Inside, Coach Harding leads us into his office like it’s any other day.
The walls are lined with framed photos—championships, team shots, players in jerseys who are now somewhere else with a paycheck. There’s one of Carter in there, of course, at nineteen, throwing a pass like he was born for it.
There’s a smaller one of Lyla in a PCU hoodie, younger, standing on the sideline with a camera. Proud. Happy.
And then there are pictures that aren’t football—Coach Harding and his girlfriend with her daughter, Carter and Lyla together, a few holiday shots, a framed photo of Pops with Coach at some charity game years ago.
That one makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
Carter follows my gaze, and his expression shifts subtly.
“How’s Mr. Rhodes?” he asks, quieter than he’s been all day.
The room goes a little still. Coach Harding’s jaw tightens while Lyla’s eyes soften.
“Not great,” I admit. “But…he’s fighting.”
Carter nods once like he understands what that costs.
Coach Harding clears his throat, pulling us back. “All right.”
He gestures to the chairs.
Lyla sits on the arm of Carter’s chair like she belongs there, like she’s done this a thousand times.
Carter leans back, relaxed, but his eyes stay sharp on me.
“You know I’m with Chicago,” he says casually.
My pulse kicks. “Yeah.”
“Off-season stuff has me back in California, thanks to a certain someone,” he continues, wrapping an arm around Lyla’s waist. “And I’ve been talking to our receivers coach.”
I keep my face neutral even as my stomach flips.
Carter’s gaze pins me. “Your name came up.”
Coach Harding watches me like he’s measuring my reaction. Like he wants to see if I can handle opportunity without self-destructing.
I swallow hard. “Why?”
Carter’s mouth curves. “Because you’re good.”
It lands blunt. No fluff. No “if” or “maybe” to soften it.
“You’ve got hands,” Carter adds. “You’ve got instincts. You run smart routes. You don’t just sprint. You read.”
Lyla nods like she’s agreeing, like she’s seen it too.
Carter continues, “Injury complicates things, obviously. But they’re still interested in having a conversation.”
A conversation.
Not a promise.
Not a pick.
But it’s something.
