Page 4 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

S he leaves the film room like I set it on fire.

Not a glance back. Not a hesitation. Just head held high, shoulders stiff, boots squeaking slightly as she goes on the freshly mopped floor.

I stay in my seat for a second too long.

The camera she left behind is still on the tripod. Her bag was still half-zipped when she bolted, too. And I’m still sitting here, wondering why I feel like I just lost a fight I didn’t know I was in.

She gets under my skin in a way no one ever has before.

Always has. With that clipped voice and those judgey eyes like she’s already measured me and found me lacking. She walks around like the rules are written just for her—and maybe they are, with a last name like Harding—but damn if she doesn’t make it look good.

What gets me is that she sees right through the act. Doesn’t care about the smile. Doesn’t fall for the lines. Doesn’t give a single shit about the jersey or the hype.

And it drives me absolutely insane.

Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want the act to work on her.

I spot her later that afternoon near the weight room, talking to Logan Brooks—our junior wide receiver and resident panty melter with a fake-ass southern drawl and a crooked grin. She’s laughing at something he says, her head tilted just enough that her curls bounce.

She never laughs like that with me.

So naturally, I head right for her.

“Damn, Brooks,” I say loud enough for both of them to hear. “Didn’t know you were into ice queens.”

Logan chuckles low. “Didn’t know you had the balls to talk to her without a crowd to hype you up.”

Lyla turns at the sound of my voice, her arms crossed and eyes already iced over like she’s been waiting for a reason.

“You slumming it today, Princess?” I ask, slow and lazy, like I’ve got all the time in the world to get under her skin. “Or just saving all your fake smiles for guys who don’t make you feel anything?”

She doesn’t blink. “I like men who don’t need a personality transplant to get attention.”

I give her a mock gasp. “Ouch. Did you stay up all night thinking of that one, or is bitterness just your new brand?”

“Better bitter than desperate,” she fires back. “You flirt like it’s a reflex, not a choice. It’s kind of sad.”

That one lands.

I smile anyway. “Admit it. You think about me when I’m not around. Probably have a lot of images of me saved to your spank bank for lonely nights.”

Logan makes a weird choking sound, his eyes shooting between the two of us.

She steps closer, her smirk downright lethal, but more in a way where I feel like she might actually want to kill me or at least chop off my dick. “Only when I need to remind myself what I’ll never want. Thinking of you works better than a cold shower.”

Lifting my shirt up, I run my hands down my abs. “So, you do think about me, huh? Babygirl, this is all yours any time you want it, which we both know you do.”

She cocks her head, giving me a once-over, expression full of venom. “You confuse irritation with interest. Must suck not being able to tell the difference.”

Logan raises a brow, glancing between us one last time before heading out. “Y’all need a room or a damn restraining order.”

Neither of us responds. She’s already turning away, and I’m left staring at her back, admiring her ass as it sways with every step.

Hate to see her go, but damn right I’ll watch her leave.

Practice is a mess.

I can’t focus. Every throw is a little off, every read half a second late. Coach is barking like a rabid dog, and I know I should lock in—but all I can think about is the look on Lyla’s face earlier when she walked away.

Why do I care?

Why does it bother me that she thinks I’m just some surface-level football player who can throw the ball well?

I look toward the sideline and find her immediately.

She’s not filming today. Just taking notes. But she is watching.

Her eyes lock with mine for half a second—and it’s like getting hit in the chest with a linebacker.

Not because it hurts.

Because I feel it.

The fuck?

Coach yells again and I snap out of it. But the damage is done.

“Reset!” he shouts. “Get your head in the damn game, Hayes!”

I put my head down and manage to focus enough to pull it off.

After practice, I cut through the tunnel to avoid the post-practice chaos. I just need a second to cool down.

Of course, the universe doesn’t let me off the hook that easily.

Footsteps echo behind me. I turn and find Lyla walking toward the media entrance, alone, with a bag slung over one shoulder and her chin up, like always.

She doesn’t see me until we’re almost face to face.

I block her path.

She stops short, glaring. “Get the fuck out of my way, Hayes.”

“What’s your deal with me, really?”

She exhales sharply. “Is this where you demand to know my deepest, darkest thoughts and we become besties over past trauma?”

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “This is where I ask why you keep acting like you hate me, when we both know you don’t even know me that well.”

“I don’t have to know you to know I hate you,” she fires back. “I’ve seen enough.”

“From what—sideline soundbites and party rumors?”

“Maybe from how you were boning my bestie last year? Then the rest of the cheer squad? Mister Let me party my way through this easy ass life I get to live. You get under everyone’s skin like it’s a game.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You ever stop to think maybe I get under yours because you let me?”

Her jaw clenches.

“You ever think,” I add, voice lower now as I step even closer to her. “That maybe the only reason I keep bothering is because you’re the only one who tells me no?”

She doesn’t move.

“If that’s all it takes to keep you interested,” she says finally. “Maybe I’ll start saying yes. Just to watch you lose it.”

Then she steps around me and disappears into the stairwell.

I have a feeling I could get used to watching her walk away.

That evening, I’m sprawled out on my bed, playbook open, headphones in with nothing playing.

Jaxon walks in without knocking, as usual. He’s gotten comfortable with us fast after summer training camp.

“You good?”

“Peachy.”

He stares for a beat, then tosses a water bottle at me. I catch it without looking.

“You were off today.”

“Had an off throw.”

“More like ten.”

I glare at him. “You done?”

“Not even close,” he says, dropping onto the chair near my desk. “You’ve been weird since the party. Since a particular truth or dare moment.”

I roll onto my side. “You getting sentimental on me?”

“I’m getting curious,” he says. “And when you get this quiet, it usually means one of two things—you’re about to fight someone or you need to get laid.”

Sometimes you bond with teammates quickly, both on and off the field, and I feel like that’s true for Jaxon and me. Even if sometimes I wish it were just a bit harder for him to read me.

Hiding how close to home he hit, I scoff. “Like that’s ever been an issue for me.”

He cocks a dark brow as Beck walks in, chewing a protein bar, and points at me. “He’s lying.”

“Oh, for sure,” Jaxon agrees, crossing his arms as he leans against my door frame. Why are they even up here to begin with?

Jaxon’s room is at the end of the hall, and Beck lives downstairs whenever he isn’t at his girlfriend’s place.

They’ve been together on and off since middle school, high school sweethearts and all that shit.

But, no offense to him, his girl is a total bitch.

I wouldn’t call a woman that without good reason, and I have it.

She treats him like absolute shit; God knows why he sticks around.

He’s like a poor little puppy any time that girl is near. Someday he’s gonna see the light.

“When haven’t I been able to get a girl in my bed? Especially one with a hot temper and quick comebacks. Her red hair kinda gives you a heads up on what you’re walking into.”

They both go still.

I freeze.

“Wait,” Beck says. “Lyla? Lyla Harding? As in our coach’s daughter? You dog, you.”

“I didn’t mean?—”

“Oh, he meant it,” Jaxon cuts in, grinning. “That explains so much.”

“She hates you,” Beck says, amazed. “And I mean really hates you. That girl looks at you like you ran over her cat.”

“I know,” I mutter.

Jaxon leans back in the chair, smug. “And yet here we are.”

“I don’t like her,” I snap. “I just—she’s hot as fuck. That’s all.”

“You’ve got it bad, man,” Beck says, already laughing. “Next thing we know, you’ll be writing poetry and asking us for relationship tips.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Sure you do.”

I leave the house an hour later, needing to burn off steam. I end up at a party down the block—some junior basketball player’s place, crowded and loud. Familiar faces. Girls who don’t bite when I tease them. Who laugh when I flash a grin.

One of them—Chloe, maybe—presses close, fingers tracing the hem of my shirt. I let her. Let her touch. Let her smile.

She’s cute. Simple.

But still, all I can think is: not her.

Not red curls and green eyes with razor-sharp comebacks. Not Lyla Fucking Harding.

I mutter something and step back. She pouts, and I don’t care.

This is bullshit.

All this tension with Lyla? It’s nothing. A distraction. A fire I need to put out so I can focus.

That’s all.

One time.

That’s all it’d take.

Get her out of my system and my head back in the game.

Because this? Obsessing over someone who doesn’t even hardly tolerate being in the same room as me?

That is fucking with my head, which in turn is fucking with my game. And that isn’t gonna work for me.