Page 136 of Red Zone
But even with all that, when the lights are glowing and the music’s playing, there’s still this weight that settles in my chest.
Because this time of year also reminds me of everything I didn’t have growing up.
There’s no family waiting for me back home. No tree. No stupid traditions or inside jokes.
Just memories of bouncing from one foster house to the next, never staying long enough to feel like I was really wanted anywhere.
I never say any of this out loud—not to the guys, not to anyone.
Far as the team knows, I’m just Carter Hayes. QB1. Party guy. Always up for a laugh. Always good with the girls.
But nobody in that locker room knows what it feels like to sit alone on Christmas morning in a stranger’s living room while their real kids tear open presents and you just…watch.
Nobody but Coach Harding.
He’s the only one who knows the whole story, because he was the one who helped me get here.
He took a chance on me coming right out of high school. In one of our first meetings, he asked me what would be the main roadblock keeping me from attending PCU that fall. I was honest, telling him that I was barely able to keep enough food on hand with working at the local grocery store, and definitely hadn’t been able to save for college.
He looked at me that day, without pity, and told me he’d be honored if I’d come play for him that fall. My grades weren’t the best, but he still took a chance and talked the school into offering me a full-ride scholarship to come play ball.
I don’t know if I’d still be playing if it weren’t for him. I don’t even know if I’d still be in school.
And maybe that’s why, even now, I do what I can to make sure kids like me don’t feel forgotten this time of year.
Every December since my freshman year, I’ve organized a holiday charity event through the athletic department. Food, coats, gifts—whatever we can collect for local kids in the system.
Some of the guys on the team volunteer to help, which is great, but none of them know why it matters to me.
Why it feels like the least I can do.
And I don’t want them to know.
Because then it’s not about the kids anymore—it’s about me. And that’s not the point.
I pull into my spot outside the football house, cutting the engine and sitting there for a minute,
watching my breath fog up the windshield.
The street’s lined with little houses covered in twinkling lights.
I tell myself they don’t mean anything.
But deep down, a part of me still wishes I belonged somewhere like that.
Somewhere I didn’t have to wonder if I was wanted.
And maybe that’s why I work so hard to make everyone else believe I already do.
I finally grab my keys and climb out of the Jeep, my boots crunching against the frosted driveway.
It’s loud inside already—shouts and laughter spilling out through the front door every time it opens. A couple of the guys are hanging on the porch, beers in hand, still riding the high of the playoff win.
I head around back to the hatch of the Jeep, flipping it open and starting to unload the bags I’d stuffed back here earlier.
Plastic bags full of toys, winter coats, little sneakers still in their boxes.
One bag. Two. Three.
