Page 50 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he only thing keeping me sane these days is work.

And I’ve thrown myself into it with everything I have.

My planner is a mess of tabs and color-coded notes, and my laptop is constantly open to half a dozen spreadsheets at once. Every night I’m here, sitting cross-legged on my living room floor, cold coffee forgotten on the table while I make calls and draft emails.

It feels good.

Better than good.

For the first time since everything fell apart, I feel like I’m building something that matters.

The PCU Summer Football Camp.

The name looks a little cleaner on my one-sheet now, with a polished logo and a mission statement that Megan actually nodded at in approval yesterday.

One week of mentorship, community, and skills development for high school athletes in foster care, hosted at PCU.

The first step was pitching it formally to Megan and the athletic department. Convincing them it was worth pursuing—and worth attaching Carter’s name to.

And that part was surprisingly easy.

It was the next steps that got tricky.

Sponsorships. Venues. Gear. Food. Transportation. Marketing.

But slowly—piece by piece—it’s coming together.

Tonight, I’ve got two sponsorship contracts sitting in my inbox ready for review, both from local businesses. And a promising email thread with a regional sportswear brand that could be huge if they sign on.

I sit back against the couch, rubbing my eyes before pulling my hair up into a messy bun and clicking into my draft emails.

“All right,” I murmur to myself, scanning the contact list. “Who’s next?”

I fire off three more cold emails before the hour’s up, drafting a proposal for the sportswear company while I wait.

And as the numbers start to add up in my budget spreadsheet, as the potential donors list fills in just a little more, I can’t help the quiet little smile that creeps onto my face.

For the first time in weeks, it feels like I’m not just surviving.

I’m doing something right.

And I know, deep down, this isn’t just about proving myself to Megan or saving my internship.

It’s about doing right by him.

Even if he never knows it.

“Morning,” Madison mumbles, already shuffling toward the coffee pot.

“Fresh pot,” I say without looking up from my laptop. “Made it twenty minutes ago.”

I hear her pour a cup behind me, while I keep scanning the spreadsheet in front of me, red- penning notes and making adjustments to the budget for the summer camp.

“When did you go to bed last night?” she asks, voice still thick with sleep.

I shrug, still typing. “Bold of you to assume I did.”

She moves closer, and I can feel her eyes on the mess of papers and forms spread across the table.

“Since when are you applying to grad school?” she asks, her tone cautious.

That makes me finally push my blue light glasses up into my hair and lean back, rubbing at my tired temples. These things are supposed to help with the headaches that come from staring at screens all day, but so far I’m still waiting for them to deliver on that promise.

“Since always?” I snap before I can stop myself. My voice is sharper than I mean for it to be, but I don’t have the energy to soften it right now. “You’ve missed a lot of life the last few months, Madison.”

I catch the little flinch in her shoulders before she sits across from me, her expression softening.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I’ve been a shit friend.”

The corner of my mouth quirks despite myself, my irritation ebbing just a little.

“Not a shit friend. Just…preoccupied.”

I smirk faintly, hoping she knows I’m teasing. “Which, considering how long it took you to get your head out of your ass about Jaxon, is semi-forgivable.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Tell me about the school.”

I shift in my seat, glancing down at the brochure near my elbow before I speak.

“They have one of the top sports management programs,” I explain, my voice steadier now. “Plus partnerships with three pro teams for internships.”

I hesitate, twirling my pen between my fingers.

“And it’s close enough that I could stay home if I needed to save money,” I admit quietly. “But far enough that I don’t have to.”

My voice dips on the last part, and I know she hears it.

“Does your dad know?” Madison asks, her voice softer now too.

My jaw tightens instinctively.

“He knows,” I say flatly. “He’s…having feelings about it.”

“Good feelings or bad feelings?”

I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head.

“Controlling feelings,” I mutter. “He wants me at his alma mater. Or taking the cushy internship he’s setting up with his old teammate.”

Madison frowns, like she already knows what my answer’s going to be.

“And that’s not what you want.”

I meet her eyes and square my shoulders.

“No,” I say firmly. “I want to do this on my own. No favors. No special treatment. Just me proving I’m good enough.”

And for the first time in a long time, I realize…

I’ve never been more sure of where I’m going—or the kind of woman I want to be—than I am right now.

The printer hums and spits out another stack of glossy press packets, and I slide them into neat folders one by one, double-checking names as I go.

I pause when I reach his.

CARTER HAYES

His name is printed in bold at the top. His stats fill half the page. A small note at the bottom listing the teams that have shown the most serious interest.

Seattle. Miami. Denver. Chicago.

Every single one of them…nowhere near here.

Nowhere near the program I applied to.

I trace his name on the folder with my thumb before slipping it into the stack with the others, my stomach tightening.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been telling myself ending it was the smart thing to do. That it was better this way—cleaner. Less messy.

But seeing this?

It only drives the point home.

Even if we’d somehow held it together through the end of the season, we never would have survived what came next.

He would have been gone. And I would have been left here, trying to piece myself back together.

Better to rip the bandage off now. Before I got even more attached.

But the ache in my chest when I tuck his press packet into the pile tells me I was already too late for that.

Because no matter how much I try to deny it…

I know.

I am already in love with Carter Hayes.

And letting him go is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Before Dad left my apartment earlier this week after dropping off the letter of recommendation, he made me agree to dinner. So here I sit in the chair opposite my dad’s desk, my hands folded neatly in my lap while he finishes scribbling something on one of the many papers littering his desk.

I know he means well, truly. Thankfully, he’s let up a little bit this week, which I’m hoping means he took our conversation to heart. Deep down, I know he only wants the best for me. But sometimes what someone else thinks is the best doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the right option for you.

There’s still a part of me that is living in an alternate reality, where the application I submitted to the University of Chicago is accepted and that a certain blond quarterback gets drafted to that area, too.

Dad finally sets the pen down, leans back in his chair, and gives me one of those looks—half stern, half soft—that I’ve known my whole life.

“How’re you holding up, kiddo?” he asks.

The question catches me a little off guard, but I shrug.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

He snorts. “Sure you are.”

I glance down at my hands, but he doesn’t let me off the hook that easily.

“You’re working too much,” he says. “You look tired, no offense. And you’re carrying something you’re not talking about. I can see it.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he just shakes his head and cuts me off.

“I hear Carter’s been a real grumpy asshole lately. Big ol’ chip on his shoulder. Like he’s mad at the world.”

I blink at that. “You…noticed?”

“Of course I noticed,” he says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “That boy trains like he’s got something to prove every damn day. But he looks like he’s missing something.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my face neutral, but he just studies me for a long moment before letting out a quiet laugh.

“You know,” he says, voice softening. “When I fell in love with your mom, it scared the hell out of me.”

That makes me look up, surprised.

“She was too good for me,” he continues, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Too smart. Too stubborn. I almost let her walk away a dozen times. But she was it for me. My heart mate. And you don’t get more than one of those in this life, Lyla. If you’re lucky, you find ’em once.”

He leans back, folding his arms over his chest, his eyes steady on mine.

“Don’t let anything—anyone—keep you from being with that person. Not pride. Not fear. Not even me.”

My breath catches, and I bite my lip, looking back down at my lap to hide the way my eyes sting.

“Heart mates are rare,” he says softly. “If you’ve found yours…don’t let them go.”

And as his words sink in, I realize the truth I’ve been too scared to admit out loud: letting Carter go doesn’t make the feelings disappear—it only makes them harder to ignore.

The auction is next week, and there’s still so much to do.

Back at my apartment, my kitchen table is covered in silent auction sheets, sponsorship banners, and boxes of donated memorabilia that still need to be cataloged. Jerseys, autographed footballs, even a framed photo of the team hoisting last year’s conference trophy.

The phone at my ear crackles as I confirm the last catering order for the night of the event.

“Yes, three hundred. Chicken and vegetarian options, yes. Thank you.”

I hang up, scrawl another note in my planner, then grab the stack of bid sheets and start double- checking the minimums.

This auction will fund the first summer camp completely—everything from equipment to housing to food. And if it goes well, maybe even seed money for the second year.

It has to go well.

Because this isn’t just another event.

This is his name on the banner. His story in the press release. His legacy before he even leaves this place.

And maybe it’s my way of holding on to a piece of him while I still can.

Next week, the guys are traveling out of state to participate in Pro Day at one of the larger schools. All the scouts and coaches that can’t make it to PCU will be there.

I catch myself thinking about it more than I mean to.

Wondering what he’ll wear. Who he’ll impress. What his face will look like when he walks off the field knowing he’s one step closer to everything he’s ever wanted.

And I wonder if he thinks about me at all.

I set my pen down and rub at my tired eyes, willing myself to focus.

Because if I’m going to get through this auction, through this whole season…I have to stop letting him live rent-free in my head.