Cover

PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES

“Martin is an incredible storyteller and has a unique ability to blend fiction with real-life situations in the sports world.”

—New York Times bestselling author La La Anthony

“Get ready for sparks to fly . . .”

—PopSugar

“An emotional journey with an intoxicating romance.”

—NPR

“A fun and sexy romance novel set in the sports world.”

—Bustle

“If you like steamy romance with a side of sports, this fun, fast-paced novel is for you.”

—HelloGiggles

“The writing is snappy, the pacing is quick, the romance is sublime, and the humor is off-the-charts. Alexa Martin delivers a stellar love story, and I can’t wait to see what she writes next.”

—USA Today

“Martin scores a touchdown of a debut with Intercepted, a witty rom-com set in the world of professional football players and their wives.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Fast, fun, and absolutely engaging. A smashing debut!”

—New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins

“Alexa Martin’s books are the ultimate reading escape filled with fabulous characters; witty, dazzling prose; and swoonworthy romances.”

—New York Times bestselling author Chanel Cleeton

“Alexa Martin is so good at this; I’m so impressed by how nuanced and thoughtful this book is, while still being hilarious and sexy!”

—New York Times bestselling author Jasmine Guillory

Titles by Alexa Martin

INTERCEPTED

FUMBLED

BLITZED

SNAPPED

Dedication

To Anna and Paul, my grandparents.

I miss you every single day.

I’m forever grateful for every moment I spent with you.

Thank you for loving all of me.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

When I first started my writing journey, I swore I would never write about football. Having lived the sport for a while, I was having a hard time believing anybody would think this life was glamorous or romantic. However, as I wrote Intercepted and began the Playbook series, my opinion changed. I realized I didn’t have to tell the story that was expected of me; I was able to use my experiences to create stories that felt authentic to me.

And that’s what happened with Snapped.

I very clearly remember doing my first-ever podcast and Jenny Nordbak asking me if I was planning on writing a book that touched on players taking a knee on the field. I’m not sure I could’ve said no any faster. It was not in my plans to write this book. My husband retired before Colin Kaepernick began to take a knee on the field and in the height of the “controversy,” I wasn’t sure I could properly tell that story.

But when I found out I was able to write a fourth book for the series, it was the only idea I wanted to pursue. I figured enough time had passed that I would be able to tell the story I wanted to tell. I finished writing Snapped in October 2019. Little did I know that this book would be more relevant as it released than it was while I was writing it.

This is not Colin Kaepernick’s story. I respect him and the bravery he showed by kneeling on the field in 2016. He made a stand that has gotten more powerful over time. He was definitely an inspiration for this book, but I can’t tell his story. Only he can. This is a story about Elliot and Quinton. I know I do not speak for all Black experiences, or even all biracial ones. This is my story, coming from my perspective, based on my lived experiences.

Like Elliot, I am biracial. Also like Elliot, my Black parent died when I was very young, and I was raised with my all-white family. Understanding and accepting my racial identity has been a long journey for me. I grew up in the most amazing home with my mom and grandparents who loved me. Because of that, it was hard for me to see or acknowledge many forms of racism. Partly because I didn’t want my family, who loved me, to feel betrayed.

I also constantly felt like I was being pulled in different directions outside of the house. Being told that I wasn’t Black enough by some and that I was too Black for others. There was even a time when we went to visit extended family and one of my cousins could not understand how it was possible that I was Black and related to her. We were both in our teens. It was incredibly hurtful, but because it was what I always did, I laughed it off.

It wasn’t until I became an adult, got married to a Black man, and had Black children that I finally began to come to grips with my identity and process the way a lifetime of microaggressions had affected me. And it was painful. Painful to come to grips with the way the people I loved and who loved me had left a long-lasting impression. Painful to realize I had quieted and doubted my own feelings for others’ comfort.

As for Quinton, I really wanted to narrow his focus on the football league, their treatment of retired players, and racism within the organization. As more people are seeing the realities BIPOC face in this country, these are problems that are impossible to escape. I knew I couldn’t do the story justice unless I narrowed it down. As the wife of a former professional player, I’ve been hearing more and more about the mistreatment of former players, specifically players who retired before 1993. After hearing personal accounts from their spouses, listening to interviews, and then finding FAIR—Fairness for Athletes in Retirement, a nonprofit that lifts the voices of players who retired before 1993—I knew this was the story I was capable of telling in a meaningful and effective way.

This book, which I hoped would be full of laughs and fun, took on a much more personal and serious tone. Though I hope everyone still finishes this book with a smile on their face, my main hope is that you, the reader, will feel the love and heart I tried to insert in these pages. And I hope that if you started this book set in one perspective, you finish it more open to understanding the journeys of self-discovery and acceptance that so many of us are on.

Prologue

Quinton

Game One

The crowd’s cheers echo in the tunnel. Screams of excitement bounce off the concrete floor and vibrate through my cleats and into my veins.

I live for this feeling. The anticipation of running onto the field. Never knowing what is coming or what might happen.

I’ve always kept my head down. I’ve listened to the coaches. Made the plays. I’ve done my job like the good little athlete they’ve trained me to be.

But today is different.

The piece of black tape feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds hidden in my glove. My knee itches to touch the ground.

I can’t keep quiet any longer. I won’t keep quiet any longer.

No.

This is the day I will take a stand by taking a knee.

Today is the day I look up.

One

Elliot

I’ve never had actual work benefits.

I mean, sure, I’ve got medical and a 401(k), but I’m talking about benefits that mean something. Like my friend Liv’s Nordstrom discount or Marie’s endless supply of cupcakes.

But now, I’m finally on their level. I have perks. The best perks possible: discounted and readily available Denver Mustangs tickets.

Sure, the parking costs a mint, the food is outrageous, and don’t even get me started on the drinks . . . but I’m here! My first ever professional football game and I’m part of the Mustangs family.

My dad would’ve freaking loved this.

“Why’d you make us get here so early?” Marie’s freckled arm stretches in front of me to nab one of the cheese-covered nachos in my lap. “I’m going to burn to hell and back.”

I made her apply sunscreen in the car, but even so, she’s right. She’s still going to burn. She burns just thinking about the sun. When we took a trip to Vegas for her twenty-first birthday, she burned so bad at the pool that I thought she needed to go to the emergency room.

“Because, if we didn’t get here when we did, the parking would’ve been impossible, the lines to the concessions would’ve been a mile long, and you would’ve been complaining that you were hungry and needed beer when I wanted to watch the game.”

“Okay, but now the team’s about to come out and I’m almost out of beer and you’re not being a good nacho sharer, so I’m going to complain anyways.” She grabs the last cheesy nacho in the tray and shoves it into her mouth before I can steal it back. And, because I work for the organization, I can’t punch her in the arm like I really want to. Maybe if I was a trainer or something that sounded a little more aggressive, I could get away with a light swat. But, since I work in public relations—aka the department that extinguishes fires, not ignites them—it’s probably not the best idea.

In my next life, I’m so going to be a wrestler.

“Asshole,” I mumble beneath my breath, which turns out to be unnecessary because that’s the moment the announcer decides to let his presence be known.

“Denver, Colorado! Get on your feet! Let’s hear it for your Denver Mustangs!” Jack, the announcer the Mustangs have used for the last five seasons, shouts through the speakers. I met him this week; he was kind of obnoxious, but I guess that’s perfect for his job.

The metal floor rattles beneath my shoes with synchronized anticipation as everyone jumps to their feet.

Everyone, that is, except for me.

This is the first professional football game I’ve ever been to. I’ve wanted to come to one of these games forever and I promised my dad that he’d be by my side when I did. We were going to celebrate his remission with the best seats and all the beer he could drink.

Grief is such a bitch.

Because even though I woke up with a smile and have been looking forward to this for weeks, grief has decided to take this moment to drop a brick on my chest and wrap itself around my throat. The tears fall before I even have the chance to stop them and the only coherent thought I have is that I hope none of my new coworkers are around to witness this absurd meltdown.

“Hey.” Marie squeezes my shoulder and sympathy emanates from her sapphire eyes. “I know he would love this. But I also know he’d have a fit if he thought he was the reason you missed the Mustangs’ grand entrance you both obsessed over. So wipe those tears away before he comes back and haunts me for not straightening you out.”

That gets a laugh out of me. More like a chorkle—laughter mixed with crying does not make for pretty noises. My fingers linger over his watch, which he had resized for me right after the doctors told him the chemo wasn’t working anymore, before I swipe the tears off my face. “You’re right.” I stand up with the rest of the crowd, who are thankfully too busy watching the offensive starters get called out of the tunnel to notice the crazy girl hysterically crying in the plastic chair next to them. “I’m done. We’re going to have a fucking blast for the rest of the game.”

“Yeah we are.” She lifts her hand into the air for a high five that is purposefully too high for me to reach. “Plus, you pulled it together before they called that new hot quarterback out.”

I decide to keep my dignity intact and not jump for the high five. Instead I let her hand linger above me and focus on the field in front of me.

Because—even if I’m not sure I can say this anymore, since I work here—Quinton Howard Junior is very hot.

Like smokin’.

He’s a legacy player—his dad was a lineman in the eighties and early nineties—but it was his ability to lead his team to a championship win last year that brought him to Denver . . . and a contract worth a lot (and I mean a lot) of money. He was originally a sixth-round draft pick and didn’t have the opportunity to start until the quarterback he played under suffered a season-ending injury during Quinton’s fifth season. This is his seventh year and so far he’s had a killer preseason. Every time I turn on ESPN, there’s another commentator placing their bets on him leading the Mustangs to his second championship ring.

As if conjured by pure willpower—or really good timing—his picture appears on the JumboTron. The screams that held an undertone of bass from grown men transform to the screams you hear at a boy band concert. And Marie, who has made her disinterest of the sport clear to me throughout our entire friendship, is suddenly staring at the JumboTron like she’s preparing to write a paper on the juxtaposition of having a perfect face and getting tackled for a living.

Even though I want to give her shit and pretend like I’m above ogling the hot quarterback—I mean, can you say cliché?—I give in and stare right along with her and just about every other person in the stadium.

Quinton Howard Junior is the physical representation of tall, dark, and handsome. His dark brown skin has not a single imperfection; even amplified and broadcast on a giant HD screen, there isn’t one thing marring his prefect face. While other players are smiling huge, goofy, yet adorable grins in their pictures, Quinton is the epitome of determination. His almond-shaped eyes are so dark, they’re practically black, and are framed by the thickest, darkest lashes I’ve seen outside of Instagram ads. His thick eyebrows have perfect arches that I doubt have ever been touched by tweezers or wax and I will never get over the unfairness of it all. Granted, maybe if I hadn’t gone tweezer crazy in seventh grade, I wouldn’t be living the eyebrow struggle now. But what really kills me, more than the eyes and the skin, is his mouth.

Oh sweet heavens. His mouth. Last season, he was clean-shaven. His square jaw on full display. He was adorable. He had a little bit of a baby face and always sported this shy smile that made him look modest and surprised by his own abilities. But not this season. Now he’s sporting a full beard around his plump lips. Nothing about him looks modest or young. No, this version of Quinton Howard Junior is a man who knows exactly what he wants and how he’s going to get it. Which might be hotter than every single physical attribute he was blessed with.

God help any woman who ever comes in his sights.

“In his first official game in blue and orange, Mustangs fans, give it up for Quinton Howard Juuunnnior!” Jack’s voice reverberates through the stadium as fireworks shoot from the sides of the tunnels.

Whereas all the other players ran out of the tunnel with contagious energy and excitement, Quinton takes his time. His steps are slow and his expression is of pure intensity. Everyone around me is eating it up. Their shouts grow louder as if he’s putting on some kind of act for them to enjoy.

But it’s my job to see a media event before it happens.

And my spidey sense is telling me that whatever this is? It’s not going to be local news. No, this is going to be national coverage.

As he walks, he begins to lose the cocky tilt of his head. I don’t see the spark of hunger in his eyes that says this is for show.

No.

There’s hesitation in his movement. Fear and nerves written all across his face as he gets closer and closer to the cameraman blasting his image for everyone to see.

Then his feet stop moving and he stares straight into the camera. If my nerves weren’t eating me alive, I’d probably be enjoying the close-up of his full lips and dark brown eyes like everyone else. But instead, my eyes are locked on the screen and I watch as he pulls a piece of black tape out of his glove and very carefully places it over the League’s emblem embroidered on his jersey.

“Oh my god,” I whisper in the midst of similar sentiments floating around me.

“I don’t get it.” Marie’s voice sounds like a shout in the suddenly quiet stadium. She’s completely oblivious as she lifts her beer to her lips and takes a final sip. “Is that some kind of quarterback thing?”

The only time Marie has ever watched football was when her ex-boyfriend played on our college team. He wanted her to support him. She broke up with him after the second game because no man was worth that kind of torture—her words, not mine. She came today after letting me know that in no way, shape, or form was I to yell at her when she started playing Candy Crush in the first quarter. I was honestly just so proud that she knew football was comprised of quarters and not periods or innings that I couldn’t argue with her. So when she says she’s confused, she means it.

Usually I can clear things up, but not this time.

“Not that I know of.”

I think she keeps talking, but I can’t hear her anymore. All I can do is track Quinton’s movement on the field like everyone else. I think of any positive way to spin him blatantly disrespecting the League paying him millions of dollars. I have to be misunderstanding his intentions.

Time ticks by and both teams go to their benches. Most of the fans seem to have let whatever the hell he was doing roll off their backs and I relax a little. I grab my phone out of my purse, wanting to make sure nobody from the Mustangs has sent a panicked email as the first beats of the national anthem start to play.

Then it happens.

I’m waiting for my email to refresh when I hear the cascade of whispers and boos beginning to build.

I hope it’s just the poor performer forgetting the words, but when I look up, my eyes are laser focused on Quinton Howard Junior.

On his knee. During the national anthem.

He’s making a stand. He’s not the first player in the League to take a knee, but he is the first Mustangs player to do it.

I get goosebumps on my arm. As a biracial Black woman, I’m aware of the injustices Black people face daily and respect Quinton’s protest. But pride wars with panic over how this will affect my new job.

“Oh shit.” Marie doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “Looks like your job just got more interesting in the best possible way.”

I’m about to spout off some sarcastic response when my phone starts vibrating in my hand, my boss’s number on the screen.

I’m not sure the fallout at the Mustangs will be the “best,” but Marie wasn’t wrong. It did just get a lot more interesting.

Two

The world is on fire.

Okay. Fine. That’s mad dramatic.

The world is not on fire, but my job has for sure taken the first crazy train straight to chaos.

I’m the strategic communications manager for the Denver Mustangs. Most people have no idea what that means and look at me like I have two heads. Then I tell them I’m basically Olivia Pope . . . but for football players. This helps most people. Or, at least it helps Shondaland fans. And why would I even talk to someone who doesn’t appreciate the greatness that is Shonda Rhimes?

Anyways, it’s my job to fix problems when they arise and to place the Mustangs organization in the best light possible. When I found out about the opening for this position—the position I put on my dream board my freshman year of college—I already had a binder full of strategies. Drunk driving? Covered. Injuries? Check. Failed drug test? I have ten different emails ready to send out. I had any and everything that could possibly happen mapped out with at least five ways to spin each one.

I even had a tentative plan for one of the players taking a knee. One I hoped would keep the player, the community, and the organization happy. What I didn’t expect? The quarterback blacking out his logo and protesting his employer too. I mean . . . what in the world?

Like I said: Crazy. Train.

“Did you see what Glenn Chandler said?” Paul, my coworker, asks.

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