Page 8 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

O nce in a while, I get to skip a game. Not that I love skipping, but sometimes my brain needs the brief pause, and tonight is one of those nights.

Madison and I just finished our girls’ night dinner of delicious pasta and garlic bread, now we’re crashing on the couch watching a movie.

The living room is dim except for the glow of the TV screen and the soft flicker of the candle Madison insists doesn’t smell like vanilla, even though it one hundred percent does.

We’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled in a lazy sprawl somewhere in the middle, a half-empty popcorn bowl resting dangerously close to falling off the edge of the coffee table.

On screen, the heroine is sobbing in the rain. The guy chases her down with some dramatic, grand gesture, pouring his heart out while looking absolutely soaked and miserable.

I press the side of my face into the couch cushion, watching with half-lidded eyes. “Would you punch me if I said this scene is so unrealistic it makes my skin itch?”

Madison doesn’t even blink. “Only if you turn it off.”

Fair.

I go quiet again.

There’s something to be said about a friendship like ours. Almost like a soul mate in the unromantic sense of the word.

We met freshman year at community college, both of us stuck in the back of an Intro to Communications class. I was fresh off my gap year, still trying to find my footing. Madison looked like she didn’t want to be noticed—hood up, headphones in, eyes down.

But I noticed.

I saw something in her, something familiar. That quiet kind of loneliness. The kind that mirrors your own even if no one says it out loud.

So, I slid into the seat beside her and made a dumb joke about the professor’s tragic shoe choice.

When she cracked a smile, I offered her half my muffin. Blueberry.

She took it.

We’ve been best friends ever since. I never really gave her a choice.

Little did we know then that we both had a loss in common—our moms both died from cancer.

Hers when she was a young child, mine when I was turning into a teenager. Where Madison’s grief turned into walls a million feet thick on any side of her heart, mine manifested into severe anxiety mixed with OCD.

I shift again; the blanket too warm suddenly. Or maybe I’m just thinking too much.

Madison’s still watching the movie, but my mind’s spiraling somewhere else—somewhere quieter and darker.

People think anxiety is panic attacks and hyperventilating. And yeah, sometimes it is. But for me? It’s control. It’s order. Needing every detail lined up perfectly so my brain doesn’t eat itself.

I was twelve when my body first shut down on me.

Just…stopped. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

It lasted maybe a minute, maybe more. I don’t really remember.

I just remember the fear in my mom’s voice.

The frantic rush to the ER. The way the doctors kept whispering words like “conversion disorder” and “stress response” like they were trying not to spook me.

Eventually, it turned into seizures—brief, unpredictable moments where I’d lose control. No warning. No trigger. Just the quiet explosion of my nervous system saying, you’ve pushed too far.

It took years to understand it wasn’t about how I felt in the moment. It was the buildup. The chronic pressure. The way I stuffed everything down until my body finally said “enough.”

By high school, I had a diagnosis: generalized anxiety disorder with OCD tendencies, stress- induced. I’ve been managing it ever since. Therapy. Routines. Systems that make me feel like I’m in control, even when I’m not.

And still, sometimes I spiral. Quietly. Clean the apartment until it sparkles. Organize the pantry in rainbow order. Re-check the locks twice. Not because I’m scared, but because some part of me still thinks if I just do everything right, nothing will fall apart.

Sometimes I wish I could explain that to people. That I don’t want to be perfect. I have to be.

Because the alternative is terrifying.

I swallow the tightness in my throat, push down the memories, and focus back on the screen.

The movie is in its final stretch now—slow-motion kisses and soaring music—and Madison’s still curled into the corner of the couch, eyes glassy from the ending or maybe just from being still long enough to feel things.

I pull the blanket off and stand, stretching my arms over my head. “I’m gonna head to bed,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Early shift tomorrow with media prep.”

Madison looks up, blinking like she’s coming out of a daze. “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She watches me for a beat longer than necessary, like she’s trying to read between the lines.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Yell if you need anything. And by ‘yell,’ I mean wake me up nicely or I’ll end you.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Noted.”

I turn toward the hallway but pause before disappearing.

“Thanks for tonight.”

She shrugs. “Always.”

And just like that, the tension in my chest loosens. Not all the way. But enough.

The hallway is dark except for the soft glow from the bathroom.

I pass my bedroom door and head straight for it.

Routine first. Then I can sleep.

I flick the bathroom light on. Wait one second. Flick it back off. On again.

Twice. Always twice.

My therapist once told me the world wouldn’t end if I didn’t.

But my body didn’t believe her.

I twist my hair into a loose braid, fingers working on autopilot. Left over right. Right over left. I tie it off with the soft scrunchie from the middle drawer—always the gray one, never pink. The pink one doesn’t sit right. It’s too tight, too scratchy.

Skincare next. I wash my face with cold water, then apply toner, serum, and moisturizer in that exact order. Three pumps, never two. One for the skin, one for balance, one just in case.

I wipe down the counter afterward, even though I already wiped it earlier. One more time won’t hurt.

Back in my room, I smooth the comforter, even though I’m about to get under it. Adjust the pillow. Then again. Corners have to match. Edges straight. Lamp off.

Then on. Then off again.

The silence is louder in here. But the order dulls it.

Only when everything is in its place—hair braided, skin cool and clean, lights checked, doors locked, pillow just right—do I finally allow myself to breathe.

And maybe sleep.

If my brain will let me.

By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, my head is pounding. Not the dull ache kind, either.

It’s sharp—like my brain’s too swollen for my skull and every sound slices through me.

I didn’t sleep much this weekend.

Not well, anyway.

I’ve triple-checked everything on my tablet. Color-coded time blocks. Highlighted player assignments. Two backup schedules, one handwritten just in case someone “can’t find the PDF.”

There are two notepads stacked beside me—one for general notes, one for social media briefs.

Pens aligned at perfect angles.

Everything is in order.

It has to be.

The office buzzes around me—keyboards clacking, printers humming, someone tapping a foot way too loud under the table.

I adjust the edge of my notepad again. Then once more.

My hands are shaking.

I’m not even sure why. Lack of sleep? Pressure? The feeling that one thing out of place might tip everything over?

“Hey, sorry, excuse me?—”

I look up just in time to see the other intern—Eric, maybe—stumbling as he tries to juggle a cup of coffee, his laptop, and what looks like a breakfast sandwich he definitely didn’t need this late in the day.

The coffee slips.

Time slows.

The cup tips, spinning in midair before splattering across my desk like a crime scene. It hits my notes first. Then the corner of my tablet and down the side of my laptop. My pens roll away.

The pages soak instantly, black ink bleeding out into unreadable messes.

“Oh my god,” Eric gasps, fumbling napkins. “Lyla, I’m so—shit, I’m so sorry?—”

I don’t move.

I just stare.

My whole body locks up. My chest tightens.

I try to grab the tablet to get it out of the way, but my fingers slip. I pat at the notepad with one of Eric’s napkins but it’s useless, it’s ruined, it’s all?—

My breathing stutters.

Fast. Sharp. Out of rhythm.

It’s just paper. Just notes. I can rewrite them. I can?—

But I can’t stop.

My lungs won’t fill right. My vision’s narrowing at the edges. My heart’s pounding like it’s trying to escape.

Everything’s too loud.

Too fast.

Too much.

“Lyla.”

A new voice cuts through the noise.

Lower. Calmer.

Familiar.

I don’t need to look up to know who it is.

Carter.

He steps in close, not touching me, but anchoring the space between the chaos and my shaking hands.

“Breathe.”

His voice is softer now. Not teasing. Not cocky.

Just steady.

“I am,” I whisper, though it’s barely audible.

“You’re not. Try again. In through your nose. Come on.”

I drag in a breath. It catches halfway.

“Slower,” he says. “Match me.”

He exaggerates a slow inhale, and I follow. Then an exhale.

And another.

I blink, the edges of the room coming back into focus. The noise dulls. My pulse starts to settle.

My hands are still trembling.

Carter crouches beside my desk, eyeing the mess but not commenting. “You okay?”

I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true.

“Yeah,” I manage. “I just…it’s stupid.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Eric hovers behind him, still apologizing under his breath like a broken record. Carter shoots him a look.

“Go find a towel or something,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ve got this.”

Eric stumbles away, grateful for the out.

Carter reaches for my soaked notepad, holding it up between two fingers. “RIP. She fought hard.”

Despite myself, a small, wobbly laugh slips out.

He glances at me. “There she is.”

I wipe at my eyes, even though I’m not crying. Not exactly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he says, standing again. “You want me to grab you another coffee? Or murder Eric with a stapler?”

I shake my head. “I think I’m okay.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary.

Then, just as he turns to leave, he tosses over his shoulder, “For the record…I like your chaos. Kinda suits you.”

I stare after him, still catching my breath.

That was a different side of Carter Hayes. Maybe there’s more to him after all.