Page 55 of Red Zone
Because maybe it does.
She asked real questions. She listened like she gave a damn about the answers. And she didn’t look at me like I was some broken charity case with a sob story. She looked at me like I was worth seeing. Like she wanted to know the real shit underneath the pads and the cocky smirk.
And that’s terrifying.
I scrub a hand through my hair and check the time. 7:03 a.m.
Time to get moving.
I head down the hallway and bang once on Beck’s door, then push it open without waiting for a response. “Rise and shine, lover boy.”
He groans from under his comforter. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah, and we’ve got a bunch of kids waiting to be wowed by our dazzling charm and superior athleticism. Get your ass up.”
Next stop, Jaxon. His room’s neater than Beck’s—of course—but he’s sprawled face down on his mattress like he lost a fight with sleep itself.
I lean in after knocking twice. “Hey, Montgomery. You alive?”
He lifts his head just enough to shoot me a glare. “Barely.”
“Come on. It’s for the kids.” Ever since I graduated high school and came to PCU, I’ve made it a point to give back to the community that helped raise me, that helped mold me into the man I am today.
A big piece of that is the football team that I dedicated four years to, keeping me so busy that I stayed out of trouble.
He groans but sits up, rubbing his face. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in my car, drive-thru coffee in hand, heading toward East Ridge High. I don’t say it out loud, but it feels different bringing them here. Like the past and the future are finally brushing up against each other in a way that doesn’t make my skin crawl.
The field’s already buzzing when we get there—cones set up, stations marked, a group of wide- eyed kids buzzing with energy and nervous excitement. A few coaches are milling around, tablet-in-hand types, while parents set up folding chairs and snap photos.
The moment we step onto the field, all the kids zero in.
“That’s Carter Hayes!” one of them yells, pointing.
“And Jaxon Montgomery!” another chimes in.
Beck grins and points at himself. “Y’all gonna learn who I am real quick.”
I smirk. “Only if you stop trying to do backflips during warmups.”
“Zero promises.”
We split up—Jaxon takes the receiver station, Beck handles defensive drills, and I end up with the quarterbacks. Teaching them how to grip the ball, how to plant and throw. Most of them can’t even reach the five-yard mark, but they’re trying, and that’s what matters.
One kid in particular, Luis, keeps glancing at me like he’s trying to gather courage.
“You got a question, man?” I ask, kneeling beside him.
He nods, then whispers, “Were you always good?”
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
He looks relieved.
“You keep showing up,” I tell him. “That’s what matters. You show up, put in the work—you’ll be surprised what you’re capable of.”
His chest puffs out just a little.
