Page 35 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

B y the time I leave my Wednesday morning lecture, my phone is already buzzing with notifications.

Emails, calendar reminders, and one text from Carter that just says don’t work too hard, Princess.

I can’t help the faint smile that pulls at my lips, even as I duck into the athletics building and head toward my first meeting of the day.

Grayson Bennett is already waiting when I get there, leaning back in the chair outside the conference room like he owns the place.

“Lyla,” he greets, flashing me that easy, hockey-boy grin.

“Grayson,” I reply, setting my laptop bag on the table as we step inside.

Grayson is the easiest of my three NIL athletes to deal with. He’s good-natured, polite enough to listen to feedback, and genuinely seems excited about the deals coming his way.

He’s also not making it hard to focus, unlike Carter.

We spend twenty minutes reviewing the current offers—local sportswear brands, a mid-tier energy drink company, and an appearance deal at a youth hockey camp.

“This one,” he says decisively, tapping his finger against the camp contract. “That’s the one I care about. The rest we can talk about later.”

I make a note, glancing up at him. “You know, most guys your age would’ve picked the paycheck over the community event.”

Grayson just shrugs, grinning again. “My mom would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t show the kids some love.”

I laugh under my breath and pack up my notes. “Good choice. I’ll follow up with them and circle back once we have more details.”

We shake hands, and just like that, he’s gone—off to practice, leaving me alone in the conference room to prep for my next meeting.

Savannah.

I don’t even have to look at the clock to know she’s going to show up fashionably late.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, she breezes in wearing oversized sunglasses and a designer warmup set, her glossy blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.

“Sorry, ran over,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

I keep my voice polite as I gesture to the seat across from me. “That’s fine. I wanted to go over the latest list of brands that have reached out to sponsor you.”

Her sunglasses come off, and she props her chin on her hand, giving me a perfectly bored look.

I flip my laptop around so she can see the list. “Here are the names—mostly fitness brands and a few apparel lines. And…yes. Posie and Company is still interested.”

Savannah makes a face, sitting up straighter.

“No,” she says flatly.

“I know you’ve mentioned you’re not interested,” I start carefully. “But they’ve come back with an increased offer and a much shorter contract term. It would still be one of the more lucrative deals you’ve had?—”

She cuts me off with a wave of her manicured hand.

“I don’t care if they offer me stock in the company. I’m not working with the same brand that signed Avery Daniels. End of story.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sighing.

Instead, I just nod and make a note.

“I’ll let them know,” I say evenly.

“Thank you,” she replies, leaning back and pulling her phone out of her bag like the meeting is already over.

I close my laptop, gather my things, then stand.

And as I leave the room, I can’t help but wonder if she realizes how much easier she makes it to root against her.

Coming into the second half of the week, I can’t help but feel like my brain has been wrung out like a dish rag.

Finals week at PCU is brutal, and no amount of color-coded planners or perfectly timed study breaks can make up for the way my nerves coil tighter with each passing day.

It’s like trying to sprint a marathon.

By Thursday morning, I’ve already sat through two exams, written one case study, and outlined a research paper on consumer psychology that’s still waiting to be typed.

But there’s one last thing on my checklist before I can even think about breathing again: my final presentation for Marketing Strategy.

I smooth down my blazer as I stand at the front of the classroom, trying not to let the quiet murmur of my classmates get under my skin.

On the screen behind me is the title slide:

Social Media-Driven NIL Deals: Growth Strategies and Long-Term Impact

My professor nods from her seat. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Harding.”

I take a breath, clutching my clicker, and start.

“Over the past semester, I’ve worked closely with several of PCU’s student-athletes to develop and execute targeted marketing strategies designed to maximize the visibility and value of their NIL deals,” I begin, my voice steady, even though my stomach is still tight.

I click to the next slide—graphs, charts, snapshots of campaign engagement numbers.

“These are the results: an average thirty-seven percent increase in follower engagement, a twenty-two percent uptick in unique impressions, and—most importantly—four additional brand contracts signed as a direct result of the social media growth.”

I glance at the professor, then back at the room, feeling a little more confidence creep into my voice.

“Not only does this approach improve current earning potential, it positions these athletes for longevity with their brands after graduation, fostering relationships that extend beyond their playing careers.”

I move through the next few slides—outlining strategies for brand alignment, crisis management, and audience retention.

And by the time I hit my final point, something strange happens.

I actually smile.

Because as much as I’ve second-guessed myself this semester, the numbers don’t lie.

This plan works. My plan works.

I finish with a neat little bow, field a couple of softball questions, and gather my things as the professor thanks me.

When I finally sink back into my seat, my hands are still a little shaky.

But my heart feels just a little lighter.

Because for the first time in weeks, I let myself feel it.

Pride.

The first playoff game is a blur of noise, adrenaline, and freezing wind.

The stadium is packed to the brim, and the energy crackling off the field is electric from the very first snap.

PCU dominates from the opening drive. Jaxon and Carter are locked in, the defense holds strong, and by the fourth quarter, the student section is already chanting for the next round.

When the final whistle blows and the scoreboard flashes a two-touchdown win, the roar of the crowd rattles through my bones.

And then, as always, it’s my turn to work.

I stand near the thirty-yard line with my mic and notepad, waiting as players jog off the field one by one. My jacket is zipped all the way to my chin, but the wind still bites at my cheeks as I stop each of the key players in turn.

Jaxon is first—calm and focused as ever.

“Great win tonight, Jaxon,” I say over the noise. “What do you credit for the team’s energy coming out so strong?”

He flashes that practiced, easy smile. “We’ve been preparing for this moment since summer camp. Everyone bought in. Everyone did their job. And now we’re one step closer to where we want to be.”

“Thanks,” I say with a small nod.

Beck is next, sweaty and grinning ear to ear, tossing his gloves to a kid in the front row.

“You played lights out tonight,” I tell him as he stops in front of me.

“Eh,” he says with a wink. “What can I say? Some of us were born for the playoffs.”

I roll my eyes but jot his quote down anyway before waving him on.

And then, of course, the last one to come off the field is Carter.

Helmet under his arm, hair damp with sweat, black eye paint smeared. He jogs toward me with that lopsided grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Harding,” he greets, voice low and warm, stopping just a little too close.

I adjust my mic, forcing my expression into something resembling neutral. “Hayes. Impressive game.”

“You noticed,” he says, his smirk deepening.

I clear my throat. “What was the key for you tonight? You seemed locked in from the very first drive.”

He leans in slightly, eyes glittering under the lights. “Just had a little extra motivation.”

I lift a brow, keeping my professional tone. “Care to elaborate on what that motivation was?”

Carter’s gaze holds mine, playful but steady. “Let’s just say there was someone on the sidelines tonight that I didn’t want to disappoint.”

My cheeks heat instantly, but I don’t drop my professional facade.

“Thanks for your time, Hayes,” I say coolly, lowering the mic and scribbling down his quote as he jogs past.

But the smile tugging at his lips as he glances back at me tells he knows exactly what he just did.