Page 13 of Red Zone

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I leave the house an hour later, needing to burn off steam. I end up at a party down the block—some junior basketball player’s place, crowded and loud. Familiar faces. Girls who don’t bite when I tease them. Who laugh when I flash a grin.

One of them—Chloe, maybe—presses close, fingers tracing the hem of my shirt. I let her. Let her touch. Let her smile.

She’s cute. Simple.

But still, all I can think is: not her.

Not red curls and green eyes with razor-sharp comebacks. Not Lyla Fucking Harding.

I mutter something and step back. She pouts, and I don’t care.

This is bullshit.

All this tension with Lyla? It’s nothing. A distraction. A fire I need to put out so I can focus.

That’s all.

One time.

That’s all it’d take.

Get her out of my system and my head back in the game.

Because this? Obsessing over someone who doesn’t even hardly tolerate being in the same room as me?

That is fucking with my head, which in turn is fucking with my game. And that isn’t gonna work for me.

5

LYLA

Later that night, I sit in bed with my laptop, clipping interview footage from this morning.

I pause on a frame halfway through the shoot — Carter, leaning forward, gaze fixed off-camera, lips curved in the faintest almost-smile.

He’s not smiling at the camera.

He’s smiling at me.

I hover over the delete key.

My finger doesn’t move.

Eventually, I click “Save.”

Just in case.

Perfection is a game you can’t win—but that doesn’t stop me from playing.

Every step down the faculty hallway is counted. Three per tile. Left foot always starts first. My tablet is tucked exactly under my arm, my pen clipped at the center—because it has tobe in the center—and my heart is thudding a little too fast, but I ignore that part.

Focus.

I have a meeting with Coach Harding.

Correction: my dad.

Which means I need to be twice as prepared, twice as composed, and three times as numb.

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