Page 192 of Red Zone
I nod slowly, the nerves and determination tangling together in my stomach.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I will.”
Megan smiles faintly and turns back to her laptop, already pulling up her next email.
“You’re dismissed, Harding,” she says without looking up.
I clutch my planner to my chest as I stand, the faintest thread of hope cutting through the ache that’s been sitting heavy in me for weeks.
Because if nothing else…
Maybe I can still do this right.
I sit cross-legged on my living room floor, my planner open in front of me, surrounded by half a dozen sticky notes and three uncapped highlighters.
The quiet hum of the heater fills the apartment, but my mind is too loud for it to matter.
Megan’s words keep replaying in my head.
Show me you’re worth betting on.
I drag my pen down another page and start sketching out what this could actually look like.
Not just a few social media posts.
Not just a press release.
Something bigger.
Something that actually leaves a mark here at PCU and sets the tone for what Carter’s story really is.
I flip to a fresh page and write the words at the top in block letters:
PCU Summer Football Camp — For Future Stars.
Underneath, I scribble:
Open to High School age foster children. Summer football camp hosted at PCU. Drills, skills, and mentorship from college players.
It could start as a fundraiser—use Carter’s name, his story and influence to build momentum.
But eventually, the goal would be something permanent. A program that lasts.
Something that gives other kids in his shoes a chance.
Sometimes, all it takes is one person believing in you to change the entire course of your life—whether it’s them believing in you…or them giving you the confidence to finally believe in yourself.
I stare at the words for a long time, my chest tightening.
This…feels right.
When I finally snap out of my thoughts, it’s already one in the morning.
I close my planner and head toward my bed, hoping my brain will quiet enough to get some sleep.
The next morning, I’m back at the athletic department early, my peppermint tea clutched in one hand and my notes in the other as I knock on the athletic director’s office door.
Claire Andrews looks up in surprise when I peek my head in.
