Page 36 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T he holidays are weird for me.

Always have been.

Driving through campus tonight, it feels like the whole world is strung up in lights—every tree trunk wrapped in little white bulbs, wreaths on every dorm door, carols playing through speakers by the quad.

And I like it.

I really do.

There’s something about it that makes me feel…I don’t know. Softer. Like the air is easier to breathe when it smells faintly like pine and sugar cookies.

I’ve got a soft spot for the Grinch too. Don’t ask me why. Probably something about a guy who thinks he doesn’t belong but still can’t help giving a damn anyway.

And yeah, I watch the Holiday Baking Championship. Every year. Even when the guys give me shit for knowing the difference between Italian and Swiss meringue.

It’s my guilty pleasure, all right?

But even with all that, when the lights are glowing and the music’s playing, there’s still this weight that settles in my chest.

Because this time of year also reminds me of everything I didn’t have growing up.

There’s no family waiting for me back home. No tree. No stupid traditions or inside jokes.

Just memories of bouncing from one foster house to the next, never staying long enough to feel like I was really wanted anywhere.

I never say any of this out loud—not to the guys, not to anyone.

Far as the team knows, I’m just Carter Hayes. QB1. Party guy. Always up for a laugh. Always good with the girls.

But nobody in that locker room knows what it feels like to sit alone on Christmas morning in a stranger’s living room while their real kids tear open presents and you just…watch.

Nobody but Coach Harding.

He’s the only one who knows the whole story, because he was the one who helped me get here.

He took a chance on me coming right out of high school.

In one of our first meetings, he asked me what would be the main roadblock keeping me from attending PCU that fall.

I was honest, telling him that I was barely able to keep enough food on hand with working at the local grocery store, and definitely hadn’t been able to save for college.

He looked at me that day, without pity, and told me he’d be honored if I’d come play for him that fall. My grades weren’t the best, but he still took a chance and talked the school into offering me a full-ride scholarship to come play ball.

I don’t know if I’d still be playing if it weren’t for him. I don’t even know if I’d still be in school.

And maybe that’s why, even now, I do what I can to make sure kids like me don’t feel forgotten this time of year.

Every December since my freshman year, I’ve organized a holiday charity event through the athletic department. Food, coats, gifts—whatever we can collect for local kids in the system.

Some of the guys on the team volunteer to help, which is great, but none of them know why it matters to me.

Why it feels like the least I can do.

And I don’t want them to know.

Because then it’s not about the kids anymore—it’s about me. And that’s not the point.

I pull into my spot outside the football house, cutting the engine and sitting there for a minute,

watching my breath fog up the windshield.

The street’s lined with little houses covered in twinkling lights.

I tell myself they don’t mean anything.

But deep down, a part of me still wishes I belonged somewhere like that.

Somewhere I didn’t have to wonder if I was wanted.

And maybe that’s why I work so hard to make everyone else believe I already do.

I finally grab my keys and climb out of the Jeep, my boots crunching against the frosted driveway.

It’s loud inside already—shouts and laughter spilling out through the front door every time it opens. A couple of the guys are hanging on the porch, beers in hand, still riding the high of the playoff win.

I head around back to the hatch of the Jeep, flipping it open and starting to unload the bags I’d stuffed back here earlier.

Plastic bags full of toys, winter coats, little sneakers still in their boxes.

One bag. Two. Three.

It feels heavier this year.

Not because the bags actually weigh more—but because this year I can afford more.

The NIL money has been a blessing, no question. More than I ever thought I’d see at this age.

And if I can use it to keep just one kid in the system from feeling like they don’t matter?

Then it’s worth every dollar.

I’m halfway back to the hatch for another load when the front door swings open and Logan steps out, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, his eyes lighting up when he spots me.

“Yo! Carter’s here!” he calls back into the house, jogging over to grab a couple bags out of my hands.

Before I can even say anything, a couple more guys spill outside, grinning and clapping me on the back.

“What’s all this?” one of them asks, taking a bag and peeking inside.

“Donations,” I say simply, nodding toward the house.

“You’re a better man than me, Hayes,” Logan says with a low whistle as he carries two big bags inside.

I just shake my head faintly, grabbing the last two myself and following them in.

The house is even louder once I step inside—Christmas music blaring from someone’s speaker, the dining table completely covered in rolls of wrapping paper, scissors, tape, and bows.

Half the guys are already crowded around, carefully—or not so carefully—wrapping toys and clothes with clumsy fingers.

Logan drops his bags on a chair and grins. “We’re about halfway through the pile. School really went all out this year, huh?”

I just nod again, setting the rest of the bags down by the table.

It’s not really a lie, letting them think it’s just a school donation drive.

But this year…it’s me.

Because I know what it feels like to open a package from some nameless charity and feel like just another statistic.

If these kids can see that someone—a real person, one who has faced the same unknowns and uncertainties as they have, cared enough to make sure they have something to open this year…

Maybe it’ll help keep one of them on the right path.

Even if just for a little while.

I grab a roll of paper and slide into an empty chair, nodding at the pile of unwrapped gifts in the corner.

“All right,” I say, cracking a faint smile as the guys look up at me expectantly. “Let’s get to work.”

Jaxon grins at me from the end of the table, his hands already halfway through wrapping what looks like a toy firetruck. “Figured we’d get the rookies warmed up before the boss showed up.”

It makes me laugh, even though the word boss feels weird. I’m just…me. Just trying to do something good with the money I’ve been blessed with.

Still. I can’t deny how good it feels to see them all here—joking, eating, arguing over whose bow-tying technique is better. I slide right into the chaos, handing out scissors, tape, and the little cards I had printed up for the kids.

Nobody here knows the full story—that these aren’t just names on a list to me. That I’ve been one of those names. Sitting in some quiet group home, pretending not to care when Christmas came and went without so much as a knock on the door.

Jaxon nudges me with his elbow at one point. “You good?”

I nod, flashing him a smile. “Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

We’re halfway through wrapping when I notice something strange.

It smells…good.

Like really good.

Like sugar, cinnamon, and maybe something burning.

I look up just in time to see Beck emerge from the kitchen, hands covered in flour, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Uh…anyone know how to work an oven timer?” he asks.

The entire table bursts out laughing.

Jaxon groans and tosses his roll of tape on the table. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing!” Beck protests. “I just thought, you know…cookies would be a nice touch. Like, for the kids. Or…us.” He holds up his hands. “But the recipe’s got, like, steps and measurements and all kinds of witchcraft, man.”

I can’t help it—I start laughing too.

Jaxon stands up, shaking his head like he’s dealing with a toddler. “I swear, you’re hopeless.”

“Hey,” Beck says, following Jaxon back toward the kitchen. “Just wait till you taste ’em. You’ll see.”

From my seat at the table, I can hear them bickering in the kitchen. Jaxon telling Beck he used too much flour, Beck insisting that “more is better,” then the sound of pans clattering and the oven door squeaking open.

It’s ridiculous.

And yet…it’s perfect.

These guys aren’t just teammates. Not tonight. Tonight they’re brothers.

Even if we’re all a little broken.

Even if the family we were born into didn’t stick.

Somehow, here—with flour on the counters and pizza boxes stacked high and laughter filling the air—we found each other anyway.

Later, just after dark, the door opens again.

And there she is.

Lyla.

Her red hair is up in that messy bun she always wears, a camera bag slung across her body. She hesitates for a second in the doorway, like she wasn’t sure she’d be welcome, and then steps inside when she spots me.

“Coach asked me to grab some photos and clips for the athletic department,” she says by way of explanation, though her voice isn’t quite as sharp as usual.

I just nod, watching her as she pulls her camera out and starts moving through the room. She’s quiet, but the guys welcome her like she’s one of us. They pose, they laugh when she catches them making dumb faces, and even Jaxon hams it up for her lens.

And me?

I can’t stop watching her.

How she softens when one of the freshmen offers her a slice of pizza. How she crouches down to get the perfect shot of the gift piles. How she smiles—not that polite smile she wears for her dad, but a real one—when one of the guys thanks her for helping out.

Found family.

That’s what tonight feels like.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet, she’s part of that too.