Page 53 of Red Zone
As we wrap up the meeting, Megan pulls me aside with a knowing smile. “You’ve got the spark, Lyla. Don’t let anyone make you doubt it.”
I nod, my heart pounding, and gather my things. My dad walks off without another word. I’m sure I’ll be hearing about this later, but oh well. Right now, I’m happy as can be, and there’s a certain person I can’t wait to share the news with.
I find Carter out on the practice field, sitting in the grass with a towel around his neck and a water bottle resting against his thigh. He’s sweat-drenched, wild-haired, and annoyingly attractive, as always.
He looks up when I approach, blinking against the sun. “Here to critique my footwork?”
I grin. “Here to tell you I crushed that meeting. Megan approved the campaign I suggested. I’m building a player feature series. And I want you to be the first full-profile.”
His brows rise, impressed. “Damn. Look at you.”
“I need someone fans don’t already think they know. Someone interesting. Someone…complicated.”
He smirks. “So naturally, you thought of me.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I deadpan.
“Never.” He stretches, arms over his head. “So, what does this mean?”
“It means I need time with you. Like, actual time. I want to go deeper—into your story. Background, mindset, routines. We’ll do interviews, video clips, Instagram strategy, maybe even a few challenges to humanize you a little.”
Carter raises a brow. “You wanna go deeper with me?”
I shoot him a flat look.
He chuckles, not even sorry. “Just making sure I heard that right.”
I shake my head, but I’m still smiling. God help me.
Sunday afternoon rolls in slow, golden and still warm enough for shorts.
Thank you, California.
Carter pulls up to my apartment right on time, engine rumbling, windows down like he’s stepped out of a vintage college movie. I lock the door behind me and jog out, tablet in hand and phone already prepped to record.
He leans across the passenger seat, pushing the door open. “Ready to go deeper?”
I slide in, biting back a smile. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
We drive in companionable silence for a few minutes, music low, the wind playing with the ends of my hair. I glance at him, about to ask where we’re headed, when he turns onto a road I don’t recognize.
“You’ll see,” he says, catching my look. “Figured if you want the full Carter Hayes experience, we might as well start at the beginning.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up to an old brick school building with a rusted goalpost still standing tall behind a patchy field. The sign out front reads: East Ridge High School.
He throws the car into park and looks over at me, a little quieter now. “This is where I figured out who I didn’t want to be. Thought that might help you figure out who I am.”
I glance out the window, taking in the rundown bleachers and the faded scoreboard. “Looks like it’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Kinda like me.”
We sit there for a moment, neither of us speaking. Then he shifts, one arm draped over the steering wheel.
“I’ve never left California on my own,” he says. “Outside of away games, I mean. I’ve always been right here.”
I turn toward him. “You never wanted to?”
