Page 40 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he second the door to the kitchen shuts behind us, my hands start to tingle.

I flex them at my sides, curl them into fists, open them again.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I don’t know why it’s so hard to catch my breath, but it is.

Carter’s leaning back against the counter, watching me with that maddening calm of his, arms crossed over his chest like he’s not the reason my pulse is slamming in my throat.

I turn my back on him, pacing a few steps before words start tumbling out of my mouth.

“This,” I say, waving one shaky hand between us. “This is exactly why we said we were keeping this casual. This is…this is why.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.

So I keep going.

“You’re the quarterback,” I press, my voice rising just slightly. “You are literally the face of this program. Everyone’s watching you all the time. Every move you make.”

Still nothing.

“And I’m…” I trail off, dragging my fingers through my hair. “I’m your coach’s daughter. I handle all your NIL deals. I run your social media accounts. This isn’t…” My throat tightens. “This isn’t smart.”

Finally, he straightens.

Pushes off the counter.

And when he looks at me, there’s something fierce in his eyes that sends a shiver right down my spine.

“Fuck all that,” he says low, the words sharp and certain.

I freeze.

“What?”

He takes a step toward me, closing the gap, his voice soft but firm now.

“Fuck all of it. The bullshit labels. You and me? This isn’t casual anymore. Never has been to be honest, not for me.”

My breath catches, and I take a tiny step back as his hand comes up, his fingers brushing against my jaw.

“Say it’s still casual for you,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. “And I’ll back off. Right here, right now. But don’t stand there and tell me you don’t feel what I feel.”

I open my mouth to respond—though what I’d even say, I don’t know—when the door swings open.

And a familiar, syrupy voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

“Well, well, Miss It’s Just Work,” Savannah drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “This doesn’t really look like work, does it?”

I jerk back from Carter like I’ve been burned, my cheeks flooding with heat.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even flinch.

Just stares at Savannah, his jaw tight, his hand still hovering near me like he doesn’t care who the hell sees.

And I can’t decide if I want to melt into the floor…or pull him right back to me anyway.

“It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” I blurt, my voice too tight, too fast, already backing away from Carter and Savannah before either of them can respond.

I need to get out of here.

I need air.

I spin toward the door, pushing it open into the crush of bodies outside.

But I barely make it three steps into the hallway before a warm hand closes around my wrist.

“Lyla—”

His voice.

Low, steady, pulling me back when everything in me is screaming to keep moving.

“Hey. Stop.”

I freeze, but I don’t turn around.

“Just…calm down for a second and talk to me,” he murmurs, his grip loosening but still there. “Please.”

My breath comes shallow, my fingers flexing at my sides. I can’t. Not right now. Not when everyone’s watching. Not when Savannah’s still in that kitchen smirking like she knows everything.

“Carter, I?—”

Jaxon appears in the hallway, his shoulders stiff, his jaw tight, and the second Carter sees him, his brows knit with concern.

“Damn, man,” Carter says, straightening. “What happened?”

Jaxon exhales, shaking his head, his voice rough.

“She’s gone.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

Gone.

Madison.

I don’t even think.

My breath catches hard in my throat, and before either of them can say another word, my body is already moving.

I shove past Jaxon, ignoring the startled look on his face, my only thought razor-sharp in my head.

She can’t be out there alone. Not like this.

I hear Carter’s voice behind me, calling after me, his tone edged with frustration and worry.

“Lyla—”

But I don’t stop.

I just shake my head, pushing through the crowd toward the door, muttering under my breath, “She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Shoving through the crammed living room, I rush out the front door and turn toward our apartment. I catch up to her less than a block away, hunched over on the curb, her hands pressed to her face like she can’t breathe. My heart cracks wide open at the sight of my best friend’s shoulders shaking.

“Hey,” I say softly as I approach, crouching down in front of her. “Maddy. Look at me, okay?”

Her tear-streaked eyes blink up at me, dazed and broken, and it nearly brings tears to my own eyes.

“I-I can’t…” she whispers, her breath hitching. “I can’t do this. Not again. Not after?—”

“Shh,” I say immediately, cutting her off before she falls any deeper into whatever pit her mind’s dragging her into. “We’re not talking about that right now. We’re just breathing. That’s all. Just breathe with me, okay? In…”

I inhale and exaggerate it. She watches me like she’s desperate to cling to something, anything, and after a shaky second, she follows.

“Good,” I murmur. My thumb rubs little circles against her knee, just like my mom used to do for me. “You’re okay. You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

When her breaths start to come steadier, I help her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

She doesn’t argue, just leans into me like she’s forgotten how to stand on her own.

We make it back to our apartment in silence, outside of her hiccuped breathing, trying to keep the hysteria in. Madison’s fingers stay clenched around my arm the entire walk upstairs, like holding onto me is the only thing keeping her from completely losing it, which is probably true.

The second I shut the door, I guide her straight to her bathroom. “Shower,” I tell her gently. “It’ll help.”

She just nods, a ghost of herself, and I move on autopilot—turning the water on, checking the temperature, pulling a clean towel from the shelf. I help her peel off her jacket and ease her sweater over her head when her arms barely move.

“Do you want me to stay?” I ask when she’s standing there in her camisole and jeans, staring blankly at the tile.

She swallows. Her voice is small. “Please.”

So I stay. I help her step out of her jeans and into the shower, then I sit on the closed toilet lid and stare blankly at the wall ahead.

We can’t both lose our minds on the same night, so I start counting numbers to try and change my train of thought.

Because I can’t stop thinking about him.

About Carter.

About how my heart raced when his hand brushed mine earlier. How he looked at me when he thought no one else was watching. How it feels when I catch myself wondering what it would be like if he actually meant all those little things he says, if it wasn’t just…Carter being Carter.

I rub my temple, trying to shove the thoughts down, but they keep coming.

Because the truth is, I’m scared I’m already in too deep.

And tonight proved it.

The second I heard Madison run out, I thought of her first. But the next second?

It was him.

Wondering if he’d be the one to come after me.

If he’d care enough to try.

I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard, willing the knot in my chest to loosen.

“You’re okay, Maddy,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s for her or for me.

Her muffled sob catches over the sound of the water, and I close my eyes tighter, because even though she’s the one falling apart right now…

I don’t think I’m too far behind.

It’s been three days since the party.

Three days of making sure my best friend at least eats a few crackers and stays hydrated, trying to make sure that I keep my shit together long enough to help her through this.

I thought keeping myself busy would help.

I throw myself into work, into the endless stream of social content, into campaign planning.

Smiling at the guys when they stop by to ask about their profiles or stats, politely brushing off Carter’s little comments, even though every single one of them sticks in my chest like a burr.

But apparently, keeping my head down isn’t enough.

Because today, Megan called me into her office.

I walk in gripping my tablet tight enough to make my knuckles ache, trying to read her expression. But Megan’s face is unreadable as always—smooth and polite, her neat hair tucked behind one ear, the team logo on the wall behind her perfectly straight.

“You wanted to see me?” I say, keeping my voice steady, even though my stomach’s twisting.

“Shut the door, please.”

That…isn’t great.

I do as she asks and take a seat. Megan folds her hands on her desk and looks at me for a long moment before speaking.

“I wanted to bring something to your attention,” she says evenly. “A concern was raised about your performance.”

My throat goes dry.

“My…performance?”

She nods. “I was approached by a player yesterday who feels you’ve been prioritizing certain athletes in your social campaigns and promotional efforts over others. That you’re…playing favorites, to put it plainly.”

I blink at her, stunned.

Playing favorites?

I shake my head. “Megan, I—I’ve never?—”

“I’m not saying it’s intentional,” she interrupts gently. “But perception matters. And the perception right now is that you’re giving extra attention to some while neglecting others.”

Heat creeps up my neck, my ears burning. “Who—” I stop myself before asking who said it.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

I swallow hard and try to keep my voice level. “I didn’t realize anyone felt that way. I try to split my time fairly. I check in with everyone weekly, I update stats, I feature different players on rotation?—”

Megan’s expression softens, but she holds firm. “I know. You’re good at what you do, Lyla.

You’re detail-oriented, you’re creative, and you care. That’s obvious. But this is a team. Every player wants to feel like they matter. Even if they’re not in the spotlight as much as some of the others.”

Some of the others.

It doesn’t take a genius to know who she means.

Carter.

I feel the weight of his name in my chest, even though she hasn’t said it.

My mind spins back through all the late nights I’ve spent tweaking his campaigns, analyzing his engagement metrics, coordinating his NIL meetings. How many times he’s stopped by my desk with that infuriating grin, teasing and charming and impossible to ignore.

But I’ve never once given him more than any of the other athletes I’ve been assigned. I don’t even know who would suggest that. They’ve all had brand offers, even though some haven’t been in alignment with their brand and they’ve passed.

I force a shaky breath. “I understand. I’ll…I’ll make adjustments. I’ll make sure the team knows I’m available to everyone equally.”

Megan nods. “Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. I know you can handle this. You’ve got a bright future in this field—don’t let little things like this trip you up.”

“Of course,” I murmur, standing.

As I leave her office, my tablet still clutched in my hands, my cheeks feel hot and my stomach churns.

The second I shut Megan’s door behind me, I exhale through my nose and force my shoulders back.

Act normal.

No one else needs to know how close I am to crumbling.

The office hallway is quiet this time of afternoon, most people either on calls or down at the field. I keep my head down and focus on the exit, already planning what I’ll say to myself on the walk home— It’s fine, Lyla. You can fix this. Just…fix it.

I’m halfway down the hall when a familiar laugh freezes me in place.

Carter.

He’s leaning against the wall by the water cooler, his hat backward, his tanned arms crossed, chatting with one of the trainers. His ocean eyes catch on me instantly, and the grin he was wearing falters just slightly before he pushes off the wall.

“Hey,” he calls casually, like we’re just two people passing each other on any other day.

I force a smile that feels brittle around the edges. “Hey.”

“Everything okay?” He tilts his head, studying me as he falls into step beside me. “You look…tense. More tense than usual, I mean.”

I roll my eyes, hoping the joke buys me a little cover. “Thanks, Hayes. Always a charmer.”

But he doesn’t laugh. His hand hovers near the small of my back like he might actually touch me, and that alone sends my pulse skittering.

“Seriously,” he murmurs when we round the corner and the trainer’s out of earshot. “You good?

You were in with Megan just now, right?”

I shouldn’t have expected him not to notice. Of course he noticed.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly. My fingers tighten on the edge of my tablet as we step into the stairwell.

Carter stops halfway down the steps, blocking my path.

I stop too, because what else can I do?

He looks at me for a long beat, his jaw tight, blue eyes narrowed in that way they get when he’s reading me like an open book.

“You don’t look fine,” he says finally, softer this time.

I force a little laugh and step past him, my voice light and fake. “Just…work stuff. You know.

Not a big deal.”

He follows me the rest of the way down, quiet now. But when we hit the lobby doors, he reaches out, fingers brushing my elbow just enough to make me stop and turn.

“Whatever it is,” he says low, leaning just enough that his breath warms the side of my cheek.

“Don’t let them get in your head. You’re good at this, Lyla. You’re the best at this. Anyone who doesn’t see that is a damn idiot.”

I blink at him, caught off guard by how earnest he sounds.

And for a second, just one second, I want to tell him.

About the complaint. About how much of it probably is my fault. About how scared I am that he’s the reason.

But instead I swallow the words, because if I say them out loud, he’ll know.

He’ll know just how far I’ve already fallen.

So I just nod, forcing another smile. “Thanks, Carter. Really.”

He holds my gaze for a moment longer before finally stepping back with a little smirk, his hands shoving into his pockets.

“Anytime, Princess.”

And just like that, he’s gone—heading out the other door, whistling low under his breath like he hasn’t completely unmoored me without even trying.

I am so royally fucked.