Page 46 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

F riday the Thirteenth.

I’ve never been superstitious.

But after this morning? I may have to reconsider.

It starts with an email.

Subject: Need to see you in my office ASAP.

From: Megan Talbot

The timestamp is 7:02 a.m.

I blink at it for a full thirty seconds before the panic sets in.

I’m still in my pajamas, hair in a messy bun, my planner open on the counter as I finish my tea.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, shoving my chair back and scrambling to my feet.

I barely remember to turn off the kettle before darting to my bedroom. I throw on the first thing I can grab—a blouse that needs to be steamed and black pants that are definitely wrinkled—and hop around trying to get them on while I shove my feet into flats.

On my way out the door, I grab my tea without thinking and end up sloshing half of it down the front of my blouse.

“Perfect,” I groan, trying to dab at it with a napkin as I slam the door shut behind me.

The parking lot is, of course, already packed when I get to campus. I circle twice, gripping the steering wheel tighter with each turn.

When I finally spot an open space near the building, a beat-up truck cuts in from the other direction and takes it right in front of me.

I actually yell at my windshield.

By the time I find a spot two lots over and speed-walk my way to the athletic office, my chest is tight, my pulse is pounding, and my tea stain is a full-on Rorschach test.

I’m five minutes late when I finally stumble into Megan’s office, breathless.

“I—I’m so sorry,” I blurt, clutching my bag and smoothing my blouse like it’ll help. “The parking lot was?—”

She looks up from her desk, and one look at her expression shuts me up.

She’s not happy.

Her mouth is set in a tight line, her brows slightly furrowed.

“Have a seat, Lyla,” she says coolly.

I swallow hard, slipping into the chair opposite her desk, my hands knotting together in my lap.

She lets the silence stretch just long enough to make my stomach twist before she finally speaks.

“You remember the complaint we addressed earlier this year,” she says, her tone measured. “About you allegedly showing favoritism toward certain athletes?”

I nod quickly, my throat dry.

“Yes, ma’am. I thought we resolved?—”

Her eyes cut to mine, sharp enough to stop me.

“Well, unfortunately, someone has now come forward claiming they have proof that you’re romantically involved with one of the players. Carter Hayes, specifically.”

My breath catches in my chest.

The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights loud in my ears.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because even though I shouldn’t be surprised…

It still feels like the floor just dropped out from under me.

My tongue feels like sandpaper.

The words are there, somewhere, but I can’t grab on to them.

I just…sit there, staring at Megan like maybe I misheard her.

But her expression doesn’t waver.

She leans back slightly in her chair, her fingers steepled on the desk between us.

“This looks very bad for you, Lyla,” she continues, her voice calm but clipped.

“I don’t think you fully understand the position this puts us in.

If a staff member or even a fellow intern is seen as having an improper relationship with an athlete, it calls into question every decision they make on the job.

Every sponsorship, every campaign, every piece of data can be called biased.

And that undermines the entire program.”

I swallow hard, but my throat stays dry.

She shakes her head faintly.

“You need to decide what you want. This internship…or Carter.”

The way she says his name—like it’s a dirty word—makes my stomach twist.

“You cannot continue working in this role while having…whatever it is you have with him,” Megan says firmly.

“Not as long as he’s still an athlete at this school.

It’s inappropriate. It looks bad. It’s not a question of fairness—it’s a question of ethics.

We cannot afford the appearance of impropriety here. ”

She exhales slowly, leaning back in her chair.

“In any other case,” she adds pointedly. “This would already be grounds for immediate termination.”

I feel my stomach drop even further.

But then her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching.

“The only reason you’re even sitting here right now,” she says. “Is because of your father’s position in the athletic department and?—”

That finally cuts through the fog in my head.

I sit up straighter, my jaw tightening as I find my voice again.

“I don’t want special treatment,” I blurt, louder than I mean to.

Megan blinks at me, clearly surprised by my interruption.

I grip the edge of my seat, forcing my voice to be steady, even though my heart is hammering.

“I don’t want to skate by just because of who my dad is. If you’re going to make a decision, make it based on me. Not him. Don’t…don’t let him factor into this.”

Megan studies me for a long, heavy beat after my outburst, her brow slightly arched.

Then she leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, and her voice cuts through the air, sharp but calm.

“If you’d let me finish,” she says evenly. “I was going to tell you that the work you’ve put in…the long hours, the way you’ve handled every athlete we’ve thrown your way, the creativity you’ve brought to every campaign—that is the reason we’re even having this conversation right now.”

I blink, my breath catching, but I don’t say anything.

Megan shakes her head faintly, almost like she’s disappointed it even needed saying.

“You’ve shown more potential than most people twice your age. You’ve proven yourself invaluable to this department. But potential or not, you’re on a knife’s edge right now, Lyla. You need to decide which direction you’re going to fall.”

Her words hit harder than I expect.

She sees the potential in me. She really does.

And she’s telling me she doesn’t want to see me throw it all away.

But the weight of her warning still sits like lead in my stomach.

She sits back in her chair, her eyes steady on mine.

“I’m going to give you the weekend,” she says finally. “Think about what you want. Come Monday, I expect you to have a decision. This internship or your…relationship with Carter Hayes. You cannot have both.”

I nod faintly, even though my chest feels like it’s caving in.

And when she dismisses me, I stand on shaky legs, clutching my bag as I slip out of her office.

Because no matter which way I choose…

Someone’s going to get hurt.

By Sunday afternoon, I know what I need to do.

The apartment is quiet, the sunlight through my bedroom window the only light needed as I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone.

The message is already typed out.

Can you come over? We need to talk.

I stare at it for what feels like an hour before finally pressing send.

The three little dots appear almost immediately, then disappear, and then:

Quarterback: On my way.

I set my phone down and bury my face in my hands, trying to steady the nervous thrum in my chest.

When the knock finally comes, I feel like my legs are made of lead as I force myself up and open the door.

Carter stands there in a hoodie and joggers, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair slightly mussed like he’s been running one too many hands through it today.

But the second his eyes land on me, his easy expression hardens.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping inside, his brow furrowing.

I close the door behind him, hugging my arms around myself.

“I…” I trail off, searching for the right words. “We need to talk.”

That’s all it takes.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t sit, just stands there in the middle of the living room, watching me with a guarded look.

I motion toward the couch, and we both sit—though not as close as we usually would.

I stare down at my hands in my lap, then force the words out before I lose my nerve.

“Megan called me into her office Friday morning,” I say quietly. “Someone came forward. They…filed a formal complaint.”

Carter stiffens.

I can feel his gaze on me, but I keep my eyes on my hands.

“They claimed we’re…romantically involved,” I add. My voice is thin, shaky now. “She gave me until tomorrow to decide. The internship…or you. I can’t have both, Carter.”

The silence between us feels like it could split the room in two.

I can feel him staring at the floor, his jaw tight, but the silence between us is suffocating.

So, I break it.

“I don’t know for sure who filed the complaint,” I say softly, my fingers knotting in my lap. “Megan didn’t say.”

That gets his eyes on me, sharp and questioning.

I take a shaky breath.

“But if I had to guess…it’s probably Savannah,” I admit, my voice quiet. “Grayson doesn’t seem like the type.”

Carter blinks at me, his brows furrowing.

“Grayson?”

I shrug weakly. “He’s been nothing but respectful. If anything, he’s warned me about how it might look. But Savannah…she’s been watching. I noticed her the night of the first party when you almost…” I trail off, my cheeks heating. “Kissed me. She saw me come back inside after.”

Carter sits up straighter, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

“And then before my midterm,” I continue, glancing down. “She was leaning against the wall down the hall. Watching. I didn’t even notice her at first.”

Carter exhales sharply, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

I glance at him, and that’s when he shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it.

“She came onto me,” he says finally, his voice tight.

My stomach flips. “What?”

“At the hockey party last weekend,” he goes on, his tone growing sharper. “When Beck and I went. She cornered me by the cooler, put her hand on me. Told me I ‘wasn’t the kind of guy to stay tied down’ and that I should ‘have some fun.’”

My chest tightens, my breath catching.

“She what?”

Carter looks at me now, eyes dark, jaw set.

“I shut her down,” he snaps, his voice firm but not at me. “Told her she didn’t know me as well as she thought she did. But she just smiled like she already won something and walked away.”

I close my eyes and shake my head, the knot in my stomach pulling tighter.

It makes sense now. Too much sense.

The timing. The glances. The smug little smirk she gave me in the hallway that day.

Carter leans back against the couch, dragging a hand down his face, his chest rising and falling with a quiet frustration, his jaw still tight, and for the first time I see it—the full weight of what this means settling over both of us.

And neither of us says anything for a long moment.

Because we both already know who’s behind it.

And we both know how bad this could get.

Carter’s hand drops from his face, and he leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the floor.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low but sharp, cutting through the silence.

“She’s not gonna get away with this.”

The words make my chest ache.

I want to believe him—God, I do—but all I can do is shake my head, staring at my hands twisted in my lap.

“She already has,” I whisper.

His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing.

“Megan made it crystal clear,” I say, my throat tightening. “We can’t be together. Not as long as you’re still playing here. If I want to keep my internship, my reputation, my future—I can’t be with you.”

The weight of it sits between us like a storm cloud, heavy and impossible to ignore.

His jaw clenches as he leans back, his hands gripping the edge of the couch, his knuckles white.

But he doesn’t argue.

Because he knows I’m right.

And that hurts worse than anything else.