Page 107 of Red Zone
I stop just outside the double doors and lean against the wall, sucking in a slow breath.
And before I even think about it, I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket and scrolling to his name.
It only rings once before he picks up.
“Harding,” he says, voice warm and amused. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I—” My voice cracks, and I press a hand to my forehead. “I’m freaking out.”
That gets a soft laugh out of him. “Yeah? I gathered that. What happened?”
I glance down at the folders in my arms, the weight of them somehow heavier now that I’m trying to explain.
“Megan called me into her office. Said she’s…promoting me. Sort of. She’s putting me in charge of three athletes’ NIL deals.Like, everything. Negotiations. Branding. Crisis management. Day-to-day strategy. Everything.”
I can hear the smile in his voice even before he speaks.
“That’s big time, Princess. Look at you.”
“Don’t call me that right now,” I mutter weakly.
He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. “Hey. I’m serious. That’s damn impressive, Lyla. I’m proud of you.”
Something in my chest twists, and I bite down on my lip to keep it from showing in my voice.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“So, who are the three lucky souls?” he asks.
I glance at the tabs, reading them aloud. “You. Grayson Bennett, whom you know. And…a gymnast. Savannah Cole.”
I hear the faint scrape of a chair on his end, like he’s leaning back. “Huh. Lucky me.”
“Don’t start,” I say automatically, though my lips twitch despite myself.
He chuckles under his breath. Then, after a beat, he asks lightly, “So what’d Madison say?”
I freeze, the words catching in my throat.
Because it hits me all at once?—
I didn’t call her.
I called him.
Before my best friend. Before anyone.
I called Carter Hayes.
And I have no idea what to do with the way that realization makes my heart skip.
By the time Friday rolls around, I’m running on equal parts adrenaline and iced coffee.
Megan scheduled my first client meeting for the morning, telling me to “get a feel for her tone and priorities before pitching anything.” Which is corporate-speak for don’t let her eat you alive.
So here I am, sitting in a quiet corner of the athletic department conference room, my notebook open, folders neatly stacked, waiting for Savannah Cole.
She shows up exactly five minutes late—of course.
