Page 58 of Red Zone
He smirks. “That stupid smile you’re trying to hide. That I’m falling for my coach’s daughter look.”
I toss a chip bag at him. “Shut up.”
Jaxon just laughs, already halfway down the hall. “It’s going good, huh?”
I don’t answer.
Because maybe it is.
17
LYLA
The athletic center is quiet on Sunday afternoons. Empty halls. Low lights. The perfect place to get some work done without running into anyone.
Madison’s spending the day with Jaxon, and I needed somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t my apartment. Somewhere I wouldn’t get distracted by things that needed cleaning or organizing or re-folding.
Carter texts that he’s parked out front, and I let him in through the back door.
“You always this sneaky?” he asks, flashing a grin as he steps inside.
I roll my eyes. “I prefer strategic.”
He’s wearing joggers and a backwards hat, and unfortunately for my concentration, a plain white tee that hugs his chest just enough to be annoying.
We take over the media room—dim lights, huge screen, plush chairs. I spread my laptop, notes, and storyboard across the table like a battleground.
He sinks into a chair next to me. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”
I slide a protein bar across the table. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
We get to work. For the first hour, it’s all about my project. He walks me through some ideas for short-form content. I take notes, adjust camera angles in my head, and storyboard transitions while he critiques his own highlight reel.
It’s…normal. Almost professional. Until I lean over to adjust the brightness on my laptop, and my shoulder brushes his arm.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
He doesn’t move. “No complaints here.”
I give him a look, trying not to smile. “Focus, Hayes.”
“I am focused,” he says, voice lower now. “Just not on the footage.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“I should probably have you sign a release form,” I say, aiming for deflection.
He leans in, close enough that I feel his breath near my cheek. “If I say yes, do I get to request you conduct the interview shirtless?”
My mouth opens. Closes. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs, smug. “You invited me here.”
“To work.”
“Mm-hmm.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then I reach for my pen, but his hand gets there first. Fingers brush.
