Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(4)

I liked surrounding myself with other peoples’ stories, liked the thought of having a piece of them in my own life — as if strangers could feel a little less lonely with just a simple connection like an old, chipped teacup.

Eventually, I came back to the picture of me and Abby, and I carefully sat it on my desk before my eyes caught on someone in the yard of the house across the street.

The house itself looked as decrepit as the one we were living in, the paint peeling and roof in desperate need of new shingles. The porch was littered with beer cans and bottles, and there was a massive kid passed out on the porch swing with one leg hanging off it holding him steady.

But that wasn’t what held my attention.

From downstairs, I could only see the front of the house, as well as the old half-rotted fence that surrounded the side yard and wrapped around the back. But up here in my room, I could see over the fence completely.

And it was the boy in the back yard I couldn’t look away from.

I’ll admit, boy seemed like the wrong term to describe him. He was shirtless, his thick, ebbing muscles gleaming in the sunlight as he ripped weeds from a bed of flowers. Sweat ran along his chiseled back as he did, and when he sat back on his heels to wipe his forehead with the back of his forearm, I frowned.

Holden Moore.

I recognized him instantly. It was impossible for anyone not to know who the NBU quarterback was. And given that I’d studied under our athletic trainers over summer training and watched them work on his shoulder, wrap his ankle before every practice, and torture him with a combination of ice baths and deep tissue work each week — I’d have known his body anywhere.

I’d also have known that head of hair, thick and a dark, sandy blond that reminded me of the beach. And though his head was down, focus on the garden, I knew the dimples that framed his smile, the one that had popped on his left cheek the first time he laid eyes on me during spring training.

Maybe I was shocked to see him like that, tending carefully to a bed of flowers instead of launching a football down the field. Maybe I was fascinated to see him doing anything other than football — which had seemed to be the only thing he cared about since the moment I first met him. Or maybe there was a small part of me that wasn’t completely dead, a part of me still capable of feeling a touch of heat at the sight of a shirtless, muscled man sweating in the New England sun.

He stood, gloved hand wrapped around the neck of a black trash bag full of weeds as he dragged himself back toward the house. He set the bag aside and grabbed a water bottle, drinking for only a moment before he dumped the rest overhead, the water mixing with the sweat already lining his arms and abdomen.

Then, he froze, frowning as if he sensed something.

And his green eyes shot to me.

I could have hidden. I could have jumped back or pretended to focus on the photograph I’d just unpacked. I could have shied away and acted like I hadn’t been watching him. But instead, I stood my ground, holding his gaze as he squinted up at me.

When he realized who I was, his eyebrows ticked up a notch — just barely enough that I noticed.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at me as I stared at him. But then, hesitantly, he lifted his hand in greeting.

I blinked.

And then I drew the curtains shut and got back to work.

OceanofPDF.com





Holden



“Red thirty-two, red thirty-two. Set, hit!”

Marshawn Walker was a beast of a block poised in front of me before he snapped the ball, tossing it back through his legs and into my hands. Then, he immediately shoved against the defensive player doing his best to get through and sack me.

I was grateful for players like Walker and the two men next to him, just a few who kept me safe and allowed me the chance to scan the field for my receiver.

Everything slowed — time, noise, my heart rate in my ears — as I searched for the play. Our tight end, Kyle Robbins, was covered, unable to shake our safety, Clay Johnson, as he juked with every step. I found Braden Lock next, a transfer who had been key in our winning streak last year. He was just out of reach of the defender chasing him, and when he cut toward the middle of the field, his eyes jetting to me as his hands splayed open for the catch, I launched the ball.

It sailed over where our men were scrapping in the middle, and Lock caught it easily, running another ten yards before he was wrapped up in a tackle and brought down.

I clapped my hands, smiling at the victory.

Until Coach Lee blew his whistle, and one look at the scowl on his face told me he wasn’t happy.

“Moore!”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, already jogging over to line up at attention. The rest of the team followed my lead.

“Did you read your install packet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you retain any of that information, or did it just empty out the other side of your big head?”

I gritted my teeth against the insult, knowing well enough from working with other coaches who had a similar training style that it wasn’t a question he wanted me to answer. I’d forgotten what it was like to work with a coach like him. Coach Sanders had been softer in his approach — firm, but trusting in me and my leadership abilities.

Coach Lee had watched me ever since spring training like I was an in-law camping in his basement who he couldn’t wait to be rid of.