The Quarterback Draw (The Four Quarters Collection #2)

Chapter 1

Sophomore Year

Holding a bouquet of sunflowers, I shoulder open the doors of the all-female dorm with the kind of determination that’s usually reserved for a fourth-and-goal.

Marshall Hall—aka the medieval fortress my girlfriend insists on living in—towers over me as though I’m already breaking rules. White brick, sterile windows, a lawn manicured within an inch of its life. It’s the prettiest building on campus and the one that hates me the most.

Strict curfews, stricter staff, and an entire handbook dedicated to keeping boyfriends like me as far away as possible. Honey calls it “independence.”

I call it torture.

My hair’s still wet from practice, my legs are shot, and I should be icing my shoulder—not begging for thirty stolen minutes with my girl—but nothing, and I mean nothing, keeps me from her.

“Gemma,” I say, leaning on the front desk like I didn’t sprint here from the stadium. Then, I pull out a single sunflower, offering it to her.

She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain. Instead, she adjusts her thick glasses, and looks me up and down, her upper lip curling slightly.

“Zach.” She rolls her eyes, glancing back at the computer screen.

“I know Honey never breaks the rules and she seems nice…” A lie.

It’s not a secret how much these people hate her for no other reason than I let her put her tongue down my throat.

“But rules are rules. You’ve only got—” she checks the clock, and sighs, “—thirty minutes.”

“You’re acting like I can’t make thirty minutes count,” I murmur, sliding the flower back into place.

She raises her hand with a groan. “Stop. It’s bad enough that I sometimes hear it. Don’t make me picture it too.”

“I’m deeply sorry for your trauma.” I offer a salute. “But I’d be even sorrier if you didn’t buzz me in.”

Resigned, she hits the button, making the tiny metal gate open with a groan.

“You owe me,” she mutters.

“I’ll get you a date with Dax.” I slide through the gate, resisting the urge to hop over the thing even though I could.

It’s tempting, but I have no idea how long Honey’s going to stubbornly refuse to live with me, so I want to make sure I stay in the college’s good graces and avoid a dorm ban on my record. “He’s got space on his roster.”

“Not interested,” Gemma sings. “Get me Reese and maybe I’ll call it even.”

“Reese?” I take in a sharp breath without looking back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And Zach, don’t make me come and get you.”

I lift a hand in the air, giving her a thumbs-up without looking back, and beeline for the elevator. It dings a moment later, and when the doors slide open, two girls are already inside, giggling.

They freeze when they see me.

“Z-Zach Evans?” the taller one gasps, her mouth hanging open. “Is it really you?”

Fuck.

“Amber,” the shorter one hisses, elbowing her in the ribs. “You sound obsessed. Just…act normal for one day in your damn life.”

Amber’s mouth snaps shut—briefly.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, pointing straight at me. “But how am I supposed to act normal? I’ve literally only ever seen him on posters or on TV. I did not expect him to be hotter in real life. Or, you know… standing in my dorm lobby.”

“In his girlfriend’s dorm lobby,” the tall one replies flatly. “Which, you knew when you chose to live here.”

I close my eyes—just for a second, to keep the twitch in my jaw from turning into something worse.

It’s always like this. Every time I set foot in this building.

No matter what time of day, no matter how low I pull my hood or how fast I move, someone always wants a moment.

A smile. A story to tell their group chat.

Just once, I’d like to visit my girlfriend without feeling like I’m about to be splashed all over social media.

“Are you finished? I need to go up,” I say flatly, ignoring them as I step forward.

They part dramatically like the Red Sea. I move forward, ignoring the whispers, ignoring the way Amber practically vibrates with desperation.

Moments like these make me miss Mike—my old teammate who could deflect attention with a joke and make me laugh even when I wanted to throw punches. Now he’s across the country, living the dream, shacked up with his wife Olivia.

Lucky bastard.

What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes. With my girl, of course.

The elevator doors start to slide shut.

Almost.

Unfortunately, Amber shoots her arm out, slamming the doors back open with a smug little toss of her hair. She doesn’t blink, just stands there, staring at me.

“I think I forgot my lip balm,” she purrs.

“Annnd?” her friend deadpans.

Amber licks her lips. A slow, deliberate swipe that makes my spine itch. Then she looks at me like I’m one of those delicious hot dogs they sell for a dollar at my games.

“And I need to go upstairs to get it,” she says, her eyes dragging over every inch of my chest. “No one wants to kiss a girl with chapped lips, do they, Zach?”

“You're disturbed.” Her friend groans, grabbing Amber by the arm, and shoving her into the elevator before I can bolt.

As I press the button for the fifth floor, I can feel it. Her breath. On my neck. She has to be tiptoeing to get that kind of angle.

“So, Zach,” Amber breathes, her voice way too sweet. “Those are some pretty flowers. Who are they for?”

I glance over my shoulder, and if “thirsty” had a picture in the dictionary, Amber would be it. Jittery and almost salivating at the mouth, she’s really starting to make me regret not taking the stairs.

Jacob Miller, St. Michael’s last quarterback, warned me this would happen. Said girls go crazy for QB1, but it would die down after freshman year.

Well, it’s been a year, and it’s no different.

The sheer amount of phone numbers I’ve been handed in the past week alone is ridiculous. They’re slipped into my backpack, shoved into my locker vent at the stadium, and sent via my buddies every single day.

These girls might think they’ll catch me on the right day, in the right mood, with the right dress, but there’s only one woman for me, and she’s currently on the fifth floor of this building—probably curled up with her textbooks, completely unaware that I’m one minor inconvenience away from snapping.

I watch the elevator numbers crawl.

2…

“The flowers are for my wife,” I answer with just enough clarity for it to sound serious.

Amber gasps like I just announced a national emergency. “You're married?”

3…

“Yup.”

Okay, okay—she’s going to kill me when she finds out I'm claiming her as my wife to random people, but if this is the only way I can stop them from hounding me, then that's what I'm going to do, because it’s not technically a lie.

In my head, she’s been my wife since we walked out of South Point Prep, and I’m just waiting for her to catch up.

4…

“Did you hear that?” Amber whispers. “He's married to that Honey girl.”

My hands clench around the flowers, and my jaw ticks because I know where this is going.

“Lucky bitch. She isn't even that cute,” Amber mutters, thinking I won’t hear, but we’re in an elevator, and there’s nowhere for bullshit to hide.

I turn my head slowly, my eyes sweeping her frame with indifference. The same way I look at my team when I know they’ve already let me down.

“Amber, is it?”

She flinches and backs up a step until her spine hits the mirrored wall.

“Y-yes?”

I take a step forward. Not loud. Not fast. Just… final.

“You can keep talking about the love of my life like that,” I murmur, “but it won’t change a damn thing. I’ll still want her. Only her. Always her.”

She swallows hard.

“And for the record,” I continue, my tone steady and polite. “Even if I were available, taking shots at another girl isn’t going to impress me. It reads more desperate than you think.”

I lean in just slightly, enough to make it land without sounding like a threat. “So, let’s agree you don’t talk about her like that again. Trust me, everyone will have a better day if we stick to those rules.”

I give her a smile, and yeah, it’s a dickish move to pull, but she asked for it.

Ding.

Fifth Floor.

I step out without looking back. She’s been humiliated enough.

I’ve tried being nice. Tried being the clean-cut, press-ready quarterback who smiles through every grabby hand and poorly disguised proposition. But nice has gotten me shit—just too much attention and people acting like Honey is temporary.

She’s not.

She’s it.

And she’s behind the door with the silver numbers 507.

Are there other girls stopping and gawking as I walk by? Yes.

Am I ignoring them? Also, yes.

I’ve spent the whole day nodding, answering questions, and smiling to make the college look good. Now it’s my turn, and the only person I want to see is her.

My lips tug as I reach her door.

My girl. My everything is right here.

Knock. Knock. Knock.