Page 147 of Red Zone
Nicole nods understandingly, and even Dad doesn’t argue, just gives Carter another firm handshake at the door.
“You’re welcome here anytime, Hayes,” he says gruffly.
“Thanks, Coach,” Carter replies.
Dad pulls me in for a hug, kissing the top of my head. “Merry Christmas, Lyla June.”
I can’t really remember the last time he called me that, the realization bringing tears to my eyes instantly. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”
We say our goodbyes, Emmy dramatically announcing she’ll “just die” if she doesn’t get the last slice of pie before we leave, and then we’re finally back outside in the cold, walking to my car.
It isn’t until I’m pulling out of the driveway that Carter finally lets himself laugh, low and warm from the passenger seat.
“Gonna let me in on the joke or keep laughing by yourself?”
“See my mom, huh?” he says, looking over at me with that maddening smirk.
I feel my cheeks heat, but I keep my eyes on the road. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Oh, it worked,” he says, shaking his head with another quiet laugh. “But you do realize your dad’s been my coach for the last four years, right? The guy definitely knows I grew up in the system.”
That makes me laugh, in spite of myself.
“Yeah, well,” I shoot back. “Then he should also know how uncomfortable you get when people start asking about it.”
Carter just grins wider, leaning his head back against the seat like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
“Princess,” he says, glancing over at me with a look that sends an unexpected little flutter through my chest. “You keep paying this much attention to me, acting like you care and all that, people are gonna start talking.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t quite hide my smile as I mutter, “Let ’em talk, quarterback. Let ’em talk.”
39
CARTER
For the first time in my life, Christmas didn’t come with that usual knot in my chest.
No dread. No heavy silence in some foster house kitchen, watching other kids get picked up by family while I sat there pretending not to care. No cheap, plastic tree in a group home corner, already half-tilted because nobody bothered fixing it.
Just…her.
Lyla.
Her dad’s house, the awkward smiles, the tense little undercurrents I was starting to read between her and Emmy—all of it somehow felt better than anything I’d known before.
And when she’d leaned over the table later, quietly asking if I’d want to stay the night at her place—help her actually make cookies the right way this time—I didn’t even have to think about it.
That’s how we ended up in her tiny kitchen, half the flour on the counter, half of it on my shirt, and at least one batch of sugar cookies permanently fused to the pan.
Not that I cared.
She was laughing, and that was enough.
Even when things got…messy.
By the time the last tray came out of the oven, we’d somehow managed to get more frosting and powdered sugar on each other than on the cookies. She’d flicked flour at me, so of course I grabbed the whipped cream sitting on the counter from taking an ice cream break and got her back.
One thing led to another, and before I knew it, she was pinned against the counter, breathless, her hands gripping the front of my shirt like she couldn’t decide whether to shove me away or pull me closer.
