Page 52 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he second I step up to the mic, I feel fine.

A little nervous, maybe. But focused. Steady.

The lights are bright, but the crowd blurs at the edges once I start talking.

I move through the first few slides with ease, my voice even, my grip on the clicker strong.

But halfway through—right around the third statistic—I feel it.

That familiar tingle.

It starts in my toes. Subtle. Almost ignorable.

But it spreads quickly, crawling up the arches of my feet, into my calves like slow, fizzing static.

My chest tightens.

I keep talking. I smile. I finish my slides.

I make it off the stage.

Barely.

The second I hit the floor, I start scanning for my dad.

He’s near the corner of the room, standing with a few alumni, holding a glass of water in his hand.

I cut through the crowd without thinking, the tingling growing sharper now—numbness mingling with pins and needles.

“Dad.”

He turns, eyebrows lifting when he sees my face.

“I need to go home,” I whisper, trying to keep my expression neutral, trying to stay composed. “Now.”

His eyes widen a fraction. He sees it immediately—whatever I’m trying to hide.

He doesn’t ask questions.

Just sets his glass down and moves fast, placing a hand firmly on my lower back as he guides me toward the exit with calm, quiet urgency.

“Okay. We’ll take the side door,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

I nod stiffly, but my throat’s starting to tighten now, too, the early signs of my body slipping into fight-or-freeze.

The static in my legs is buzzing. My balance is slipping.

My dad knows.

He keeps his hand steady, his voice low and even.

“We’re almost there, sweetheart. Just a few more steps.”

But in my head, everything’s already starting to go sideways.

Because no matter how hard I fight it?—

My body is shutting down.

And this time…it’s happening in front of everyone.

We’re halfway through the lobby when my feet stop obeying me.

It starts as a hitch in my step, a drag of my right foot that I can’t correct no matter how hard I will it.

Then my knees buckle.

“Dad—” I gasp, clutching at his arm.

“I’ve got you,” he says immediately, his voice low but sharp, already moving to brace me.

But it’s too late.

The pins and needles explode up through my legs, and the numbness spreads like wildfire through my chest, my arms, my jaw.

The world tilts.

And then I’m going down.

My dad catches me before I fully hit the floor, lowering me carefully to the carpet just outside the double doors.

“It’s okay, Ly,” he murmurs as he eases me onto my back. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

My body jerks once, hard, my breath stuttering out of me.

He’s already stripped off his jacket, folding it quickly and sliding it under my head—not pushing my chin up, not tilting my neck—just enough to cushion me.

I can feel the fabric against my cheek as the buzzing overtakes everything.

I can’t move.

I can’t speak.

But I can still hear him.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, his palm warm and steady on my shoulder, his voice quiet but commanding over the murmurs starting to build around us.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

I focus on that—on him—until another sound cuts through the noise.

A voice I know almost as well.

“Move. Let me through—hey, back up!”

Carter.

I can hear him coming closer, his tone sharp, almost angry, like the crowd itself has offended him just by being here.

And then another, deeper voice joins his.

“Everybody back up. Give her space. Now.”

Jaxon.

The shuffle of footsteps, chairs scraping, the buzz of whispers pulling away.

And then another presence drops to the floor on my other side, cool fingers brushing my hair back from my forehead.

“Oh, Ly,” Madison breathes, her voice soft but shaky.

I feel my body tense to the point of pain, then it all goes dark.

When I open my eyes, it takes a few seconds to figure out where I am.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the lamp on my dresser, and everything smells faintly like laundry detergent and lavender.

I’m home.

I shift slightly, my body heavy and sore, and that’s when I notice Madison curled up on top of the comforter next to me, her arm draped lazily across her stomach as she sleeps.

And on the other side—on the floor, leaning against the side of my bed—is Carter.

His head is tipped back against the mattress, arms folded over his chest, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

Even in sleep, his jaw is tight, like he’s still on edge.

I just watch him for a second.

Because even though I know he shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t still care—he is.

And that fact alone makes my chest ache.

The door creaks softly, and I glance up to see my dad step in, his big frame filling the doorway.

When he sees my eyes open, he gives me a small, relieved smile and crosses the room, careful not to wake Madison or Carter.

“How’re you feeling?” he murmurs, crouching down next to the bed so his voice stays low.

I shift, wincing faintly at the stiffness in my arms and shoulders.

“Sore,” I admit. “But…okay. Mainly just embarrassed.”

My dad chuckles under his breath, reaching out to squeeze my hand.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says gently. “Your body’s reaction to stress isn’t something you chose. And it’s not something to be ashamed of.”

I bite my lip, my throat tightening as I look away.

He gives my hand another squeeze, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“I’m honestly surprised you’ve gone this long without one,” he continues, his voice low but warm. “Doesn’t mean you should make a habit of it, though. You hear me?”

I huff out a soft laugh, even though my eyes sting.

“Yeah, Dad. I hear you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head before straightening just slightly.

Then he glances down at Carter, still asleep against the bed, and murmurs just loud enough for me to hear?—

“That boy was terrified tonight. Just thought you should know. I’ll swing by in the morning to check on you.”

And then, he squeezes my hand one last time and quietly slips back out of the room.

I don’t move right away after my dad leaves.

I just stare at Carter.

Even asleep, he looks tense. His brow faintly furrowed, his arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

I study the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes fan against his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest.

And for just a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to reach out. To smooth the crease from his forehead. To tell him I’m sorry.

But before I can think too hard about it, my head starts pounding again.

A deep, throbbing ache that makes it hard to keep my eyes open.

So, I let them fall shut.

The next time I wake up, sunlight is pouring through my window.

My body feels heavy, but the headache has dulled to a faint hum.

I shift slowly, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and glance toward the floor.

But his spot is empty.

No Carter.

No trace that he was even here.

Just me with Madison still curled up on the other side of the bed, and the faintest lingering ache in my chest.