Page 37 of Red Zone
The final whistle blows.
The locker room is a war zone of sweaty gear, shouting, and back slaps. Someone blasts music, Beck’s already halfwaythrough his Gatorade, yelling about how he “freakin’ pancaked that running back.
Jaxon and I slap hands, a mutual grin passing between us. “Nice pull on that last catch,” I say, voice rough from yelling.
He smirks. “You keep throwing like that, I’ll keep catching.”
Fair.
I strip out of my pads and toss my jersey into the bin, muscles sore in all the best ways. My knuckles are scraped. My legs are lead. But this—the post-win high? Can’t bottle it. Can’t fake it.
I catch my reflection in the locker mirror. Just for a second.
Still here. Still standing.
And damn if that doesn’t count for something.
The party’s already in full swing by the time I show up.
The football house is packed—music shaking the walls, solo cups scattered across every surface, someone already passed out on the couch and it’s not even ten. The scent of cheap beer, cologne, and fresh sweat clings to everything like static. Feels like a ritual at this point. Win a game, get wrecked. Rinse and repeat.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, letting the post-game buzz carry me. Beck’s in the kitchen, making a big show of pouring a mixed drink for a girl who’s clearly only here for the social media footage.
“QB1!” someone shouts, and a cup is thrust into my hand before I can see who gave it to me.
I raise it out of habit, take a sip—sweet and spiked. Too much sugar, not enough bite. I drain it anyway.
I’m halfway through the living room when I see her.
Lyla.
Red curls loose tonight. Tight jeans. A black top that dips low in the front and higher in the back, exposing just a sliver of her spine every time she shifts her weight. She’s talking to someone near the fireplace—Grayson Bennett again, grinning like he’s the man who invented flirting. She laughs at something he says, not overly loud or fake, just soft and real.
Genuine.
My stomach twists.
I should walk away. Find someone else. Anyone else.
Instead, I hover like an idiot by the drink table, watching her.
She doesn’t see me right away.
Which is fine. Totally fine.
I’m not staring. I’m observing. Big difference.
She turns slightly, catches sight of me, and her smile fades. Her jaw tightens. And then—because of course she does—she turns back to Grayson, gives a little nod like he said something brilliant, and keeps talking.
She’s not going to make this easy.
Good.
I finish the rest of my drink in one swallow, set the cup down, and push off the counter, headed straight toward her.
Let’s play, Princess.
Grayson leans in closer. Too close.
