Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(14)

It was a hit I’d taken more times than I could count, something I’d hopped up from unfazed each and every time.

But this time, my right hand shot out for the ground to break my fall, and instead, it got twisted up in the legs of one of the defensive players going down with us. I knew before we hit the ground that it was bad — the angle of my arm, the added weight throwing me rapidly toward the field. But I couldn’t do a damn thing about any of it.

All I could do was brace.

Snap.

I felt the rip through the front of my shoulder, adrenaline pumping in the next breath enough to make me question if I’d felt it at all.

You’re fine. You’re fine.

Panic zipped through me for only a moment before the players were off me, and for a split moment, I thought I really was okay.

Dominic Bartello reached down to help me up.

But when I lifted my right hand, pain shot through me like a lightning bolt.

I grimaced, gritting through my teeth as I fell back on the turf and covered my right shoulder with my left hand as if applying pressure to it could make it stop radiating agony through my entire body.

The pain ebbed quickly enough.

It was the panic that stayed.

I knew that particular ache as well as I knew every playbook I’d ever been handed. I knew when I tried again to raise my arm and heard a pop, click right before the pain intensified what had happened.

I glanced up at the players hovering over me, at their pale faces as it sank in for them, too.

Then, the training team was sprinting across the field.

They were professionals. They did their best to keep their faces schooled as they reached me, two of them bending down to my level and immediately reaching for me. One was JB, who held my gaze to try to comfort me as he moved my arm in different directions while firing off those questions I was so familiar with.

Does this hurt? How about this? Scale of one to ten, what’s the pain level? What kind of pain do you feel, sharp, dull, pins and needles? Can you bend your arm, straighten it, lift it, apply pressure?

Each question was drowned out more and more by my rapidly beating heart, by the blood pounding in my ears. Coach Lee was standing over me, too, with his arms crossed and a frown etched into his brows.

I knew by just one glance at him that while he was concerned for me, his primary worry right now was who would fill my spot.

I ignored the way my gut bottomed out at that, at how the show would go on without me. It had to. And just like I had my freshman year, I felt defective. Worthless. I was no longer the nucleus of the team.

I was a liability.

All in the blink of an eye.

My vision blurred as the moments ticked on, as JB moved me through the sequence of testing the pain. I wanted to lie. I wanted to fake that I was fine and ignore that familiar pinch of pain every time it spiked through me. But my face gave me away before the lie could find my lips, each grimace worse than the last.

Through the chaos, I saw Julep.

She was standing just behind the trainers, behind her father, her face expressionless as she listened to them run through the drill. I knew they were trying not to concern me, but I heard the panic in the trainers’ voices the more they worked through the questions, saw the looks JB exchanged with Coach that said more than anything else could.

But Julep was as steady as a steel bridge in a storm.

When her eyes flicked to mine, I held that serene gaze, willing it to calm me, too.

But it was no use.

My heart rioted, fear of the truth prickling my skin like a thousand needles.

I was hurt.

I was injured.

I wasn’t just shaking this one off.

“You’ll be okay, kid,” Coach tried to assure me once the trainers helped me to my feet, and he carefully squeezed my good shoulder before giving the trainers a knowing nod.

My entire future flashed before my eyes as JB and the rest of the crew silently led me off the field, Julep quietly rounding out the back of the group.

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Julep



You could have heard a pin drop in the hospital room where all the NBU coaching and training staff were, but all I heard was the distinct sound of a dream dying.

I silently took notes as JB and the rest of the trainers discussed Holden’s diagnosis after X-rays and an MRI. Holden sat on the exam table, eyes unfocused. Even though we were all discussing quietly, I knew he could hear us.

The good news was that nothing was broken.

The bad news was that he had torn his rotator cuff again.

Fortunately, it was just a partial tear — tiny, really, and far milder than the one he’d suffered as a freshman. That one had been enough to warrant surgery, whereas this was something we could handle without it. He was lucky it had been in a different part of his muscle, too, because if he had torn it in the same place he’d had surgery, we’d be having a different discussion right now.

JB was already walking us through the rehab plan, discussing best practices with the staff and my father listening in and interjecting his own thoughts. Of course, his first question was when we thought Holden would play again.

And I knew by watching his bouncing knee that that would be Holden’s first question, too.

It wasn’t an easy one to answer. He had pretty good movement, and already the pain had subsided. But we all knew it would resurface, especially at night, and that if he got out on the field and tried to launch a ball through the air, he’d do even more damage.