Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(6)

“Aren’t we all having fun?” Riley teased, and Clay managed to flick her off before he nearly vomited.

The three of them felt like family to me. Riley and Zeke, both special teams, were a couple and had been ever since their freshman season — which was my first season as quarterback, thanks to the shoulder injury that had redshirted me.

I’d been worried about Riley when she first showed up. I wondered just like the rest of the team if having a girl on the team was more of a PR stunt than anything else. But she proved to all of us why she was here — because she’s talented. She earned my respect in that first season, and even more last year when she stepped up as a leader I could count on.

As for Zeke, he’d been a top special teams recruit, thanks to the fact that he was hell on wheels and came up with monster returns every time the ball sailed down the field and into his hands. I knew many of our touchdowns were thanks to the positioning he secured for us in that first play.

Clay was the best safety in the nation — period. He was a gargantuan thing with the heart of a puppy dog, and I was convinced there wasn’t a quarterback in this country who was safe from him picking their throw and embarrassing them with a touchdown in the opposite direction. He was one of my closest friends, second only to Leo Hernandez, our star running back and one of my roommates at what the team affectionately called the Snake Pit.

As if I’d conjured him, Leo jogged up to the other side of Zeke, and he arched a brow at where Clay and I were still doubled over in pain.

“Gotta love Fall Camp,” he murmured.

“Alright,” Coach said, calling all our attention to where he stood in the center of the group. “Hit the showers and get some food in you. We start film at one o’clock sharp,” he added, checking the time on his watch. “And leave all phones in the locker room.”

Kyle Robbins audibly groaned at that, and the rest of us smirked and exchanged looks. He was used to getting away with a lot of shit when Coach Sanders was here, and he’d grown a following on social media for giving behind-the-scenes looks at our day to day as a team. But Coach Lee had put a stop to that.

And maybe that was the one call he’d made since his arrival that assured me he had the team’s best interest at heart.





My post-practice routine was brutal.

It had been ever since my shoulder injury — the one that had made me sit out my freshman year of college. Once I was cleared to play again, I took my duty to keep that shoulder in shape and away from any further injury very seriously.

Ice baths, deep tissue work, physical therapy — it was all part of my training. And because of that, the training staff at NBU knew me well.

“How’s it feeling today, Moore?” JB asked when I perched up on the table, fresh from my ice bath.

“Like a million bucks.”

He smirked at the same answer I gave him every time — regardless of whether my shoulder was throbbing or not. JB had taken my rehab as his own personal challenge when I came to North Boston University, and because of how much time we spent with him torturing me through physical therapy and deep tissue work, we’d become good friends.

As good of friends as I could be with the person who had the power to bench me at any moment, anyway.

“Still taking your NSAIDs?”

I nodded. “Every day.”

It was my least favorite part of my morning routine, taking anti-inflammatory medication, but I knew it was non-negotiable during the season. I wanted to avoid corticosteroid injections for as long as I could, and so far, I’d succeeded.

“Well, if you’re not in too much pain today, we’re going to hold off on dry needling or deep tissue and just focus on strength.” He paused, looking at something on his clipboard before he called over his shoulder, “Julep, why don’t you take the lead on this one?”

The training supply closet was open, and out swung Julep at the call of her name, those dark eyes locking on me only briefly before she addressed JB.

“Injury?”

“Rotator cuff. Two years post arthroscopy. Advanced stage rehab,” he told her, handing her the clipboard in my hand that somehow made me feel like he’d just shown her a naked picture of me.

Her eyes scanned the pages as she flipped through them, taking in all the notes JB had made on me over the years. Once, her gaze flicked to mine, and it trailed slowly down the length of my biceps, my abdomen, before sliding back to the pages.

I swore I saw a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Just work through the plyometric and I’ll monitor in-between other players,” JB said. Without another word, he left us, moving his attention to a defensive lineman who just walked through the door.

Julep looked at me, and again, her gaze slipped low for a brief moment before she cleared her throat and swept her hand across the ground in front of her as if it were a red carpet. “Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation? Let’s go.”

My eyebrow shot up at the tone, but I just smirked and hopped off the table, following her lead over to the training area.

“Let’s start with some eccentric stretching,” she said, eyes on her clipboard before she pointed at the ground by the weight bench. “Go ahead and kneel and I’ll grab a dumbbell.”

I shamelessly watched her walk toward the weights as I took a knee, noting even through the leggings she wore how toned her hamstrings and ass were. That was an ass that told me she trained, too.