Page 182 of Red Zone
I blink at it for a full thirty seconds before the panic sets in.
I’m still in my pajamas, hair in a messy bun, my planner open on the counter as I finish my tea.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, shoving my chair back and scrambling to my feet.
I barely remember to turn off the kettle before darting to my bedroom. I throw on the first thing I can grab—a blouse that needs to be steamed and black pants that are definitely wrinkled—and hop around trying to get them on while I shove my feet into flats.
On my way out the door, I grab my tea without thinking and end up sloshing half of it down the front of my blouse.
“Perfect,” I groan, trying to dab at it with a napkin as I slam the door shut behind me.
The parking lot is, of course, already packed when I get to campus. I circle twice, gripping the steering wheel tighter with each turn.
When I finally spot an open space near the building, a beat-up truck cuts in from the other direction and takes it right in front of me.
I actually yell at my windshield.
By the time I find a spot two lots over and speed-walk my way to the athletic office, my chest is tight, my pulse is pounding, and my tea stain is a full-on Rorschach test.
I’m five minutes late when I finally stumble into Megan’s office, breathless.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I blurt, clutching my bag and smoothing my blouse like it’ll help. “The parking lot was?—”
She looks up from her desk, and one look at her expression shuts me up.
She’s not happy.
Her mouth is set in a tight line, her brows slightly furrowed.
“Have a seat, Lyla,” she says coolly.
I swallow hard, slipping into the chair opposite her desk, my hands knotting together in my lap.
She lets the silence stretch just long enough to make my stomach twist before she finally speaks.
“You remember the complaint we addressed earlier this year,” she says, her tone measured. “About you allegedly showing favoritism toward certain athletes?”
I nod quickly, my throat dry.
“Yes, ma’am. I thought we resolved?—”
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp enough to stop me.
“Well, unfortunately, someone has now come forward claiming they have proof that you’re romantically involved with one of the players. Carter Hayes, specifically.”
My breath catches in my chest.
The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights loud in my ears.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because even though I shouldn’t be surprised…
It still feels like the floor just dropped out from under me.
My tongue feels like sandpaper.
The words are there, somewhere, but I can’t grab on to them.
