Page 4 of Red Zone
The truth? I know how to play my role. Smile like I own the place. Keep the banter light. Take what people offer and give back just enough to keep them from noticing how fucked up I really am.
I didn’t grow up with silver spoons or trust funds. I grew up in other people’s houses. With names on the mailbox that never matched mine. People who were kind enough to let me stay, but not enough to let me belong.
Football was the first thing that made me feel chosen. Wanted. Useful.
Now I’m here—PCU’s star quarterback on a full ride. One good season away from the draft. One last chance to make all the broken pieces of my life mean something.
And yet?
I can’t stop watching the door.
Waiting.
For a certain redhead who pushes my buttons just as much as I do hers.
Lyla Harding.
Just then, she walks in. Red curls up in a messy knot, tight dress hugging her body in all the right places, green eyes narrowed like she’s already regretting stepping foot inside. She’s with Madison, naturally. They move together through the crowd like a unit. People part for them without even realizing it.
Where Madison is quiet, reserved unless she’s comfortable, Lyla is the opposite. She’s loud, wants you to know she’s in the same room as you. You’d have to be blind not to see her.
Even when she’s in a casual outfit, it’s as if she demands my attention without a single word.
Drives me absolutely insane, which is why I love getting a rise out of her.
I take a slow sip of my beer and force myself not to stare.
She doesn’t even glance my way.
Figures.
She’s Coach Harding’s daughter. Which means she’s off-limits, tightly wound, and way too smart to waste her time on a guy like me.
Madison sidles up to me a few minutes later, her drink already half gone. She hip-checks me and grins. “You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”
“Just wondering how many times I have to host one of these before people stop putting their gum in my bathroom drawers.”
She laughs. “You poor thing.”
I grin back, easy and familiar. Madison and I have history—of the strictly physical kind. Last fall, we hooked up every once in a while. Nothing serious. Just two people scratching an itch neither of us wanted to name.
She never asked me to be anything I couldn’t. I never asked her to stay.
Now, we’re just friends. Sharp-tongued, occasionally flirty friends. And maybe I like having one person around who sees the whole messy version of me and doesn’t expect it to be polished.
She glances over at Lyla, who’s refilling her cup at the counter with a tight jaw and a killer glare.
“She’s going to stab someone with that cup,” Madison says, amused.
“She’s just waiting for a target.”
“You like poking the bear, don’t you?”
“I like seeing her bark back.”
Madison hums. “Careful. She bites.”
My mouth twitches. “God, I hope so.”
