Page 88 of Red Zone
Coach clears his throat.
Carter straightens. Slightly.
Megan doesn’t waste time. “Okay. Let’s go over your numbers.”
I pull up his tab and flick it to the main screen.
“Since the last game, your Instagram’s up fifty-eight percent in follower growth. TikTok’s doubled—mostly due to fan clips of that third-down scramble and the ‘QB1 can get it’ commentary under every video.”
Carter grins, not even pretending to be humble.
Megan continues, “You’ve received four NIL brand reach-outs this week. All verified. One’s an energy drink that’s already working with top-tier prospects. If you maintain this trajectory, you’re looking at national exposure going into bowl week.”
Coach Harding leans forward. “And you’re staying focused?”
“Yes, sir.”
Megan glances at me. “Lyla, anything to add from the content side?”
I hop right in. “Carter’s mic’d-up footage from practice is the highest-performing clip we’ve run all semester. His engagement’s not just about stats—it’s personality-driven. He’s the kind of profile that builds momentum organically. People want to root for him.”
Carter raises an eyebrow at me, amused. “You been watching me closely, Princess?”
My dad’s brows raise, but I look straight at Carter. “It’s my job, literally.”
Dad cuts in before the moment can linger. “Good work. But it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t finish the season strong.”
Carter nods, all charm gone for just a second. “Understood.”
Megan wraps it quickly after that. “You’ll get a follow-up from our NIL coordinator. Keep your content clean and stay consistent.”
Carter stands, glances at Coach, then gives me one more look before walking out.
The room settles again, but my pulse doesn’t.
Because I can play professional. I can read metrics and schedule posts, pretend I don’t remember how his hands felt on my hips just two nights ago, how his lips didn’t burn a path everywhere they touched.
But every time Carter Hayes looks at me like I’m more than just a game?
I forget how to keep score.
24
CARTER
The second I’m out of that damn conference room, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll to her name.
She sat there the whole meeting, cool and polished, rattling off my numbers like I was nothing more than a stat sheet she couldn’t care less about. Like she wasn’t in my bed three nights just last week, wearing my shirt and looking at me like I was breaking through her walls one chip at a time.
It irritated the fuck out of me.
But…I was also slightly impressed.
Because she’s so good at it. At being composed, seemingly untouchable. And it makes me want to kiss the shit out of her.
I don’t even bother overthinking it.
Meet me outside the weight room in 10
