Page 48 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)
LYLA
T he next few weeks crawl by in this strange, suffocating blur.
Carter isn’t mine anymore.
Not that he ever really was.
But now…now it’s official.
We keep our distance.
We don’t call; we don’t text. When I’m in the athletic department, I keep my head down. When I walk into the coffee shop, I scan the room to make sure he’s not there.
We pass each other in the hallway sometimes—him with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw tight and eyes forward—and every time it feels like another little crack in my chest.
I’ve gotten good at pretending.
Pretending I don’t notice him.
Pretending I don’t still ache every time I see him laugh with someone who isn’t me.
Pretending that walking away was the right thing.
It’s exhausting.
And to make it worse, they reassigned him to a new intern.
She’s good. Capable. Sweet enough. But she doesn’t know him like I do.
And the first thing she did was scrap the foster care initiative I’d built for him.
She didn’t even think twice.
Apparently, she thought it was “too heavy” and “not aspirational enough” for his brand.
I tried to keep quiet about it at first—tried to remind myself that it wasn’t my place anymore.
But this afternoon, watching her present a whole new campaign to the team—full of flashy sponsorships and superficial taglines—I just snapped.
So here I am, standing outside Megan’s office again, clutching my planner to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart.
I knock once before she calls me in.
She glances up as I step inside, her brow already lifting.
“Lyla,” she says, closing her laptop. “What can I do for you?”
I clear my throat, forcing myself to stand a little straighter.
“I wanted to talk to you about Carter’s campaign,” I say, my voice quiet but firm.
Megan leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Go on.”
I grip the edge of my planner tighter, trying to steady my hands.
“I know I’m not his intern anymore,” I begin. “But I spent months building that foster care initiative for him. Because it matters. It’s authentic to who he is, because it gives back to something that makes him who he is today.”
Megan doesn’t say anything, just watches me evenly, so I keep going.
“I know it’s not flashy. I know it doesn’t scream ‘star athlete’ the way energy drinks and sneaker deals do. But it’s real. And it could actually change lives—not just his, but the kids who’d benefit from it.”
I finally meet her gaze.
“And it’s not about me. It’s about doing right by him. He deserves that.”
For a moment, Megan just studies me in silence.
Then she exhales through her nose, tapping her fingers against the desk.
“You really believe in this, don’t you?” she asks finally.
I nod, my chest tightening.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I do.”
Megan regards me for a long, quiet moment with her fingers steepled under her chin.
Then she sits forward, resting her elbows on her desk.
“You’ve grown a lot this year, Lyla,” she says evenly.
The words catch me off guard.
She gives a faint, wry smile at my expression, but her eyes stay sharp, focused on mine.
“When you started, you were good. But green. Afraid to speak up. Afraid to push back. Now? You’re sitting in here telling me what you think is best for one of our biggest athletes—because you believe it’s the right thing for him. And that matters.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening slightly more on my planner.
Megan leans back, folding her arms, and lets out a quiet breath.
“Here’s the thing,” she says. “I can’t hold your hand on this. If you think this is the right direction for him, you’re going to have to fight for it. Convince me. Convince the team. Convince him.”
I blink, startled. “So…you’re saying…”
“I’m saying I believe in you,” Megan interrupts gently. “And I believe in what you’ve built here. But whether it actually happens? That’s on you. Show me you’re as good as you think you can be. Show me you’re worth betting on.”
Her words settle in my chest like a weight and a spark all at once.
I nod slowly, the nerves and determination tangling together in my stomach.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I will.”
Megan smiles faintly and turns back to her laptop, already pulling up her next email.
“You’re dismissed, Harding,” she says without looking up.
I clutch my planner to my chest as I stand, the faintest thread of hope cutting through the ache that’s been sitting heavy in me for weeks.
Because if nothing else…
Maybe I can still do this right.
I sit cross-legged on my living room floor, my planner open in front of me, surrounded by half a dozen sticky notes and three uncapped highlighters.
The quiet hum of the heater fills the apartment, but my mind is too loud for it to matter.
Megan’s words keep replaying in my head.
Show me you’re worth betting on.
I drag my pen down another page and start sketching out what this could actually look like.
Not just a few social media posts.
Not just a press release.
Something bigger.
Something that actually leaves a mark here at PCU and sets the tone for what Carter’s story really is.
I flip to a fresh page and write the words at the top in block letters:
PCU Summer Football Camp — For Future Stars.
Underneath, I scribble:
Open to High School age foster children. Summer football camp hosted at PCU. Drills, skills, and mentorship from college players.
It could start as a fundraiser—use Carter’s name, his story and influence to build momentum.
But eventually, the goal would be something permanent. A program that lasts.
Something that gives other kids in his shoes a chance.
Sometimes, all it takes is one person believing in you to change the entire course of your life—whether it’s them believing in you…or them giving you the confidence to finally believe in yourself.
I stare at the words for a long time, my chest tightening.
This…feels right.
When I finally snap out of my thoughts, it’s already one in the morning.
I close my planner and head toward my bed, hoping my brain will quiet enough to get some sleep.
The next morning, I’m back at the athletic department early, my peppermint tea clutched in one hand and my notes in the other as I knock on the athletic director’s office door.
Claire Andrews looks up in surprise when I peek my head in.
“Got a second?” I ask, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
She gestures for me to come in.
“Sure, Lyla. What’s on your mind?”
I set my planner down and flip it open to the page with my heading.
“I know Carter’s current campaign is already in motion,” I start carefully. “But I think there’s another direction that could be a better long-term fit. Something that actually connects to who he is and makes an impact here at PCU.”
Claire arches a brow but doesn’t interrupt, so I keep going.
“It starts as a fundraiser. A campaign to raise money for a summer football camp here at PCU, open to high school students in foster care. One week of skills, drills, and mentorship with our players. But long-term? It becomes something permanent. A way for the program to give back every year.”
Her brows rise slightly as I finish, and she leans back in her chair, arms crossed.
“You’ve been busy,” she says.
I smile faintly, even though my stomach is still twisting.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. “And I really believe this is worth it.”
She studies me for another beat, then gives a small nod.
“All right,” she says. “Write it up. We’ll talk numbers and feasibility once you have something formal to pitch to the board. But…”
Her lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I like where your head’s at.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and nod, keeping my chin held high as I turn for the door.
“Oh, and Lyla?” Claire starts. “I just wanted to let you know, that while, yes, you did technically break the rules by being romantically involved with a player, we also know that the person who reported you was doing so maliciously and that what was said was untrue. She is being punished accordingly.”
Giving her a tight smile, I walk out into the hall.
While it doesn’t undo what happened, it does make me feel better that my work isn’t being questioned. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m moving toward something that really matters.
And I won’t stop until I see it through.