by Zoë Lane
THE QUARTERBACK
by Zoë Lane
www.zoelaneauthor.com
See the invitation to ROOKIE COMBINE at the end of the book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. The reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, without the express written consent of the author constitutes a copyright violation.
THE QUARTERBACK
THE ROOKIES 1
Copyright © 2018 Zoë Lane
Cover Art Designed by Yocla Designs
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
LANDYN
April 2019
NFL Draft
“There’s no way they can separate us,” I assured Cas. “They’ve seen us on the field. Any team that gets us is gonna rule.”
Casper Taylor lifted his eyes to mine, his uncertainty clear from how much the blood had drained from his ashen face, and how hard he was wringing his hands. “I don’t know what you have to worry about,” I said, just slightly annoyed over my best friend’s lack of faith.
“The Richmond Rhinos are a brand-new NFL team.”
“Right.”
A hand went through Cas’s blond hair as he released a heavy sigh. “They’re going to be proving themselves all year.”
“And they need a powerhouse quarterback–tight end duo.” That was me and Cas all the way. Honestly, that didn’t need any explanation.
“So why wouldn’t they pick veterans? Proven experience.”
I groaned. His point was practically inarguable.
Almost.
“Cas, do you not remember Combine? The records we both set? Look, if it weren’t you and me, I’d agree completely. I almost do. Except”—I gripped his left shoulder and gave it an encouraging shake while looking him straight in the eye—“it is us. And we’re badasses.”
Cas snorted. He’d once said I thought too highly of myself. That I put too much faith in my abilities. In an instant we could lose it all. History taught him that lesson, but I was absent from class that day.
“You gotta quit worrying, bro. And regardless, we’ll start for whatever team, guaranteed. The Rhinos won’t want us on any other team. We’d be too much of a threat.”
“You’re not Tom Brady,” quipped Maxwell, Caper’s younger brother.
“Shut up!” Casper and I yelled in unison. Maxwell scurried away to the kitchen.
Casper’s eyes went to his phone and he clicked the home button. He groaned. “Landyn, they haven’t called yet. The draft starts in five minutes.”
He had a point there.
The hype I’d been feeling for the last hour took a nosedive, and my own anxiety began to rise. I sat next to Cas on the couch in his parents’ living room in D.C., willing our phones on the table in front of us to ring. We both watched the amphitheater in Nashville appear on the screen as the announcers continued with their last-minute draft pick predictions. I would’ve been there to receive the customary team jersey and hat, had I not had to spend all my extra free time studying for an art history final I could not fail—or risk having to take it over in summer school and graduate in August. I had to be at rookie training in a few weeks.
Art history. Why was this course an elective? I’d thought it would be an easy A for my final semester at Southwestern, but then I had to remember all these dates and types of paintings. I’d rather be studying the Rhinos’ playbook…if they had it written.
“Beer?” Maxwell asked, holding out a bottle for me and dragging my thoughts away from the worst class I’d ever taken in my life.
I shook my head no. “Don’t drink, buddy.” Although if my phone didn’t ring, I was going to start.
“Where’s mine?” Casper asked in mock annoyance.
“Get it yourself,” Max said and darted out of the living room.
I laughed at Cas while he rolled his eyes. “I told my parents a girl would be easier than a baby brother.”
“Easier for who?”
“Me, obviously.”
“He’s ten years younger than you. No competition.”
“Yeah, but he’s at that bratty age…” He sighed and his gaze returned to the TV screen. He licked his lips, both his legs nervously bouncing.
Being with Cas’s family meant I had a home-cooked meal—something I missed being on campus—and family to be around for the biggest event of my entire life. I slapped a hand on Cas’s back. “Relax, we got this. We were amazing at Combine,” I repeated, more to convince myself. “We’ve been fielding offers from the best teams. Even if we’re not on the same one, there’s no way we’re getting picked up by like…”
“The Browns,” Cas finished.
We both laughed.
“Or the Buccaneers,” I added.
“The Rhinos are one and three in the first round of the draft. There’s a good chance you’ll both be on the same team,” Maxwell said in his most ESPN-commentator voice. He took a seat beside his brother on the sofa.
My baby sister Lacey entered with a large plate in her hands. “Fudge brownies!” She placed the plate on the coffee table and gave us a huge grin. She flicked her nearly jet-black hair over her shoulder and arched a brow, angling her head toward the plate.
I returned her smile. “Thanks, Lace. Those look great.” But I couldn’t eat, not yet. Even though I’d said the opposite to Cas, my own faith in our chances started to erode, especially when our phones continued to sit idle.
“How you boys doing?” Cas’s father entered the room with a huge plate of nachos topped with beef, jalapeños, sour cream and cheddar cheese, and salsa. His mother followed with a bowl of guacamole.
“I’ve got the burritos on the counter, Maxwell, if you could grab those, please.”
“Aw, Mom! I don’t want to miss anything.”
“It’s your brother that’s in the draft, honey. If you hurry up, you won’t miss anything.”
Cas hit his younger brother on the back of the head as he passed behind the couch to obey his mother’s instruction. “Thanks for this, Mom.” He shot her a shaky smile, still nervous.
“Yeah, Mrs. Taylor, thank you,” I said with an even tone, determined not to let Cas’s anxiety affect me anymore. I reached for a paper plate and began to load it up with nachos, guac, and two brownies.
“Think noth
ing of it. It’s exciting!” She did a little jump, her short blond bob bouncing as she did. “Oh, the drinks!” She rushed back to the kitchen.
“No beer for Landyn!” Casper yelled.
“No matter what happens,” Mr. Taylor began, his eyes darting between the two of us, his thick, graying mustache against his nostrils as he smiled, “you boys have done an amazing job and we’re real proud of both of you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Taylor.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Mr. Taylor’s smile waned, and I felt his eyes on the side of my face from the La-Z-Boy he reclined in. I knew what he was going to ask. It was only natural. He was a father, after all.
“Hear anything from your dad, Landyn?”
“Nope,” I said, keeping my eyes on the television screen. The lights hit the stage and the presenter stood behind the podium. Thank goodness Lacey had gone back into the kitchen. Of the two of us, she needed parents more than I did. “Don’t need to.”
“Do you know if he’s planning on coming to your graduation?”
I shrugged. “I doubt he knows I’m graduating.” I sure as hell hadn’t told him.
Mr. Taylor shook his head. “That’s a real shame, son. My boys are my pride and joy. A man who isn’t there for his kids… well—”
“He’s not much of a man,” I finished for him.
“Yeah, Dad, can we not? You’re the greatest father ever, I swear, but the draft.” Cas gestured to the screen.
“Has it started?” Mrs. Taylor rushed back in. She placed a beer and a soda in front of Cas and me next to Max’s can of soda and then settled on the lap of her husband, handing him a beer. Lacey was right behind her, sitting on the armrest closest to me, already nibbling on a brownie. Maxwell sat on the other side of Cas, who immediately looped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and rubbed his curly blond head, Max fighting the entire time.
My phone rang loudly, making us all jump like we’d been watching a scary movie. I nearly clotheslined Lace off the sofa, and she hit my arm in protest.
The phone didn’t ring a second time. “Landyn.”
I don’t think I’d ever been happier in my entire life. This call trumped the one I’d received from Southwestern’s coach, offering me a full-ride sports scholarship. Everything I’d worked for, and how I’d nearly thrown my arm off practicing to make the junior high football team. National champions in high school. The winningest team ever in Southwestern’s history. This was the culmination of everything I had dreamed of since I’d dared to believe I could be somebody.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I hung up the phone and caught Cas’s gaze. “That was Coach Hicks.”
Cas’s phone rang. He scooped it up from the table. His mother was giggling uncontrollably while Mr. Taylor tried to shush her. Maxwell bounced on the sofa, eager like the rest of us to hear what the person on the other line of Cas’s phone was saying.
At that moment, I heard the announcer on the television. The 2019 NFL first-round draft pick was quarterback Landyn Gallagher to the Richmond Rhinos.
Pick three?
Casper Taylor.
To the Richmond Rhinos.
CHAPTER TWO
ROSE
May 2019
Rookie Training Camp
“We likely won’t have to interact with any of the players—if they behave themselves—but if they don’t, it’s good to know a little bit about them that you won’t find on the page.”
I nodded vigorously. Who are they off the page? I scribbled into my mini notepad, which already had about two pages of notes although we’d only been here twenty minutes.
The Richmond Rhinos were all anybody in Richmond—in Virginia, actually—was talking about. The newest NFL team with, arguably, the best collegiate quarterback ever to play the game—if you counted the number of Heisman trophies he’d won.
My eyes strayed across the newly christened field at the stadium headquarters, which cost investors about two billion dollars to construct. Everything looked legitimately rich. The stadium seats were cushioned, the turf color an otherworldly green, the footballs new and inflated.
“There’s Landyn Gallagher,” my mentor, Helena Grady, said. “In the red shirt. Number five.”
I spotted the player wearing the number five jersey. He looked tall even from my angle on the bleachers. He threw the ball effortlessly to somebody who ran around like a squirrel before catching it.
“Rose, you look like the press,” Helena said disapprovingly. “Put away your notebook.”
“But—”
“You need to be able to pay attention without having your nose stuck in that thing. At times you might have a fire hose of information coming at you that will require immediate action—no time to write. Commit things to memory. Okay?”
“Yes, Helena,” I said with a sigh and slipped the notebook into my off-brand black satchel.
“And I’m not your grandmother, so you don’t have to acknowledge me so subserviently.” She gave a short, yet evil-genius sort of a chortle, and then her porcelain features were back to being smooth and uncompromising.
I swallowed, let out a breath and tried to relax in my seat. This was officially my first day of my unpaid internship with MacCallister, Wembly, and Poach, the leading crisis management firm on the East Coast outside of Washington, D.C. They’d wanted me to start early in conjunction with the Richmond Rhinos rookie training camp. Then, after a successful summer internship, I would be hired as a full-time junior representative for the company and—possibly—be able to run my own cases. How the heck was I supposed to do all of that and not take a single note?
I watched Landyn throw another ball to a different player before moving my gaze to a small contingent of men who chewed gum and held metal portfolios.
The coaching staff.
“What’s the goal?” Helena asked, interrupting my survey of the staff.
I sat up straighter. Pop quiz. I excelled at pop quizzes. “To know a client before they’re a client.”
“Why?”
“To have the solution before they ask the question.”
“And how do we operate?”
“Quickly, competently, and discreetly.” Boy, I sounded like a Cylon.
“Excellent, my young padawan.”
I saw a brief hint of a smile and then it was gone. “You know Star Wars?”
Helena mechanically rotated her neck and held my gaze for three seconds before returning hers to the field. I ducked my head. I definitely wasn’t the Cylon.
“Look out!”
I heard Helena scream and looked up to see a giant ball of brown spiraling in my direction. I let out a yelp but then squeezed my hands towards one another when I felt the lumpy leather of the ball against my palms, the tip about an inch from my nose.
Thank goodness, because my nose was probably the best feature on my face. Smallish, the end at a perfectly slight upward tilt.
I heard a few cheers from male voices, followed by clapping hands.
“Rose, are you okay?” Helena’s hands were on my shoulders.
“I’m…f-fine,” I stammered, smarting under the attention and the dozens of pairs of eyes all trained on me. This was going to be on the internet, I knew it. Somebody was probably shooting a video and had caught all of my embarrassment. I thought Landyn was supposed to have the best passing record in college. Did he think I was a receiver?
“That’s quite a catch, miss.” A man about fortyish in a red cap yelled from below. He was surrounded by a group of people—all in green caps.
Must be Coach Hicks.
“Probably should’ve invited you to Combine,” Coach Hicks said with admiration. “Could use you on the team.”
The crowd chuckled. I tossed the ball to Coach Hicks’s outstretched hands, relieved to have it out of my own. I hadn’t noticed it before, but my hands were still stinging from the impact. My father played football with my older brother, and sometimes he’d toss me the ball, but I’d never caught a throw from a legi
timate QB before. And not at that speed.
My eyes landed on the man wearing jersey number five. Helmet removed, unruly dark wet curls clung to his forehead and around his face. His chiseled jawline cracked in a smirk. Then he winked.
The muggy May weather combined with the heat in my cheeks made me sweat everywhere—hairline, armpits, between my thighs…
I looked away from Landyn’s observant gaze. “Can we go now?” I begged Helena. As esteemed as our firm was, we didn’t need to hunt for clients. At this moment in time, I didn’t exactly agree with the firm’s core value of proactively, although it was a great value to have.
She sighed. “I guess so. Let’s head inside and see if we can accidentally bump into the general manager.”
“Oh! I know her. Well, she’s the sister of one of my best friends. Rochelle Hardison.”
Helena’s clear blue eyes sparked respect—the first sign I’d seen from her that meant I was doing something right…finally.
“Very good. You always want to use your connections to form alliances and deepen relationships that could be beneficial to your client.”
I ripped my eyes away from Landyn’s form, his lingering smirk like a magnet, sucking out both my energy and rationality. It should be illegal to be that good looking when you’re all sweaty and gross and stuff. “Uh-huh.” I sprung from my seat and hurried down the row to the steps, feeling Landyn’s gaze on the side of my face.
“Excuse me.”
I looked up and abruptly halted before I ran smack into an older gentleman wearing the Rhinos’ organizational jersey. I didn’t recognize his face from any of the profiles I had seen about the staff. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking—”
“No worries. That was some catch, Miss—”
“Uh, Rose. Rose Mackleby.”
“Miss Mackleby. The QB apologizes if your hands are hurt in any way. He knows that was a pretty fast throw.”
I looked at the field where I’d last seen Landyn. He was back in a huddle. “I’m perfectly fine,” I said, returning my gaze to whoever this guy was. “I used to catch a lot of balls playing with my brother growing up. It was nothing.” Just like that throw. Nowhere near on target.
