Page 41 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T he locker room is quiet when I step in.

For once.

No music. No shouting. No tape balls flying through the air.

Just the hum of the lights and the faint echo of my footsteps on the tile.

I stop just inside the doorway and take it all in.

Row after row of lockers. Jerseys hanging, some neatly, some already half-off their hooks.

Helmets lined up on shelves, like soldiers waiting for orders. The faint smell of turf, sweat, and leather clings to the air.

It’s stupid, but it almost feels…holy.

I walk down the center aisle, my fingers trailing the edge of the bench.

This could be it.

I’ve been trying not to think about it all week, but now—here, standing in the place I’ve spent the better part of four years—there’s no ignoring it.

What if tonight is the last time I ever lace up for a real game?

What if I don’t get the call?

What if every scout who ever came to watch me decided I wasn’t good enough?

What if all this—everything I’ve worked for—is over after tonight?

The thought hits harder than I expected.

I stop in front of my locker and just stare at my nameplate for a long minute.

Hayes.

I press my thumb to the letters like I’m trying to memorize the feeling.

This has been my whole life. My escape. My purpose. The only place I ever felt like I actually belonged.

I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head hard.

Stop it, man. You’ve got a game to play. You can spiral later.

I drag my palms over my face, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my focus back to what matters.

Back to tonight. Back to right now.

One play at a time.

I’m pulling my jersey out of my bag when a voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re here early.”

I turn and find Coach Harding standing in the doorway, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

He walks in, hands in his pockets, and glances around the room before settling his eyes on me.

“Nerves?” he asks.

I give a weak laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Something like that.”

He stops a few feet away and studies me for a second, like he always does when he’s about to say something that’ll stick.

“You know,” he starts. “There’s a lot of guys who come through programs like this thinking talent is all it takes. They get here, coasting on what God gave them, and they flame out fast when things get hard.”

He gestures toward me with a little nod.

“That’s not you.”

I blink at him, unsure how to respond.

“You’ve put in the work,” he goes on, his tone firm but proud.

“Every morning. Every lift. Every rep. You’ve earned every yard you’ve got.

You’ve earned the right to dream about that next level.

And no matter what happens after tonight, you keep going.

You hear me? You keep going, because you’ve got what it takes. ”

I bite the inside of my cheek, staring down at the jersey in my hands.

Coach claps me on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

“I’m proud of you, Hayes,” he says quietly. “Whatever comes next, you’ve already made us proud.”

I swallow the tightness in my throat and force a little grin. “Thanks, Coach.”

He pats me once more before heading toward his office, tossing a final glance over his shoulder.

“Now get your head right,” he calls with a faint smile. “We’ve got a championship to win.”

I watch him go, then sit down in front of my locker, the weight of his words settling over me.

He’s right.

I have put in the work.

And no matter what happens after tonight…

I’m not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

The stadium is practically shaking.

Fans on their feet, the student section already losing their minds, the band blaring the fight song so loud it rattles in my chest.

We stand on the sidelines, helmets on, eyes locked on the field where everything we’ve worked for is waiting.

I take a breath, scanning my teammates one by one—faces I’ve bled with, sweated with, won and lost with.

And then I step into the center of the huddle.

They close in, forming a tight circle around me, their eyes all on me now. Waiting.

This is my moment.

Our moment.

I lower my head, clenching my fists, feeling every ounce of energy, every second of work, every doubt and dream bubbling up inside me.

Then I raise my eyes, steady and sure, and speak.

“Let’s give ’em hell, boys,” I say, my voice cutting through the noise, low and confident. “It’s our final time. Let’s make it count.”

There’s a collective murmur of agreement, pads slapping, fists knocking against helmets.

“Storm on three,” I call, raising my fist high above the huddle.

Their hands rise with mine.

“One, two, three?—”

“STORM!”

“Let’s go baby!” Beck yells, shaking my shoulder as our offense takes the field for kickoff.

We’re leaving everything on that field today.

We huddle at our own thirty. The guys crowd in around me, pads creaking, helmets gleaming under the lights.

“All right,” I bark, planting my hand on the ball and pointing at Jaxon. “We’re starting fast. Trips right, ninety-two slant, on one. Watch for pressure off the weak side, but it’s there. Take what they give you. Let’s go.”

“Trips right, ninety-two slant, on one,” they echo, clapping their hands as we break.

We line up.

Jaxon settles wide on the right, his stance loose but his eyes locked on the corner. Logan’s in the backfield, already rocking forward on the balls of his feet.

I lower under center, fingers curling around the laces.

The stadium noise fades into nothing.

Just play.

Snap.

I drop back quickly—one, two, three steps—and my eyes are already on Jaxon. He plants hard, cuts in, shakes the corner just like we worked all week.

He’s open.

I shift my weight, plant, and rip the throw over the middle. The ball zips just past the linebacker’s fingertips and smacks into Jaxon’s chest.

He tucks it, keeps moving, bounces off a safety, and drives forward for another five before they finally bring him down.

The ref’s whistle pierces through the cheers.

First down.

We reset at the forty-four.

I clap my hands to settle everyone down, then lean into the huddle.

“They’re already shifting coverage. Time to soften ’em up. Logan, you’re up. Power twenty-two dive, on one. Move those chains.”

Logan grins behind his mouthguard. “Let me eat, QB.”

I give him a nod, going back to the fact that what happens off the field, stays off the field. We don’t let any issues affect our teamwork on game day, or at least try not to.

We break.

I settle under center again, barking a fake cadence to throw off the linebackers, then call for the snap.

I pivot clean, tuck the ball into Logan’s gut, and let him do the rest.

He explodes through the A-gap behind our right guard, lowering his shoulder as the defense collapses in on him. Pads crack like thunder, but he keeps his legs pumping.

Four, five, six yards before the pile finally falls forward.

I hustle up behind him, help yank him to his feet, patting his helmet.

“That’s it. Keep grinding.”

Third and short now, just past midfield.

I don’t even wait for the play call—I already know what we need here.

I jog into the huddle, dropping my hand to my knee.

“Read option. Shotgun. Follow me. I’m keeping this one. Let’s move the damn chains.”

The guys answer with a round of claps and slaps.

We line up, quick.

Jaxon’s wide again, drawing coverage. Logan’s to my left.

I glance at the linebackers—both creeping forward, eyes already locked on Logan.

Perfect.

The snap hits my hands.

I ride Logan for half a second, selling the fake handoff, then yank the ball back into my chest and cut left.

The edge rusher bites on Logan.

I’ve got daylight.

I sprint upfield, cutting just inside the safety, feeling the turf tear under my cleats.

A linebacker dives at my ankles—too late.

I tuck the ball tighter and slide just past the first down marker, skidding to a stop at the twenty- one.

The ref signals first down, and the sideline erupts behind me.

I pop up, smacking my hands together as the guys rush up to me. Logan slaps my helmet with a laugh, Jaxon jogging over to clap my shoulder.

“You just love stealing my touches, don’t you?” Jaxon grins, but his eyes are sharp.

“Quit complaining,” I throw back, grinning. “We’re in the red zone, aren’t we?”

I jog back to the huddle, heart hammering in my chest as the crowd noise swells around me, my eyes automatically searching for red curls, but she’s not on the sideline today.

One play at a time.

And we’re just getting started.

My chest heaves as I jog back to the huddle, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove.

21–27.

We’re down by six.

Two minutes left.

This is it.

The crowd is deafening, a wall of noise and chaos all around us, but it doesn’t touch me. Not here. Not now.

All I hear is the sound of my own breath, sharp and steady. The pounding of my heart. The creak of my pads when I bend over, hands on my knees, and the faint metallic clink of my face mask when I snap it back down.

I glance at the scoreboard again, then at my guys—at Jaxon, standing across from me in the huddle. His chest rising and falling fast, but his eyes locked on mine. Waiting.

I straighten up, voice steady as hell, even though my insides feel like they’re on fire.

“We march down this fucking field,” I tell them, low and sharp. “No second chances. No mistakes. We finish it. Right here. Right now.”

A ripple of nods, a few fists hitting pads, and that silent current of understanding passes through all of us.

This is our game.

And I’m not leaving this field without a damn fight.

We break.

We line up at the twenty-five. The defense crowds the box, daring us to run, but I’ve already decided—we’re not playing it safe. Not tonight.

The snap is clean.

I drop back, eyes scanning quick, pressure closing in fast. I see Beck shake free over the middle and fire it to him. He hauls it in, turns, fights forward another eight yards before getting shoved out of bounds.

Clock stops.

1:20.

We hurry up, the guys hustling back into position.

The next snap comes fast—Jaxon fakes outside, cuts hard back in, just like we drew it up. I step up into the pocket, take the hit, and rifle it to him over the middle.

He catches it, tucks it, and keeps driving, dragging some poor bastard on his back for another five.

First down.

The chains move.

Fifty seconds.

We hustle again.

The next play’s a scramble—pocket collapses, and I barely escape a sack, dumping it off to

Logan at the last second. He dives out of bounds at the fifteen to stop the clock.

Thirty-eight seconds.

We’re here.

We huddle one more time, breathless, buzzing, everything on the line.

The call comes in. I hear it, and my stomach flips.

It’s his route.

I glance at Jaxon, and he meets my eyes like he already knows what I’m about to say.

“Go get it,” I tell him, voice low.

He nods once.

We line up.

I watch him take his spot out wide, see the corner lean on him, trying to get in his head. But Jaxon doesn’t flinch.

He just crouches low, ready to explode.

I slide my hands under center.

The snap comes.

I drop back, scanning left—then right—then locking on him.

He burns his man, cutting left and then sharp back to the right, shaking him clean.

I see it open up.

And I let it rip.

The ball spins through the air, perfect spiral, hanging there for what feels like forever.

I watch him run under it—legs pumping like hell, hands reaching.

And he’s got it.

Both feet in. Ball secure.

Touch—

The hit comes out of nowhere.

I see it happen but I can’t stop it—can’t even yell before the safety comes flying in from his blindside, helmet-to-helmet.

The crack echoes, and my stomach drops.

I watch him fold, his body snapping back and crumpling to the turf.

The ball rolls loose.

And he doesn’t get up.

Doesn’t move.

Everything around me goes quiet—crowd, teammates, everything.

I just stand there, staring, my heart in my throat as trainers come running and the refs blow their whistles.

My legs are moving before my mind even catches up.

The whistle’s still blowing, the crowd’s still roaring—or maybe they’re gasping now, I can’t even tell—but all I see is him.

Jaxon.

Flat on his back.

Not moving.

I sprint toward him, my cleats barely catching the turf as I close the distance. My chest feels like it’s about to crack open.

“Jax—”

I drop to my knees hard, the impact jolting up my shins, but I don’t care.

“Jaxon! Hey—hey, man, c’mon!”

His eyes are closed, his chest rising shallow under his pads. His mouthguard’s still in, his arms slack at his sides.

“You hear me? Open your eyes, man. Come on! Wake up. You’re good. You’re fine. Just…open your damn eyes, all right?”

I can’t even hear the trainers yet, but I know they’re coming.

I press my hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall. My throat’s tight, my stomach turning inside out.

“You’re okay,” I tell him anyway, even though I have no idea if it’s true. My voice breaks halfway through, but I don’t care. “You’re okay, you hear me? You’re okay. You just…you just gotta wake up, bro. Please.”

I hear cleats pounding the turf behind me, shouting voices—trainers calling for stretchers and medics.

But all I can do is keep my hand on his chest and my other on his helmet, leaning close so he can hear me if he comes to.

The trainers finally skid to a stop at my back, shouting orders and dropping their bags, and I’m quickly moved to the side, but I keep my eyes on my friend, still not moving on the ground.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, more to myself now than to him. “You’re gonna be okay.”