Page 222 of Red Zone
It looks like something she’d admire once, quietly, and never tell anyone about.
It looks like her.
My heart kicks, solid and certain.
Yeah.
This is it.
I check the time on my phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
Lyla’s halfway through her interview, and I’m halfway through mentally blacking out in the booth of some upscale steakhouse I never would’ve picked if I had functioning brain cells. But this isn’t about me.
It’s about asking the man across from me if I can marry his daughter.
Coach Harding lifts his glass of water, slow and steady like we’re in the damn playoffs again, and takes a sip. Doesn’t say a word.
Just watches me.
I clear my throat, suddenly regretting every bite of the dry-ass bread I shoved in my mouth five minutes ago to avoid talking too soon.
“So,” I start, hands clenched under the table. “Thanks for meeting me.”
He gives me a curt nod. “Figured it was important, considering you insisted.”
“Yeah.” I nod too. “Yeah, it is.”
Another long sip of water. The silence between us is so thick I can hear the jazz piano from the other side of the restaurant like it’s mocking me.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the small velvet box, not opening it—just holding it there like it weighs a hundred pounds.
“I want to marry Lyla,” I say, finally. “And I want to ask her the right way. But I couldn’t do that without coming to you first.”
His face gives absolutely nothing away.
I wait.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and steeples his fingers like we’re reviewing game film. “You think you’re ready for that responsibility?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you can handle her? Protect her? Put her first?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you’re man enough to keep up with a Harding woman when she’s hellbent on conquering the damn world?”
That makes me smile, just barely. “Yes, sir. I already am.”
He stares at me a beat longer than necessary, then exhales.
And finally—finally—his lips twitch.
“Jesus, Hayes. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I let out a breath that’s basically a mix of a laugh and groan. “Honestly? I might.”
“You’re lucky I like you,” he says, sitting back and reaching for his glass again. “Otherwise, I’d have let you sweat it out for another ten minutes.”
