Page 6 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

W alking into the gym for our Thursday morning weight set, I drop my bag and nod at Montgomery, who’s already halfway through his warm up.

“Damn,” I say, tossing a plate on the bar next to him. “You’re early.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like waiting around.”

Of course not. Dude’s built like he’s got something to prove and works like he’s got everything to lose. Can’t say I don’t respect it.

Jaxon doesn’t talk much, but we’ve been syncing up on the field better than half the guys I’ve known for years. It’s easy with him. No drama. Just business. The kind of teammate you actually want in your corner.

Beck wanders over, smirking like always. “Look at you two bonding. Cute. Y’all gonna start wearing matching wristbands next?”

“Only if we can get ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ embroidered across the back,” I say.

Beck cackles. “You’re sick.”

“Accurate,” I reply, racking another plate. “Now shut up and spot me.”

Jaxon chuckles under his breath. “He’s got a point. You talk more than our offensive coordinator.”

“Jealousy is a disease,” Beck says, stepping behind me as I slide under the bar. “And I hope both of you catch it.”

I push through the set—heavy but clean. My shoulders burn. My head’s a little clearer. It’s the only time lately that I don’t feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

We rotate through lifts, Beck going on and on about how his girlfriend is going out of town next weekend, and Jaxon occasionally chiming in with some low-key savage comment that hits harder because you never see it coming.

You know it’s bad when he doesn’t have anything nice to say about the couple who has been together for the last almost ten years.

Jaxon finishes his last rep and wipes down the bench with a towel, nodding toward the door.

“You think Coach will let us breathe after Saturday if we win?”

“Doubt it,” I say. “Bet he’s already got extra Sunday film sessions scheduled.”

“Does he ever sleep?” Beck adds, dropping his dumbbells with a thud. “Like…is he a vampire? I feel like he just roams around campus looking for players to scare straight.”

“Better question,” I mutter. “Who’s planning the afterparty?”

Right on cue, Logan Brooks strolls in—aviators on inside, like he’s allergic to humility—clapping his hands like he owns the building.

“Speaking of parties,” Beck says, nodding toward him.

Logan grins. “Boys.”

“Logan,” I deadpan. “Come to bless us with tales of your newest conquest?”

“Nah, just here to remind you degenerates that our house is prepped and ready for Saturday night.” He slaps Beck on the back. “Assuming you don’t choke and blow the game, of course.”

Beck rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the faith.”

“Got enough drinks stocked to last normal people a year,” Logan goes on. “Even borrowed some LED lights from my Ward’s weird influencer cousin. Place looks like a damn nightclub now.”

Jaxon raises a brow. “Didn’t last weekend almost get shut down by campus security after I went to bed?”

“That,” Logan says, holding up a finger. “Was because someone called them and said it was too loud.”

“It was,” Beck defends.

I glance up from where I’m chalking my hands. “So, same time after the game?”

Logan grins. “We bring home the win, then I’ll bring the bad decisions.”

Beck smirks. “And the playlist that hasn’t changed since sophomore year.”

“Don’t fix what isn’t broken.” Logan shrugs, pulling off his hoodie. “Besides, it’s not like anyone comes for the music.”

I shake my head and finish my set, the weight grounding me more than it should.

Game. Party. Reset. Repeat.

It’s predictable. Familiar. Almost enough to distract me from the real problem.

Almost.

Because I already know who else will be at that party.

Pregame rituals are always the same.

Headphones in. Cleats laced tight. Tape wrapped just right—wrist, ankle, knuckles. I check the play sheet, even though I’ve had it memorized since Tuesday. Jaxon’s locked in. Beck’s mouthy as hell, which is a great sign. And Coach is barking like his blood pressure depends on it.

It’s chaos wrapped in focus.

And I thrive in it.

At least, I used to.

Until she became part of the process.

“Hayes,” someone calls. “You’ve got two minutes for media.”

I glance over my shoulder.

Speaking of the redheaded firecracker.

Hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, PCU headset on, and press badge clipped to her hip like it’s an extension of her backbone. She’s got her phone in one hand, tablet in the other, and her usual you’re already annoying me expression on her pretty face.

I jog over, helmet under my arm, adrenaline buzzing just under my skin.

“You again,” I say, smirking. “Isn’t there a rule against distractions before kickoff?”

“Good thing I’m not a distraction,” Lyla replies, deadpan, eyes flicking down to her screen.

“That’s the lie you’re going with today?”

She ignores it. “All right, I need three quick pregame quotes for the department’s social feed. Keep it clean. Pretend you care about the fans watching.”

“Princess,” I murmur, leaning in just slightly. “I always care when you’re watching.”

She doesn’t react.

She’s too good at this game.

But I see it—the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Progress.

“Question one,” she says crisply, lifting her phone and tapping the record button. “All right, Hayes. What’s the mindset heading into tonight’s matchup?”

“Simple.” I shrug. “We win.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She lifts a brow. “Profound.”

“Want me to say something about grit? Brotherhood? Playing for the guy next to me?”

She doesn’t blink. “I want you to say something that won’t make the media director quit his job.”

I grin wider. “Fine. We’re locked in, focused, and hungry. Happy?”

She moves to question two, but I’m not listening to anything she says.

Because for a second, her lip was caught between her teeth as she focused.

And now my brain is somewhere it shouldn’t be.

Very, very far away.

Wondering what her mouth would feel like on mine.

Wondering what those lips would feel like wrapped around my co?—

“Earth to Carter. You want to try answering that again?” she says, voice snapping me out of the spiral.

I blink.

She’s staring at me, brows arched, waiting.

And I have no idea what she just asked.

“Sorry,” I say, smiling slowly. “Got distracted.”

Her eyes narrow, sharp and suspicious. “By what?”

“Bad ideas,” I mutter.

She scoffs. “Try to keep those to a minimum for the next four quarters.”

“You offering yourself as a reward if I behave?”

She shakes her head. “If you win, you get to keep your jersey clean and your ego intact. That’s it.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

She ends the recording and takes a step back. “Good luck, Hayes.”

“I don’t need luck, Princess,” I call after her. “I’ve got motivation.”

She doesn’t turn around.

But her ponytail flicks just a little harder than necessary, and her hips sway with each step.

And yeah?—

That’ll be playing in my head the whole game.

A throat clearing behind me brings me back to the present, especially when I turn to find Coach looking right at me, a slightly graying brow raised.

He definitely just caught me staring at his daughter’s ass. Awesome.

Snap count. Motion. Hands on the laces.

I call the play, shift the formation, and take the snap.

One-one-thousand.

The pocket holds.

Two-one-thousand.

Jaxon cuts right. Beck’s on the fade.

Three-one-thousand.

I launch it deep.

The ball slices through the night sky like it belongs there—tight spiral, perfect arc. Beck hauls it

in at the forty, toe-taps the sideline, and we move the chains.

The crowd goes wild.

Coach pumps a fist.

But my eyes track to the sideline before I even realize I’m doing it.

Lyla’s there. Just off the hash. Tablet in hand, lips pursed like she’s trying very hard not to care.

She doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t even smile.

But she saw it.

Next drive, we’re in the red zone. Second and goal. Coach wants the safe play—a pitch to our RB to eat the clock.

I audible.

“Blue eighty! Kill, kill!”

We line up. I glance at Jaxon.

He nods.

Snap.

Play action. Defense bites. I roll right. Jaxon’s already two steps ahead of his man.

I hit him in the numbers. Touchdown.

The student section explodes.

I jog back to the sideline, helmet swinging from my hand, adrenaline flooding my veins.

Coach gives me the look—half-proud, half-don’t push it.

Third quarter starts choppy. Our center jumps early, and I get nailed by a blitz I didn’t see coming.

Shoulder-first into the turf.

I pop up and shake it off. But it rattled me.

Coach pulls me for a play to lecture me about awareness. I nod through it, pacing like a caged animal with my jaw tight.

Back in, next drive.

We’re tied now. Two minutes on the clock.

I’ve been here before.

High pressure. Stadium breathing down your neck. The weight of the team on your shoulders.

Some guys break.

I bite down on my mouthguard and thrive.

Snap. Step back. Jaxon’s covered. Beck is doubled.

Tight end breaks across the middle. I sling it to him on the run.

Gain of twenty.

We’re in range.

One more shot.

Coach calls the play. It’s safe. A checkdown option.

But I see the defense creeping up and know they’re daring me to go for it.

Wouldn’t want to disappoint, so I do.

Because if there’s one thing I’m not—it’s safe.

I fake the throw, tuck, and run.

I hear the collision before I feel it—helmet on ribs, pads crashing—but I dive through the chaos.

End zone.

Touchdown.

I roll onto my back, chest heaving. The guys pile on. Helmets knock. Hands slap my back. The crowd’s going feral.

But all I hear is one voice in my head.

Try to keep the bad ideas to a minimum.

Too late, Princess.

I am one.

And tonight?

I’m just getting started.