Page 8 of Red Zone
“Morning, everyone,” he says, clapping his hands. “We’re adjusting our rollout schedule for the fall player profiles. NIL exposure is up this quarter, so we’re doubling down on short-form content. That means curated clips, custom interviews, personality-driven footage—make them look like the stars they are.”
I nod along, already drafting a mental checklist to go alongside the list I’m jotting down.
“Assignments will be updated today. Lyla, you’ve got Hayes again. Then Montgomery and Harrison. You’ll start with Hayes—he’s waiting in the film room.”
I blink. “Again?”
The director looks up. “Problem?”
Yes. No. Definitely yes.
“No,” I say quickly. “All good.”
The walk to the film room is short, but somehow I manage to cycle through an entire emotional breakdown in the span of thirty seconds.
He’s just a player. You’re doing your job. This is fine. Totally fine. God, why does my mouth feel dry?
I stop outside the door, press my hand to my stomach, and take a deep breath.
I push the door open and find Carter already lounging in one of the chairs like he owns the place, spinning a football lazily in one hand. He looks up when he sees me—and grins.
That grin.
The one that says he knows exactly how much trouble he is.
“Princess,” he drawls. “Was starting to think you bailed on me. Couldn’t handle the aftermath of the game, huh?”
I lift a brow. “You mean the game where you admitted to sexualizing a woman who is here to further your education?”
His smile doesn’t fade. “You asked the question.”
“And you answered it exactly as I thought you would.”
He shrugs and tosses the football from one hand to the other. “Maybe I’m full of surprises.”
I ignore that as I walk straight to the equipment table and start unpacking the mic and camera gear.
I can feel his gaze on me the entire time.
“Come on,” he says after a beat. “Admit it. You’ve been thinking about me.”
I glance up. “I’ve been thinking about how to professionally edit around your ego. It’s harder than it sounds.”
He chuckles, that low rasp a sound that grates on my nerves and sends tingles straight between my legs.
I hate that sound.
Mostly because I don’t.
The filming setup takes longer than usual—for the most part because I’m hyperaware of how close I have to stand to himwhile adjusting the mic and how warm his skin is under my fingers when I clip it to his shirt.
Why does he have to smell so good? It’s earthy, woodsy even? With a hint of…well, him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make it worse. “You keep touching me like that and people might start talking.”
I step back fast, scowling. “People already talk. I just really don’t care what they say about you.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes this time.
