Page 38 of Red Zone
I can’t hear what he says, not over the music and chatter and whatever chaos Beck is stirring up behind me, but Lyla’s eyes flash, then she laughs again—light, genuine, and aimed at him.
The kind of laugh she never gives me.
She reaches out, touches his arm lightly, and for some reason that does it. That stupid little touch.
I down what’s left of someone else’s abandoned drink, the burn not nearly enough, and lean back against the doorframe like I own the place.
Because I do. Tonight, I do.
And yet she’s across the room, standing with Grayson Fucking Bennett like he didn’t trip over his own stick three games into the hockey season last year.
She doesn’t owe me anything. We agreed—one night, no feelings, no fallout.
But watching her toss her hair over her shoulder, watching the way Grayson drinks in every move she makes like he’s already won?
Yeah. No.
She grabs his hand and leads him into the crowd. Into the pulsing mess of bodies swaying in time with the bass thundering through the floorboards. “E.T.” by Katy Perry kicks on—remixed, bass boosted, filthy with tension—and the whole room shifts.
She turns, just enough for her eyes to find me.
And she doesn’t look away.
She doesn’t stop, either. Her hips sway with the beat, back pressed into Grayson’s front like she doesn’t even feel him there. But her eyes—those sharp green eyes—never leave mine.
It’s not dancing.
It’s war.
Right now, she’s winning. And she knows it.
Somehow, I’m getting hard like a fucking idiot just watching her move against someone else.
Who knew your brain could short-circuit from jealousy and lust at the same time?
Jaxon claps my shoulder, dragging my attention away before I do something reckless.
“You uh…you good, man?” he asks, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re standing here like a statue, and I’m pretty sure you’re two minutes from launching Hockey Boy through a window.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter. It’s not even convincing to me.
Jaxon smirks like he knows I’m lying. “You keep telling yourself that. But—” he trails off, eyes catching on something—or someone—across the room. His smirk fades a little, replaced by something softer. “Huh.”
I glance over at him, then follow his gaze.
Madison.
She’s across the room now, holding a drink and talking to some girl from her psych class. Jaxon doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. His expression shifts—just for a second. It’s not loud. Not obvious. But it’s there.
He’s not looking at the party anymore. He’s looking at her.
And I don’t want to see it.
I don’t want to see any of it.
Without a word, I step away, pushing past a couple making out in the hallway, past the noise, past the static hum of bodies and bad decisions.
I take the stairs two at a time and don’t stop until I’m in my room, the door clicking shut behind me.
