Page 54 of Red Zone
He shrugs. “I used to dream about it. But dreams felt kinda useless back then.”
There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “Off the record? My parents were young. Stupid young. My mom was also an addict. I was taken from them as a toddler. I don’t even remember meeting them.”
My breath catches, but I don’t interrupt.
“I stayed with this one family for a few years. Thought maybe they’d keep me. But they got divorced, and neither of them wanted to adopt me alone. So, I bounced. Group homes, foster homes, you name it. Never long enough to unpack fully.”
He looks out at the field. “This was the first place I felt like I could breathe. A coach here took a chance on me, and I ended up with a family that let me stay. Nothing fancy. Just consistent.”
I swallow hard, unsure what to say that won’t sound like pity. He doesn’t want that. I can feel it.
“You turned out all right,” I say softly.
His mouth twitches into a half-smile. “Still a work in progress.”
He glances at me, and the quiet between us shifts—less awkward, more shared. Like we’re both carrying things we rarely let anyone else see.
“Anyway,” he says, sitting back, trying to brush off the heaviness. “I thought it might give your project some real content. Unless you’d rather film me doing push-ups and talking about protein shakes?”
I shake my head. “No. This is exactly what I was hoping for.”
Because this—the honesty? It’s more captivating than any highlight reel.
“What’s next?” I ask, half talking about the project, half talking about whatever this thing is between the two of us.
Carter glances over at me, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel. “Well, officially? We could grab some footage of the field, maybe shoot a few clips with me talking about where I got started. You know—brooding backstory to win hearts and boost engagement.”
I laugh lightly, but he doesn’t. Not really.
He’s looking at me differently now. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to hand over something else that matters.
“And unofficially?” I press, my voice quieter now.
His eyes flick to mine. “Unofficially…I don’t know. But it’s getting harder to pretend there’s not something more between us.”
A beat passes. The wind slips through the cracked window, warm and soft against my cheek.
I break eye contact first, glancing back at the field. “You sure you want to mix whatever this is with something tied to my grade?”
He smiles, but it’s more thoughtful than cocky. “If it means I get to spend time with you, yeah. I’ll risk a C.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart kicks up. “You better not tank my GPA, Hayes.”
“No promises.”
I open the door and step out, needing the movement to keep my thoughts from spiraling. He follows, walking beside me toward the end zone like it’s nothing at all.
Like he hasn’t just laid out pieces of his past like loose change he doesn’t expect anyone to pick up.
I glance at him, walking just close enough that our arms almost brush.
16
CARTER
Spending last Sunday with Lyla was eye-opening.
Not in the dramatic, lightning-strike, soul-altering kind of way. Just quiet. Subtle. The kind of shift you don’t notice until you’re lying awake at two a.m., replaying every second like it matters more than it should.
