Page 156 of Red Zone
About how my heart raced when his hand brushed mine earlier. How he looked at me when he thought no one else was watching. How it feels when I catch myself wondering what it would be like if he actually meant all those little things he says, if it wasn’t just…Carter being Carter.
I rub my temple, trying to shove the thoughts down, but they keep coming.
Because the truth is, I’m scared I’m already in too deep.
And tonight proved it.
The second I heard Madison run out, I thought of her first. But the next second?
It was him.
Wondering if he’d be the one to come after me.
If he’d care enough to try.
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard, willing the knot in my chest to loosen.
“You’re okay, Maddy,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s for her or for me.
Her muffled sob catches over the sound of the water, and I close my eyes tighter, because even though she’s the one falling apart right now…
I don’t think I’m too far behind.
It’s been three days since the party.
Three days of making sure my best friend at least eats a few crackers and stays hydrated, trying to make sure that I keep my shit together long enough to help her through this.
I thought keeping myself busy would help.
I throw myself into work, into the endless stream of social content, into campaign planning.
Smiling at the guys when they stop by to ask about their profiles or stats, politely brushing off Carter’s little comments, even though every single one of them sticks in my chest like a burr.
But apparently, keeping my head down isn’t enough.
Because today, Megan called me into her office.
I walk in gripping my tablet tight enough to make my knuckles ache, trying to read her expression. But Megan’s face is unreadable as always—smooth and polite, her neat hair tucked behind one ear, the team logo on the wall behind her perfectly straight.
“You wanted to see me?” I say, keeping my voice steady, even though my stomach’s twisting.
“Shut the door, please.”
That…isn’t great.
I do as she asks and take a seat. Megan folds her hands on her desk and looks at me for a long moment before speaking.
“I wanted to bring something to your attention,” she says evenly. “A concern was raised about your performance.”
My throat goes dry.
“My…performance?”
She nods. “I was approached by a player yesterday who feels you’ve been prioritizing certain athletes in your social campaigns and promotional efforts over others. That you’re…playing favorites, to put it plainly.”
I blink at her, stunned.
Playing favorites?
