Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(15)

He had a road of rehab ahead of him, but we were all optimistic he’d play again.

And though I didn’t say it, I hoped it would be this season.

My gaze kept slipping over to Holden as the staff discussed his future. He somehow kept his shoulders back and his chin raised, even with his arm in a sling, even as the devastation of what had happened danced in his eyes. It was like he still felt that weight of being captain, of being a leader, of knowing the team would be looking to him as their cue on how to react to this news.

I wondered if he was already making a plan, already thinking of who would take his place, how he could help that teammate transition, how he could somehow still be a part of the win.

He’d left me alone the past couple of weeks, his sole focus on the team. And it was in that time of him not being an annoying fly buzzing around my face that I felt my perception of him change, even if just marginally.

I saw what the team had told me about him — his severity, his patience, his complete and total concentration on every play. He wasn’t just tuned in when he was leading the offense down the field, either. He was a part of every defensive play, too — talking to players in-between whistles to make sure they had their heads on straight, huddling with my father or the other offensive players with an iPad between them, even bringing players water to make sure they were staying hydrated.

It was then that I realized I’d seen the rare version of him first: relaxed, flirty, almost a bit… goofy, even.

When the season started, I saw the real him.

And now, watching the muscles of his jaw pop beneath the skin as he awaited his sentencing, I wondered what version of him this news would bring.

“Julep,” JB said, snapping my eyes to him. “You’ve been the one closest to his rehab lately. What’s your recommendation?”

I sipped a bit of oxygen before holding my head high and answering, “I think we need to start from the beginning. Maximal protection. He needs to be in that sling and limit movement as much as possible. We can introduce isometric strengthening and range of motion to start, with tissue work and cold compression, obviously. Maybe some electric stimulation,” I added, thinking. “He’s already on his NSAIDs, but we’ll need a steroid injection. And hopefully, we can move into moderate protection within two weeks, and get him back on the field by October.”

Dad lifted his brows. “You really think he could be back that quickly?”

“With how minor the tear is, how strong those muscles he’s already developed around his rotator cuff are, and how familiar he already is with this type of rehab?” I nodded. “Absolutely.”

JB smiled, sharing an appreciative glance with me before he chimed in. “That is the exact logic behind my thoughts, although I wouldn’t be surprised if we need until November.”

“He’s QB1,” I said, glancing behind JB at where Holden was watching us. “He’s going to do everything in his power to get back on that field with his team.”

Holden’s nose flared, his eyes flicking between mine before he looked away, staring straight ahead at some anatomy poster on the wall in front of him.

“JB,” my father said, bringing my attention back to our inner circle. “Do you think Julep is ready to lead this injury rehabilitation on her own?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate.

Dad nodded. “Good. Then, it’s settled.” He looked at me then. “You deliver the news to your player, give him a run-down of the plan, and then get him home. Make sure he has what he needs to follow your recommended recovery instructions.”

I drew in a shallow breath before a full inhale found me, and JB reached out his hand for me to shake it before he left with the rest of the staff. Coach stopped by to say something to Holden, who only nodded with a grim look before my dad squeezed his shoulder and left, too.

Then, it was just us.

I cleared my throat. “Well, it looks like—”

“I heard,” he clipped, hopping off the examination table. “Let’s just get out of here so we can get started.”





Holden was quiet as I drove us off the hospital grounds and across Boston toward the suburb where our houses were. His eyes were focused outside the rolled-down passenger window, jaw set, those trademark dimples nowhere to be found.

I’d already run through the list of things I wanted to make sure he had at home to get his recovery started — cold compresses, anti-inflammatories, the right pillow to help elevate his arm and keep him from rolling onto his shoulder at night. Of course, he had all of that and more, and fortunately he lived with three other teammates who could help him with the tasks he wouldn’t be able to do for a while.

Like comb that messy head of hair.

It was strange, seeing him all broody and silent. I’d been content to let him mope when we’d first left the hospital, but now, I found myself drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel and sneaking glances at him, wondering how I could cheer him up a little.

Which also made no sense.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I saw a bit of my sister in him in that moment. I remembered how she never faltered in her optimism, in her blind hope that everything would turn out okay. I’d only seen her sad a handful of times in my life, and each one, I’d done everything in my power to bring her usual smile back because it felt like the world had tilted off its axis anytime she wasn’t wearing it.