Page 103 of Red Zone
The door closes with a soft clink behind him, and I find myself staring into my noodles.
I don’t know what to do with myself or really what to think.
Because…this?
This doesn’t make sense.
Carter Hayes doesn’t show up at girls’ doors with grocery bags full of Midol and chocolate.
Carter Hayes doesn’t stand in a kitchen making food.
Carter Hayes isn’t supposed to care.
At least from everything I’ve heard from everyone, except Madison.
And yet…he’s here, which means maybe she’s been right all along.
Carter Hayes might just be a damn good guy.
I rest my chin on my hand, my fingers fiddling with the frayed edge of the blanket, trying not to think about all the things I’m beginning to feel.
Or how easy it feels—for just a second—to let someone else take care of me.
My chest tightens, and I shake my head, muttering under my breath.
“What are you doing to me, Hayes…”
Through the front window, I catch a faint glimpse of him out in the parking lot, leaning into his Jeep as he digs something out of the backseat.
I watch him for a long moment, my heart thudding uncomfortably hard.
Because the worst part isn’t that he came.
It’s that…a part of me doesn’t want him to leave.
The door clicks open a few minutes later, and I sit up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how pathetic I must look—blanket around my shoulders, hair a mess, still in sweats.
Carter steps back inside, slinging a small black duffel bag over his shoulder. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and glances at me, his eyes skimming over my face like he’s checking to see if I’ve moved or passed out in the few minutes he was gone.
When he catches me watching him, he just gives me that little half-smile of his and holds up the bag.
“Didn’t shower at the stadium,” he says, his voice low, almost sheepish. “You mind if I use yours real quick? If we’re gonna be sitting within a mile radius of each other, probably for the best.”
For a second, I just blink at him, my brain tripping over the image of Carter Hayes—six-foot- something, golden boy quarterback—standing in my apartment, casually asking to use my shower, purple lights and all.
“I—uh—” My voice catches, and I clear my throat, trying to sound more normal. “Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, it’s fine.”
His mouth quirks at the corners like he’s fighting a laugh, but he just nods and heads down the short hallway toward the bathroom, instantly comfortable here, in my space.
I watch him go, my stomach tightening with something I don’t want to name.
The quiet stretches out again as the bathroom door clicks shut, and the faint sound of water running fills the apartment.
I tug the blanket tighter around myself and stare down at the little pile of groceries still spread across the counter before putting the ice cream in the freezer.
He didn’t have to come here.
He definitely didn’t have to stay.
