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.
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.
I’d heard it from plenty of players and staff alike around the locker room, how Holden Moore was sharp, focused, and serious. And on the field, I saw it for myself.
But off the field? I’d only witnessed him being an insufferably jolly idiot intent on getting under my skin.
I would never admit it to him or anyone else, but I wished for that version of him now.
Maybe it was because I’d been assigned to him. Maybe I felt a bit of ownership over his recovery, over his emotions, too.
Or maybe I was just tired of sitting in a silent car with a mopey quarterback.
“You have a lot of friends.”
I inwardly cringed at the stupid statement, but it was the first thing that had come to mind.
Holden subtly shifted his chin toward me but kept his eyes on the buildings as we passed them. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I considered. “Not bad. Just… interesting. At least, to me.”
“You don’t have a lot of friends?”
“I’m not sure I have even one.”
Holden turned to look at me then, and it was me who kept my eyes on the road this time. I thought he was going to press, ask me why or suggest that he was sure I had at least one friend.
Instead, he watched me for a pause before looking out the window again.
“It’s going to be okay, you know,” I offered after a moment.
No response.
“I know you probably can’t imagine your life without football, but you won’t be off the field long. And the team will still need you.” I paused, leaning over a bit before adding. “Cap.”
I was aiming for a smile, but Holden only swallowed and let out a long, slow exhale like that breath was the only thing keeping him from breaking down.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. This was not going well.
Then, I shifted in my seat, holding the steering wheel with my opposite hand. “Ah, it’s not football that has you so upset, is it?”
Holden frowned, turning to look at me.
I held up my right hand and wiggled my fingers. “It’s that you won’t have use of your hand for a while. Your…” I let my eyes trail down to rest between his thighs before arching a brow and meeting his gaze again. “Good hand.”
He frowned at first, confused, but when I waggled my brows, his shot into his hairline before a bark of a laugh left his chest.
“Are you making a joke about me masturbating?”
I shrugged, noncommittal as I turned back toward the road. “Just saying. I can understand that disappointment.”
Something of a breath of a laugh left him then, and he shook his head, angling himself toward me. “Wow, so all I had to do to get you to talk to me was get injured, huh?”
“Or maybe all you had to do was stop stalking me,” I argued. “It’s been nice to be in the training room without you pestering me. And to practice pole without you gawking from your driveway.”
“I’ve been busy with school and ball,” he said, and his smile dropped with that last part. But then he added, “And be honest — you loved having the audience.”
I snorted. “You would think that.”
“Just saying. You still haven’t installed those curtains.”
“Ah, so you are still stalking me.”
Holden just smirked, and then his phone was ringing. He glanced at the screen before angling himself toward the window again and answering.
Two deep, worried voices filled the car then.
“What the hell happened?!”
“Are you still at the hospital?”
“He’s clearly in the car, Kevin.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking at the background, Nate! And I’m a little too concerned to be accurate right now.”
“What was the diagnosis?”
“Don’t say diagnosis. You make it sound so serious!”
This went on for a solid minute, each one talking over the other as they peppered Holden with questions about what had happened and whether or not he was alright. I glanced at the screen, finding two middle-aged men with concerned expressions. One was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that gave off major hot dad vibes.
The other was a bit leaner, with dark hair and green eyes that looked just like Holden’s. He had the same sharp jaw, too, and the hollowed-out cheekbones that could have given him a career in modeling.
“I’m okay,” Holden finally said when the men took a breath. “Minor tear. They’ve already got a rehab plan outlined for me.”
The men released a synchronized breath of relief. “Oh, thank God. We were worried sick. Do you need to stay here for a while?” one of them asked.
“We can make up the guest room,” the other offered.
But Holden waved them off. “I’ll be good at the Pit.”
I snickered when they both wrinkled their noses, and one said, “Ugh, that is such a disgusting name for a place of residence.”
“Who’s that driving you?” the other one asked.
Holden glanced over his shoulder at me. “Julep Lee. She’s a new part of the training staff.”
The men went so silent that I glanced over, and when I did, I found them with gaping mouths and wide eyes as they elbowed each other and gave Holden some sort of look that I imagined he was supposed to interpret.
“Don’t,” he warned them quietly before angling the phone so they couldn’t see me anymore, and I couldn’t see them.
“Thanks for taking care of our boy, Julep!” one of them yelled.
“You’re welcome to dinner anytime,” the other added.
I smiled, though my brows bent in a mixture of curiosity and confusion as Holden’s jaw tightened and he gave the screen another warning glare.
“I’ll call later when I’m settled in,” he said, and then he cut the call without another word.
I rolled my lips together. “They seem nice.”
“My uncles,” he answered, shaking his head. “Like two mother hens.”
“They care about you.”
“I guess there are worse things,” Holden surmised as we pulled up to his house.
I smiled, considering how much he looked like his uncle. I’d thought it was his dad.
Immediately, I wondered why it wasn’t his parents who had called.
It wasn’t my business to ask, though, so I parked in the driveway across the street from my own, and before he could reach for it, I unclicked Holden’s seatbelt for him.
“Limited motion,” I reminded him, and I thought I saw him roll his eyes as I hopped out of the car and rounded it to open his door for him.
“Wow, how chivalrous,” he commented, swinging his long legs out. He unfolded his massive body from my tiny car, getting out slowly.
I gave him a patronizing smile.
But then, once he was standing, he stepped into me, making that curve of my lips slide off my face like oil.
With how much larger he was than me, that one step should have made me feel small, should have made me feel intimidated.
Instead, it was electrifying.
And his next words were soft, smooth, and sultry, like he’d pin me up against this car right now if he wasn’t injured.
“What else are you going to help me with, Julep Lee?”
I ignored how my heart hammered in my chest as he looked down on me, his eyes sweeping over my chest before they met mine again. Then, I tilted my chin up, defiant.
“Maybe… if you’re lucky?” I rasped, lifting my hand. Holden’s gaze was on mine until I extended my pointer finger and tapped it right in the center of his chest.
He seemed enraptured by that finger, his throat tight as it held his focus. I dragged my nail down the center of his chest, keeping my eyes on that nail until I hit the top of his abs. They tightened at the touch, and I smirked, letting my gaze slowly wander back up as I lowered my voice to almost a whisper.
“I’ll help you with your deodorant so you don’t smell like such a moldy foot.”
I said the words sweetly, crinkling my eyes with an exaggerated smile before I stepped back and gestured for him to lead the way inside.
Holden looked like he wanted to pop off with some smart remark of his own, tongue in cheek and eyes watching me like he appreciated the challenge I didn’t even realize I’d raised.
But if he did have something else to say, he resisted — just as much as he resisted the urge to grab his gym bag off my shoulder when I retrieved it from the back seat.
It killed him already, not being able to take care of himself. I hoped as much as he did that he’d only have a week or so of this before we could introduce movement and get him on the road to recovery.
For all our sakes.
