Page 43 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

I cut through the athletic offices with my hands shoved in my hoodie pocket, ignoring the sting in my shoulder from this morning’s lift.

On my way to meet with Lyla.

Same as every week. Same time, same room, same stack of notes she’s already got ready before I even sit down.

I could’ve let her email me the updates like she offered after everything with Jaxon…but I didn’t.

Because letting her push me to the sidelines like I’m just another name on her notebook? No fucking chance.

Even if things between us are still tense.

Even if she can barely look at me without her shoulders going stiff.

I’d rather take the awkward silence and her clipped little professional smile than nothing at all.

So, here I am.

Her door’s at the end of the hall, cracked open already, but I slow when I hear a voice behind me.

“Well, if it isn’t QB1 himself.”

I glance over my shoulder.

Savannah.

She’s leaning against the wall by the water cooler, twirling her car keys on her finger like she’s got nowhere better to be.

Her ponytail’s perfect, her lip gloss just as sharp as her smile.

“Hey, Savannah,” I say flatly, turning back toward Lyla’s office.

But she doesn’t let me go that easy.

She pushes off the wall and falls into step next to me, her perfume thick in the air between us.

“You’ve been looking good out there,” she purrs, her gaze sliding over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I mean, you always look good, but lately? Next-level. Scouts have to be eating it up.”

“Just doing my job,” I mutter, keeping my eyes ahead.

She tilts her head, flashing me a slow grin.

“Well, you do it well. Must be nice having the main media girl wrapped around your little finger, huh? All those posts, the right angles, the interviews. Girl practically worships you.”

I stop walking, finally turning to face her.

Her grin only widens.

“Just saying,” she adds, stepping a little closer, lowering her voice. “If you ever get tired of her giving you the cold shoulder…you know where to find me.”

Her nails trail lightly along my arm as she passes me and keeps walking down the hall, hips swaying, her laugh low and smug as it fades behind her.

I stand there for a beat, jaw tight, hands curled into fists in my pockets.

Then I shake it off and keep moving toward Lyla’s office.

I push her door the rest of the way open and step inside, letting it click shut behind me.

Lyla’s at the table, as usual—neat little stack of folders by her elbow, her pen poised like she’s been waiting on me.

Her hair’s pulled back, and she’s got on one of those sharp little blazers she wears when she wants to seem untouchable.

But when she glances up at me, something about her feels…softer.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

“Hey,” I answer, slipping into the chair across from her.

She takes a breath and flips open the top folder, sliding a single page toward me.

“I found something I wanted to show you,” she starts, her voice calm and measured. But there’s something under it too—something more.

I glance down at the page. A logo I don’t recognize. Text about a local foster care agency, programs they’ve been expanding, an outreach and fundraising initiative they’ve been planning for spring.

I frown slightly, looking back up at her.

“They’re…?”

She folds her hands over the table.

“I know you’ve already got a few options on the table for NIL campaigns,” she says.

“But I wanted to bring you this one. It’s a local foster care agency—one of the biggest in the county.

They’re trying to expand their resources, not just for placements but for older kids who are aging out of the system. ”

Her eyes meet mine then, steady, almost searching.

“I thought…after Christmas, when you organized that whole gift drive for the kids? You seemed so proud. So excited to be giving back. And I thought—if you were open to sharing more of your story publicly—this would be the perfect fit. It’s something that actually means more to you.

And at the same time, your name would bring them more funding, more visibility, more community support. ”

I blink at her, thrown completely off guard.

I glance back down at the page, then up at her again.

“You…put all this together?” I ask, my voice low.

She gives the faintest little nod. “I thought it might be a better fit than just another athletic wear brand or energy drink.”

I lean back in my chair, staring at the paper without really seeing it.

It’s not anger that hits me. Not even close.

It’s…shock.

That she would go out of her way like this.

That she’d think of me like this.

That she’d notice what Christmas meant to me—what giving back to those kids really did for me.

Nobody’s ever seen that part of me before.

Hell, I didn’t even think she noticed that day.

But here she is.

Her fingers are still folded in front of her, her voice soft when she adds, “If you’re not ready to tell your story publicly yet, I completely understand. But if you are…I think this could really matter. To you. To them. To everyone watching.”

I just stare at her for another long second, my chest tight.

I stare at the page she slid across the table, but I’m not really seeing the words anymore.

I’m seeing her.

The way she’s watching me now—quiet, almost nervous. Like she’s bracing herself for me to shoot her down.

And it hits me all at once—how much she cares.

Not just about her job. Not just about keeping her little planner perfectly filled and her athletes perfectly polished.

She cares about me.

Enough to notice what giving back meant to me, even when I thought nobody was paying attention. Enough to use her own time to find something that would actually mean something to me. Enough to give me the choice of whether to share my story or not—without judgment, without pressure.

That kind of thing…nobody’s ever done that for me before.

My chest feels tight, and I swallow hard, dragging my thumb along the edge of the paper.

And then this other feeling creeps in, quiet at first, but sharp enough that I can’t ignore it.

The way she makes my chest ache when she smiles.

The way my heart drops every time she pulls away from me now.

The way, even when we’re tense like this, she’s still the only one who makes me feel like I’m seen.

It startles me.

Because I’ve never felt it before.

Not like this.

Not this deep, not this sharp.

And it scares the hell out of me, realizing what it is.

I think I’m falling for her.

Or worse—maybe I already have.

I tear my eyes away from her for a second, trying to reign in my thoughts.

I’ve never told anyone I loved them. Not once. Not foster parents. Not the other kids who lived in the houses with me. Never a hookup. No one.

I don’t even know what love is supposed to feel like.

But this?

This feels a hell of a lot like something I can’t name, and it terrifies me.

Because I don’t know if she’ll ever feel it back.

And if she did…

I’m not sure I’d even know how to say the words.

I finally look up at her.

She’s still sitting there, her hands folded on top of her notes, watching me with that calm, cautious look of hers. Like she doesn’t know if I’m going to say thank you or bite her head off.

The corners of my mouth twitch faintly.

“Thank you,” I say finally, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “For…thinking of this. And for not just—” I cut myself off, shaking my head slightly. “Thank you.”

Her shoulders seem to loosen a little, and she nods, scribbling something in her planner to break the moment.

I stand, tucking the folder under my arm.

“Email me if they need anything else,” I murmur.

She nods again without looking at me.

And I leave before the ache in my chest can spread any further.

By the time I’m back outside, the air feels too heavy. My thoughts are all over the place, too sharp to sit with, too much to carry.

So, I do the only thing I know how to do.

I head straight back to the gym.

Even though I’ve already worked out today. Even though my body’s still sore from this morning’s lifts.

I just…need it.

I throw my bag down by the wall, yank my hoodie off, and start warming up with a few plates.

But I’m not even ten minutes into my first set before I catch sight of him.

Jaxon.

He’s at the squat rack, shirt soaked through, his knuckles raw from God knows how many pull- ups and bar grips.

He doesn’t even notice me at first—his eyes are locked on the mirror in front of him, jaw clenched, legs shaking under the bar.

It hits me then, the way it has a few times lately:

All he does anymore is this.

Train. Push. Grind himself into the floor.

Because it keeps him from thinking about her.

About Madison.

I’ve heard from the guys that he’s been skipping assignments. Dropping classes. Showing up late to meetings. Nobody’s said it outright yet, but we all know what’s eating at him.

And seeing him like this—burning himself out because she can’t seem to make up her damn mind—makes my blood boil.

Because the truth is?

If she doesn’t want him, fine.

But she doesn’t have to leave him hanging like this.

Doesn’t have to let him keep breaking himself just to feel like he’s enough for her.

I know what it’s like to want someone to care for you. To be someone’s reason for the smile they wear.

But I also know how it feels when you dream of that for sixteen years before reality smacks into you, that no family will ever truly want you.

I rack my weight with a sharp clang and wipe my palms on my shorts.

Jaxon finally notices me then, glancing over mid-set.

He smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What crawled up your ass?” he asks, breathless but light, like he’s just making conversation.

I force a laugh, shaking my head as I grab another plate.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

But as I watch him turn back to his bar, his arms shaking under the weight, my jaw tightens.

I rack my next set of plates and glance over at Jaxon again, who’s still grinding through his reps like his life depends on it.

It’s quiet for a minute, just the low hum of the gym’s speakers and the faint clatter of metal.

Finally, between his sets, I speak up.

“You ever think,” I say, leaning back on the bench. “That all this shit we do—the early mornings, the extra reps, the grind—none of it actually fixes anything?”

Jaxon glances over at me, breathing heavy, and lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“Every damn day,” he mutters, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

He steps away from the rack, resting his hands on his hips, staring down at the floor like it’s got the answer.

I watch him for a second, the words seeming to get stuck in my throat.

What does love feel like?

I want to ask him.

Because whatever this thing is eating me alive whenever Lyla’s around—it’s bigger than anything I’ve felt before.

And I don’t really know what to do with it.

But the way Jaxon’s jaw is set, the way his eyes are hollow even behind the faint smirk he throws me—it’s clear this isn’t the time to ask.

He’s already got enough of his own wreckage to carry.

So instead, I just grab the bar again, settling back onto the bench.

“Doesn’t stop us from showing up, though,” I say under my breath.

Jaxon gives me a faint smile, though it’s more sad than anything.

“Nope,” he says quietly. “Doesn’t stop us.”

He steps back up to his rack, loading more weight, and I lie back, staring up at the ceiling.

And I tell myself the question can wait.

Even if the answer feels like the one thing I really need.