Page 5 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

L ater that night, I sit in bed with my laptop, clipping interview footage from this morning.

I pause on a frame halfway through the shoot — Carter, leaning forward, gaze fixed off-camera, lips curved in the faintest almost-smile.

He’s not smiling at the camera.

He’s smiling at me.

I hover over the delete key.

My finger doesn’t move.

Eventually, I click “Save.”

Just in case.

Perfection is a game you can’t win—but that doesn’t stop me from playing.

Every step down the faculty hallway is counted. Three per tile. Left foot always starts first. My tablet is tucked exactly under my arm, my pen clipped at the center—because it has to be in the center—and my heart is thudding a little too fast, but I ignore that part.

Focus.

I have a meeting with Coach Harding.

Correction: my dad.

Which means I need to be twice as prepared, twice as composed, and three times as numb.

He doesn’t like when I “bring emotion into it.”

I round the corner, knock twice on the closed office door, then open it before he can say anything. He hates when people wait. Says it’s inefficient.

“Right on time,” he says without looking up.

He’s reviewing game film—probably the scrimmage footage from earlier this week—and jotting down notes in the shorthand only he can understand.

“I said noon. It’s noon,” I reply, sitting across from his desk.

He glances up briefly, eyes flicking to the tablet under my arm. “You always bring that thing in here?”

“I bring it everywhere.”

He hums, noncommittally, and minimizes the screen. “I wanted to check in. You’re settling into the internship?”

“I’m two weeks ahead on assignments. I’ve already submitted the first round of clips for the Hayes-Montgomery campaign. I also updated the athletic site’s bio pages and scheduled two content reels for next week.”

“Good,” he says, like he expected no less. “You still joining us for dinner tonight?”

I blink. “Us?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Me, Nicole, and Emmy. We’re grilling at the house.”

Ah. Us means him, his girlfriend and her daughter.

The new family.

My stomach clenches, but I keep my voice flat. “I have editing to do tonight.”

“It can wait. You see them once a week, Lyla.”

“You’re asking me to sit across the table from a girl who calls you Coach, Dad, and acts like she’s known you longer than I have.”

“She’s seventeen, Ly, cut her some slack,” he says, sharper now. “She’s trying. And so is Nicole.”

I don’t respond. Not because he’s right—but because if I do, I’ll say something I can’t take back.

After a beat, he sighs and leans back in his chair.

“I’m not trying to replace you, or your mom, for that matter.”

“I never said you were.”

“You don’t have to. I see it on your face, kiddo.”

I clench my jaw and redirect the conversation. “I should get back. I have another shoot scheduled at two?—”

“Actually,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I had a call with a colleague from the agency over at West Point. They’ve got a digital branding role open. It’s entry-level, but solid pay, good location. I can send your resume over.”

I couldn’t even stop the eye roll if I wanted to. Here we go again.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

He shrugs. “You want a career in this world, I have connections. Why wouldn’t you use them?”

“Because I don’t want my name to be the reason I get the job,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.

“And I’m telling you that’s naive. This industry isn’t about waiting in line. It’s about walking in the back door and knowing who left it open.”

“I don’t want a back door.”

“Then get used to waiting.”

My hands curl into fists beneath the table. I can already hear the spiral forming—fast and hard and ruthless.

You’re falling behind. You’re not doing enough. You’re not enough.

“You act like I didn’t work for this,” I say, quieter now. “Like I didn’t earn this internship. Like I didn’t build my portfolio without ever once dropping your name.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

He exhales through his nose and stands, moving toward the window. The silence stretches.

Finally, he says, “I didn’t mean to undermine you. I know you’re capable.”

I don’t look up. “You just don’t trust me to succeed without your help.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Dinner is as awful as expected.

Nicole greets me at the door like I’m a guest, even though I grew up in this house. Emmy waves from the kitchen, and I give my best fake smile. Dad’s grilling outside, and someone put on an indie playlist that’s trying way too hard to sound casual.

If it was a normal evening with my dad and me, we’d be grilling burgers, popping a beer, and watching Sports Center.

My entire life, I’ve lived, slept, and breathed sports.

Some daughters may not have enjoyed their dad being a college coach, but any time he was out on the field, I was right beside him.

Piggy tails sitting under my hat, extra freckles scattered across my cheeks from all the extra days in the sun.

Now, I perch on a barstool and pretend to scroll through emails to avoid the awkwardness that still lingers, even though they’ve lived here with my dad for a little over a year now.

Emmy chats about her AP Chem class and how she’s “thinking about going into sports medicine,” and Dad nods like it’s revolutionary. Nicole asks how my internship is going, but her eyes are already back on the salmon she’s flipping.

I answer with one-word responses. Smile when appropriate. Keep my posture perfect and my tone polite.

I am the definition of controlled.

But under the surface?

Chaos.

I use the thumb of my right hand to press into the center of my left, hard. Trying to find something to ground me when I can feel my eye starting to twitch on its own accord.

Everything’s in the wrong place. The wrong order. Too loud, too fake, too much.

Emmy says something about getting her senior portraits done next week, and Dad offers to “make a few calls” to see if the football stadium could be used as a backdrop.

I look up sharply. “You’re letting her use the field?”

“She asked. It’s not a big deal.”

“Pretty sure it is to the compliance team,” I mutter, or at least, that’s the line he told me when I had asked to do the same five years ago.

Dad’s eyes cut to mine. “It’s not a problem, Lyla.”

Of course not.

Nothing’s ever a problem for them.

I excuse myself halfway through dinner, saying I have an early shoot that I need to prep for.

I don’t.

I just need to breathe.

Back at my apartment, I scrub down the kitchen sink.

It’s already clean. I clean it every night. But tonight, it’s not about hygiene.

It’s about control. About keeping my hands busy so my brain doesn’t implode. About scrubbing until my chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to cave in from the weight of everything I’m not allowed to say.

I move to the counter. Then the stove. Then the fridge handle. Each motion is tight, practiced, necessary.

My throat burns. My eyes sting. But I keep wiping.

I don’t hear the front door open.

I don’t even notice Madison until her keys clink on the side table, and she steps into the kitchen, quiet as a shadow.

She pauses when she sees me, taking in the spotless counter, the flushed cheeks, and the white- knuckled grip on the rag.

She doesn’t ask if I’m okay.

She just pulls her hair into a messy bun, grabs the spare cloth from under the sink, and starts wiping down the already clean toaster.

After a few minutes of silence, she glances at me.

“How deep are we going tonight?” she asks gently. “Color-coding the spice rack, or are we reorganizing the sock drawer again?”

I don’t look up. “Haven’t decided yet.”

She hums. Keeps cleaning.

“You want me to leave or stay?”

I swallow. “Stay.”

Her voice is soft, and she holds out her hand to me. “Pass the soap please.”

So, we clean—side by side, shoulder to shoulder—without another word.

Not because there’s nothing to say.

But because this is what it looks like when someone loves you without needing you to explain.

And tonight, that’s enough.