about his family. You don’t talk about anything that isn’t your business. Ever.”

No one says a word.

I take another step forward, my tone hardening.

“You want to know what a team is? It’s having each other’s backs. On the field and off. It’s shutting your damn mouth when you don’t know what you’re talking about. And it’s knowing that what you say in here reflects on all of us out there. You disrespect one of us, you disrespect all of us.”

I glance at the kid who started it, and he nods quickly, looking like he wants to crawl into the floor.

“Good,” I say simply, my voice dropping back down.

Then I shake my head, turning back toward my locker.

Behind me, the air stays quiet, heavier now.

And just as I’m about to sit back down and strip off my pads, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Hayes.”

I look up.

Coach Harding stands in the doorway of his office, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Step in here a minute,” he says.

Oh fuck.

My stomach tightens, but I just nod, set my stuff down, and follow him inside.

Coach Harding shuts the office door behind me, and the muted buzz of the locker room fades.

I stand just inside, trying to keep my expression neutral, even though my stomach’s already in knots.

He drops into his chair, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, his sharp gaze fixed on me like he can see right through me.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my hands balling into fists at my sides.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, his lips pressed into a thin line.

My chest gets tight.

Here it comes.

I knew this day would come eventually.

The way he’s looking at me, like he already knows what I’ve been doing. Like he already knows I spent the night with his daughter. Like he’s about to tear me apart piece by piece for daring to even look at her, let alone?—

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks finally, his voice low.

I swallow hard, my mind scrambling for something to say.

“Look, Coach,” I blurt. “I know what you’re thinking?—”

His brow furrows. “You do?”

I nod quickly, heat crawling up the back of my neck.

“And I just—” I hesitate, then sigh. “It wasn’t planned, okay? And I know it’s crossing a line, and I swear I’m not trying to hurt her or?—”

He cuts me off with a raised hand, his eyes narrowing.

“What the hell are you talking about, Hayes?”

I blink. “Uh…nothing?”

His brow stays furrowed, but he shakes his head slightly, muttering something under his breath.

Then he straightens and grabs a stack of papers from his desk, sliding them toward me.

I glance down at them.

Logos. NFL logos. Team letterheads. Notes.

“You’ve got three teams asking for extra film on you,” he says flatly.

I stare.

“And another two asking if they can come watch you at practice next week.”

For a second, I can’t even speak.

Coach leans back in his chair, arms folded, his eyes still on me.

“You’ve been putting up numbers all season,” he says. “You’ve been carrying yourself like a pro, on and off the field. And they’re noticing.”

I finally force myself to look up at him, my heart still hammering for a completely different reason now.

“They…they really asked about me?” I manage.

“They did.” His mouth curves into the faintest smile. “And if you keep your head on straight, they’ll keep asking.”

I let out a shaky breath, sinking into the chair across from his desk.

Because for the first time, it actually feels real.

“Now, what were you saying about not hurting her?”

The blood immediately leaves my face. “Oh, I thought you were talking about something else. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll see you at film on Monday.”

I’m out of the office before I can read his expression, but I can hear him grumble as I tear out of there.

“Fucking football players…”

Can’t argue with the sentiment. Especially when I’m falling for his daughter.