Page 65 of Red Zone
She’s at the closet next. Opens it. Closes it. Opens it again. Runs her hand over the hangers.
Then closes it with a nod, like it passed some kind of test.
I don’t say a word.
She finally turns back toward me, eyes flicking up to see if I’m laughing. I’m not.
I sit up, rest my arms on my knees. “Is that all?”
She huffs a breath, embarrassed. “Almost. Skincare’s next. I told you, it’s weird.”
“No,” I say, voice low. “It’s you.”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“And it’s not weird. It’s just…how you make sense of the world. Right?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just slips into the bathroom while I decide to move to the chair at her desk, waiting around like some dumbass for her to kick me out. A few minutes later, I hear the faucet shut off, the gentle clink of bottles being set down, and then she reappears, wiping her hands with a towel before dropping it into the hamper, and looking ten percent less guarded.
She crawls into bed slowly, adjusting her pillows, fluffing them twice on each side, aligning the blanket with the edge of the mattress. And when she’s finally still, her eyes find mine.
“You’re still here.”
“I am.” I smirk. “Told you—college athlete. We’re superstitious. You don’t mess with a win.”
She snorts under her breath, but her expression softens. “You gonna show me your routine now?”
I move back toward the bed, climbing up onto the mattress like it’s suddenly sacred ground.
“Nah. Mine’s boring.”
“What is it?”
I lean closer, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “Win the game.”
She snorts. “Such a deep soul, Hayes.”
“Maybe someday you’ll see just how deep I can really go.” I wink at her as she swats at me.
“Night, Princess.”
“Goodnight, quarterback.”
I leave her room, half wishing I could stay, half wondering what the fuck just happened.
Mostly wondering how fucked I’m about to be as I realize I might be catching something instead of throwing.
And that thing I am catching, it might just be feelings for my coach’s daughter.
Fuck.
19
LYLA
Madison’s already curled up on the couch by the time I emerge from the kitchen with the popcorn, one leg tucked under her and a fuzzy blanket draped across her lap like a throne. She’s in her favorite hoodie, no makeup, and her hair is twisted on top of her head like she gave up halfway through trying.
This is our safe zone. Sweatpants. Snacks. Zero judgment.
