Page 10 of Red Zone
Not a glance back. Not a hesitation. Just head held high, shoulders stiff, boots squeaking slightly as she goes on the freshly mopped floor.
I stay in my seat for a second too long.
The camera she left behind is still on the tripod. Her bag was still half-zipped when she bolted, too. And I’m still sitting here, wondering why I feel like I just lost a fight I didn’t know I was in.
She gets under my skin in a way no one ever has before.
Always has. With that clipped voice and those judgey eyes like she’s already measured me and found me lacking. She walks around like the rules are written just for her—and maybe they are, with a last name like Harding—but damn if she doesn’t make it look good.
What gets me is that she sees right through the act. Doesn’t care about the smile. Doesn’t fall for the lines. Doesn’t give a single shit about the jersey or the hype.
And it drives me absolutely insane.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want the act to work on her.
I spot her later that afternoon near the weight room, talking to Logan Brooks—our junior wide receiver and resident panty melter with a fake-ass southern drawl and a crooked grin. She’s laughing at something he says, her head tilted just enough that her curls bounce.
She never laughs like that with me.
So naturally, I head right for her.
“Damn, Brooks,” I say loud enough for both of them to hear. “Didn’t know you were into ice queens.”
Logan chuckles low. “Didn’t know you had the balls to talk to her without a crowd to hype you up.”
Lyla turns at the sound of my voice, her arms crossed and eyes already iced over like she’s been waiting for a reason.
“You slumming it today, Princess?” I ask, slow and lazy, like I’ve got all the time in the world to get under her skin. “Or just saving all your fake smiles for guys who don’t make you feel anything?”
She doesn’t blink. “I like men who don’t need a personality transplant to get attention.”
I give her a mock gasp. “Ouch. Did you stay up all night thinking of that one, or is bitterness just your new brand?”
“Better bitter than desperate,” she fires back. “You flirt like it’s a reflex, not a choice. It’s kind of sad.”
That one lands.
I smile anyway. “Admit it. You think about me when I’m not around. Probably have a lot of images of me saved to your spank bank for lonely nights.”
Logan makes a weird choking sound, his eyes shooting between the two of us.
She steps closer, her smirk downright lethal, but more in a way where I feel like she might actually want to kill me or at least chop off my dick. “Only when I need to remind myself what I’ll never want. Thinking of you works better than a cold shower.”
Lifting my shirt up, I run my hands down my abs. “So, you do think about me, huh? Babygirl, this is all yours any time you want it, which we both know you do.”
She cocks her head, giving me a once-over, expression full of venom. “You confuse irritation with interest. Must suck not being able to tell the difference.”
Logan raises a brow, glancing between us one last time before heading out. “Y’all need a room or a damn restraining order.”
Neither of us responds. She’s already turning away, and I’m left staring at her back, admiring her ass as it sways with every step.
Hate to see her go, but damn right I’ll watch her leave.
Practice is a mess.
I can’t focus. Every throw is a little off, every read half a second late. Coach is barking like a rabid dog, and I know I should lock in—but all I can think about is the look on Lyla’s face earlier when she walked away.
Why do I care?
