Page 21 of Red Zone
Some guys break.
I bite down on my mouthguard and thrive.
Snap. Step back. Jaxon’s covered. Beck is doubled.
Tight end breaks across the middle. I sling it to him on the run.
Gain of twenty.
We’re in range.
One more shot.
Coach calls the play. It’s safe. A checkdown option.
But I see the defense creeping up and know they’re daring me to go for it.
Wouldn’t want to disappoint, so I do.
Because if there’s one thing I’m not—it’s safe.
I fake the throw, tuck, and run.
I hear the collision before I feel it—helmet on ribs, pads crashing—but I dive through the chaos.
End zone.
Touchdown.
I roll onto my back, chest heaving. The guys pile on. Helmets knock. Hands slap my back. The crowd’s going feral.
But all I hear is one voice in my head.
Try to keep the bad ideas to a minimum.
Too late, Princess.
I am one.
And tonight?
I’m just getting started.
7
CARTER
The kitchen’s packed, loud, and reeking of tequila, cheap beer, and too much Axe body spray.
Right on schedule.
I lean against the counter, nursing a beer I don’t want, letting the noise swallow me. A girl I’ve seen around laughs at something I didn’t say and slides her hand up my arm like she thinks she’s subtle.
She’s not.
I let her touch linger.
Not because I’m into it. Because it’s easier to act like some party boy who doesn’t give a single fuck about anything but football and parties than to let people see the invisible scars I carry.
