Page 98 of Red Zone
“Yeah,” I mutter, but the tight feeling in my chest doesn’t ease.
I force myself to dial back in as Coach starts laying into the halftime adjustments. I keep my eyes on the whiteboard. Keep my hands busy taping my fingers. Anything to keep from letting my mind wander where it wants to go.
By the time we storm back out of the tunnel, the noise is deafening again.
I shove everything else out of my head.
I settle back into the rhythm. Drive after drive, pushing downfield. Adjusting reads. Dodging pressure. Feeling that sweet burn every time the chains move.
One more touchdown. Then another.
The clock winds down to zero. Final whistle blows.
We win.
The stadium goes nuts, but my chest still feels too tight as I jog off toward the locker room.
I barely hear anything Coach says on the way in. Barely register the chaos of guys shouting, helmets slamming into lockers, music already blasting.
All I can think about is whether she’s okay or not.
And before I even think about showering, before I even unstrap my pads, I head right to my locker and yank my phone out of my bag.
I unlock it, scrolling straight to her name.
And there it is.
A single text waiting.
Princess: Raincheck on tonight. Sorry.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keys.
Something about the way she phrased it sits wrong.
And all at once, the adrenaline in my veins feels sharp and sour.
I’ve never known Lyla Harding to tap out.
Not from anything.
She’s the kind of girl who stays on her feet no matter what’s thrown at her—calm, collected, like nothing in the world can shake her. Even when she’s pissed at me, even when I push every single one of her buttons, she never lets it show. Never flinches.
I’m still staring down at my phone when Jaxon walks up, his own phone in his hand, jersey and pads long gone, but still in the rest of his uniform.
“Hey,” he says, dropping onto the bench next to me. He glances at my phone, then back at me, a knowing look crossing his face. “You still looking for Lyla?”
I don’t even try to deny it.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “You see her?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. But I texted Madison when we got in here. She said Lyla left before halftime.”
That weird, tight feeling in my chest doesn’t go anywhere. “Why?”
He shrugs faintly. “Madison said she thinks it’s that time of the month. Didn’t feel great, so she went home.”
It should be enough to let me relax. To laugh it off and go hit the showers.
