Page 14 of Red Zone
He doesn’t like when I “bring emotion into it.”
I round the corner, knock twice on the closed office door, then open it before he can say anything. He hates when people wait. Says it’s inefficient.
“Right on time,” he says without looking up.
He’s reviewing game film—probably the scrimmage footage from earlier this week—and jotting down notes in the shorthand only he can understand.
“I said noon. It’s noon,” I reply, sitting across from his desk.
He glances up briefly, eyes flicking to the tablet under my arm. “You always bring that thing in here?”
“I bring it everywhere.”
He hums, noncommittally, and minimizes the screen. “I wanted to check in. You’re settling into the internship?”
“I’m two weeks ahead on assignments. I’ve already submitted the first round of clips for the Hayes-Montgomery campaign. I also updated the athletic site’s bio pages and scheduled two content reels for next week.”
“Good,” he says, like he expected no less. “You still joining us for dinner tonight?”
I blink. “Us?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Me, Nicole, and Emmy. We’re grilling at the house.”
Ah. Us means him, his girlfriend and her daughter.
The new family.
My stomach clenches, but I keep my voice flat. “I have editing to do tonight.”
“It can wait. You see them once a week, Lyla.”
“You’re asking me to sit across the table from a girl who calls you Coach, Dad, and acts like she’s known you longer than I have.”
“She’s seventeen, Ly, cut her some slack,” he says, sharper now. “She’s trying. And so is Nicole.”
I don’t respond. Not because he’s right—but because if I do, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
After a beat, he sighs and leans back in his chair.
“I’m not trying to replace you, or your mom, for that matter.”
“I never said you were.”
“You don’t have to. I see it on your face, kiddo.”
I clench my jaw and redirect the conversation. “I should get back. I have another shoot scheduled at two?—”
“Actually,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I had a call with a colleague from the agency over at West Point. They’ve got a digital branding role open. It’s entry-level, but solid pay, good location. I can send your resume over.”
I couldn’t even stop the eye roll if I wanted to. Here we go again.
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
He shrugs. “You want a career in this world, I have connections. Why wouldn’t you use them?”
“Because I don’t want my name to be the reason I get the job,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
“And I’m telling you that’s naive. This industry isn’t about waiting in line. It’s about walking in the back door and knowing who left it open.”
