Page 99 of Red Zone
But I’ve seen Lyla brush off migraines and stress that would crush most people—without so much as a crack in her composure.
If she left?
The longer I sit here pretending it’s not bothering me, the more my legs itch to move.
So, I don’t even bother showering.
I get out of my gear and slip into some shorts. Then I yank my hoodie over my head, grab my bag, and head for the door.
“Hayes, don’t forget media has you scheduled for post-game today.”
I turn to find an intern that definitely isn’t Lyla holding a door open further down the hall.
“Can’t today, sorry.” I continue walking toward the exit that will get me to the parking lot.
“What do you want me to tell them? Coach Harding won’t be happy.”
Understatement of the century.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I’m leaving.”
Making my way outside, I climb into my Jeep, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and sit there for a second with my hands on the wheel.
I could just drive straight over. Knock on her door. It would definitely get me there quicker.
I grin faintly despite myself and turn in the opposite way of her apartment.
Yeah.
If I’m gonna show up, I may as well not show up empty-handed.
The store’s only a little bit out of the way.
By the time I pull into the parking lot, the grocery store is fairly quiet, which it probably always is right after a home gameon the weekend. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as I grab a basket and head down the aisles.
I don’t even need to think about it much—apparently, I’ve got her list memorized already.
I grab a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream from the freezer section, shoving it into the basket before it can start melting in my hands. Then I double back and snag a box of Midol from the pharmacy aisle, dropping it in next to the ice cream.
Staring at the shelves of feminine hygiene products, I try to remember which one exactly she got last time, but I can’t. Who knew there were so many different sizes, types, and even ones that are
made with different materials? Did she get one hundred percent cotton last time? Were they small or medium?
I end up throwing five options in my basket, though two end up under my arm as my basket is officially full.
On the way to checkout, I pass the candy aisle and look for some chocolate. Because she’ll want it, even if she rolls her eyes at herself for wanting it.
I grab a couple of the dark chocolate bars I’ve seen her eating before, then some chicken broth, as well as a pack of instant noodles. Heating those up or cracking open a meal prep is about as talented as I can get in the kitchen.
The basket’s heavier than I expected by the time I hit the checkout, and the cashier gives me a faintly amused look as she rings me up.
“Looks like somebody’s got himself a lady in distress,” she says warmly, scanning the box of Midol.
I huff a quiet laugh through my nose and shrug, leaning against the counter. “Something like that.”
She glances up, studying me for a beat, her hands stilling for a moment over the chocolate bars.
Then her smile shifts—gentler, a little sad maybe.
