Page 9 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

T he party is low-key; the kind of chill hangout people throw the night before a game when they don’t want to get yelled at during film review. Music’s low, beers are half-warm, and everyone pretends like they’re not keeping one eye on the time.

I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping a soda because Coach would bench my ass for showing up hungover. Logan’s nearby, talking to Beck about some play they want to try out next week, but I’m not really listening.

Because she just walked in.

Lyla.

Hair down. Jean jacket over a tight little top. Her smile’s easy, her laugh softer than usual. And it’s not for me.

It’s for Grayson Bennett.

Fucking hockey players.

He’s standing too close, leaning in just enough that it looks like they’re sharing a secret, and she’s laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I take another sip, jaw tight.

I want to be the reason for that laugh.

Logan says something about defensive schemes, but I’m already moving, feet carrying me across the room before I can talk myself out of it.

I stop right in front of them. “Hey, Harding. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Lyla blinks up at me, smile gone. “I’m in the middle of something, Carter.”

Grayson raises a brow, clearly amused. “We’re just talking, man.”

I don’t look at him. Don’t need to. “Just a minute.”

She sighs, folding her arms. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t say what I need to, I’ll probably regret it.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes narrow, calculating.

“Please,” I add, and it sounds foreign in my mouth. I don’t beg.

She glances at Grayson, then back at me. Something shifts in her expression. “Fine. One minute.”

I nod and turn, knowing she’ll follow.

And she does.

I take her to my room, shutting the door behind us. She stands near the wall, arms crossed, chin lifted like armor.

“You jealous or just bored?” she asks, voice cool.

“Would it make a difference?”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smirk. “So, what is it, Hayes? You need your ego stroked tonight?”

“Nah,” I say, leaning against the dresser. “Just couldn’t stand watching you smile at someone who didn’t earn it.”

She scoffs. “You think you earned it?”

“I’ve definitely worked harder than Grayson Fucking Bennett.”

“This isn’t the field, Carter. You don’t win people like you win games.”

“Don’t I?”

Her arms drop, fists clenching at her sides. “You really think you can just pull me into your room, say something cocky, and expect me to…what? Fall all over you?”

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I expect you to admit you’re just as confused by this thing between us as I am.”

She glares up at me. “There is no thing.”

“You sure?” I ask, voice low. “Because the way you look at me sometimes? Like you want to slap me and kiss me in the same breath?”

She laughs without humor. “More like just slap you.”

“Then why are you still standing here?”

Her jaw flexes. “Because I’m trying to figure out how big a mistake this would be.”

I step closer again. “I’m not looking for a forever thing, Harding. But don’t pretend you don’t think about it too.”

Her breath catches. She hates that I’m right.

“Tell me to back off,” I say, voice tight. “Tell me you don’t want this. I’ll let it go.”

She says nothing.

I lift a hand, brushing a curl behind her ear. Her breath hitches. Her gaze flicks to my mouth.

Then back to my eyes.

And just like that, she lunges forward.

It’s not a sweet kiss.

It’s teeth. Tongue. Anger. Fire.

It’s every insult, every glare, every unspoken thing we’ve been shoving down since day one.

Her hands fist in my shirt. Mine grip her waist like she’s an anchor.

We stumble back against the door, our breathing hard, lips swollen.

And when she pulls back, she whispers, voice hoarse, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

I nod, but don’t believe it.

“Whatever you say, Princess,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “This okay?”

Her eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. She nods once.

That’s all I need.

I reach for her.

One hand around the back of her neck, the other sliding around her waist, pulling her in fast enough to steal her breath.

Our mouths crash together again. Her hands tug me closer, and I groan against her lips, feeling her melt and push back all at once.

We move toward the bed, her jacket slipping off her shoulders, my hands roaming her sides. I grip her hips, lifting her just enough to drop her onto the mattress, crawling over her without hesitation.

Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. Her fingers are already tugging my shirt up, knuckles grazing bare skin. I break the kiss just long enough to rip it over my head and toss it across the room.

Her eyes sweep down my chest, and that look alone nearly undoes me.

She leans up, pressing kisses down my jaw to my neck, biting hard enough to make me hiss. I grip the hem of her shirt, eyes asking for permission. She nods, breath hot against my skin.

Off it goes.

And then she’s under me in nothing but a bra and jeans, skin flushed and eyes dark. I kiss her collarbone, then lower, my mouth claiming every inch she’ll give me.

My hands find her back, pausing at the clasp of her bra. I look at her again, and my voice is rough when I ask, “Okay?”

She nods, biting her lip.

I unhook it slowly, savoring the moment, then toss it aside and kiss her like she’s the only thing keeping me alive.

Her nails dig into my back, our bodies grinding together with too many clothes still in the way.

My hips roll into hers, and I feel her arch beneath me, her breath catching.

She tugs at my belt, fumbling with the buckle. I help her with the button on her jeans, fingers brushing hot skin as I slide the denim down her thighs. She gasps when I press my hand along the inside of her thigh.

I’m hard and aching, her body warm and soft beneath me, everything about this spiraling into need. She palms the front of my jeans, and I swear under my breath, grinding into her hand as I kiss her again, harder, deeper.

Her hands are at my waistband, my fingers at hers?—

The door bursts open.

“Shit—sorry!” someone says, drunk and laughing. “Didn’t know anyone was in here. I was looking for the bathroom.”

I jerk away instinctively as the door shuts, heart hammering, while Lyla practically launches off the bed. Her eyes go wide as she scans the room for something—anything—to cover herself.

She dives for the floor, snatching up the first thing she sees: my hoodie.

It’s oversized and already inside out, but she pulls it over her head like her life depends on it.

The sleeves hang past her hands, and it swallows her frame, the hem brushing her thighs before she yanks her jeans back up quickly.

Her hair is a mess, skin flushed and lips kiss-swollen as she bends to grab her shirt from the floor with trembling fingers. Her breathing is still ragged, chest rising and falling beneath the fabric as she shoves her shirt into the front pocket, barely looking at me.

I’m about to say something—anything—when she cuts me off.

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, brittle around the edges. “This was a mistake.”

“Lyla—”

She yanks open the door. “Forget it ever happened, Hayes.”

And then she’s gone.

I fall back onto my bed, still shirtless, staring up at the ceiling.

What the hell just happened?