Page 9 of Red Zone
“Is that so?”
I hit record without replying.
The questions are standard—what motivates you, favorite part of game day, one piece of advice for younger athletes—but his answers aren’t what I expect. They’re quieter. Thoughtful.
Genuine.
“Who inspires you most?” I ask, not even looking up from my notepad.
There’s a pause.
Then: “People who fight to be more than what the world expects them to be.”
My eyes flick up to him before I can stop myself.
He’s not looking at the camera.
He’s looking at me.
After I call cut, the silence stretches.
Carter shifts in his chair, voice softer than usual. “Do you really think I’m just some party boy with a decent spiral? Or is that easier than figuring out the rest?”
I stare at him.
And for one brief, dangerous second—I almost let myself answer.
But I start packing up the gear instead.
He watches me do it.
When I move past him to unplug the light, he speaks again.
“You know what your problem is?”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
“You wear armor like it’s a personality trait. But I’ve seen you when it slips. You’re sharpest when you’re not trying to cut.”
That gets to me more than I want to admit.
I zip the gear bag shut and walk to the door. “And you’re still talking like you’ve got me figured out.”
“I don’t,” he says, standing. “But I know you look at me like I’m everything you hate, wrapped up in a single package.”
I turn the handle.
“And I think,” he says quietly. “You’re just scared of what might happen if I’m not.”
I step into the hall without answering.
And I don’t look back.
4
CARTER
She leaves the film room like I set it on fire.
