Page 2 of Red Zone
The noise of the field dulls instantly, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet padding of my sneakers as I walk down the hall.
This is it. Senior year. My final chance to prove I’m more than just my last name.
No more side-eyes from faculty. No more whispers about nepotism. No more using “Harding” like a magic key to open doors. From here on out, I will earn my way in—and I slam the door behind me.
I square my shoulders and head toward the media suite.
Behind me, muffled through the heavy exit door, I hear Carter’s voice again—teasing one of the guys.
I don’t turn around.
But if I did, I know exactly what I’d see.
His signature smirk.
That easy swagger.
And those stupid, stupid muscles wrapped up in a pretty package with blond hair and blue eyes.
The media room smells like a mixture of burnt coffee and someone who put on way too much aftershave to cover up what I’m assuming is last night’s hangover.
Our workspace is modern—glass walls overlooking the field, oversized PCU banners—but behind every monitor sits a student intern clinging to opportunity with caffeine-stained fingers. I slide into my seat at the back of the conference table, smoothing down the hem of my PCU polo and tapping my pen against my notepad, even though I already know exactly what I want to say.
This internship is the first thing I’ve truly earned on my own. I built my portfolio, pitched myself in interviews, and got the position without a single mention of my dad’s name. The goal? To work in player branding and NIL strategy—helping athletes build their image, secure endorsement deals, and tell their stories in a way that actually matters. I want to be the one behind the scenes, shaping how the world sees them on and off the field. Not just highlight reels and stat sheets—but personality, purpose, and long-term value.
Social media is where the power is now. And if I do this right, I won’t just be Coach Harding’s daughter. I’ll be the one helping the next generation of athletes take control of their own narratives.
I want to change the narrative.
The meeting kicks off with a pep talk from the program director, who thanks us for being here and mentions how crucial player perception is for both media value and NIL deals. I’m nodding along, laser-focused, until he says, “You’ll each be assigned a group of players to follow and help craft highlight reels, social media content, and interviews. Lyla, you’ll be working with Hayes, Harrison, and Montgomery.”
My stomach drops.
I glance up, thinking I misheard, but he’s already moved on. I manage a stiff smile, scribble their names at the top of my notebook, and underline Hayes twice with a little too much pressure.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Twenty minutes later, I’m outside the locker room, debating whether to knock or turn around and walk straight into traffic.
The door swings open on its own right as I choose option B.
Naturally, Carter is the first person I see.
He’s freshly showered, towel slung around his neck, joggers low on his hips, and his shirt—a tight white number that makes me want to gouge my eyes out—is half tucked in.
“Princess,” he says, clearly amused. “You stalking me now?”
I hold up my tablet. “Assigned to you. Trust me, I’d rather be working with literally anyone else.”
He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That’s a shame. I was starting to think the stalking was mutual.”
I give him a look, hoping my narrowed eyes and scowl look serious. “Careful, Hayes. Your ego’s showing.”
“So is your temper,” he fires back, that lazy grin playing on his lips. “You’re cute when you’re mad, Red.”
I hate that he’s hot.
Worse yet, I hate that he knows it.
