The stadium has gone silent like no one dares to breathe. The ball is snapped and I hear it slap against James’s hand before he plants it on the ground, laces out. And then I’m moving, the sound of helmets crashing at the line of scrimmage a distant lullaby as I swing my leg forward, eyes on the prize.
I’ve got this.
Chapter Eight
Austin
Holy fuck. Watching Carter set up the field goal is the longest thirty seconds of my life. I stand with the O-line, hands gripping the collar of my jersey and the pads beneath, because what else can we do but watch and wait? It’s not exactly a game-winning kick—we’ve still got time—but it’s tense as hell.
The stadium has reached fever pitch, but the sideline is silent. All eyes are on Carter. It’s the moment of truth. Did I make the right call convincing her to try out? Was Coach right to start her today? Everyone’s on the edge of their seats, wondering if she’s going to crack under pressure. The media’s been salivating over the news of Carter’s scholarship, churning speculation daily, but with closed practices, no one had any actual facts. Just a whole lot of conjecture.
Most of it total bullshit.
“Have faith, man.” Coop wipes the back of his arm across his forehead. It’s hot as balls and we’re all feeling it. What should have been an easy game has become a race to score, because no way are we going to lose our home opener. “Carter can make thirty-five with her eyes closed.”
“I know.” I do know, but there’s that tiny little ball of doubt zinging around in my head. What if… It’s the same damn pattern of second-guessing myself I’ve always dealt with when it comes to football. Not that I can let it show. That shit has to stay buried deep. I’m expected to lead by example and leaders don’t sit around stewing over what-if scenarios.
Carter marks her spot and walks off her steps. The stadium falls silent as the play clock counts down, and I swear to God an eternity passes before the ball is finally snapped. James positions the ball, but Carter stands frozen, taking her sweet-ass time. If she doesn’t get the damn ball up, it’s going to be blocked.
Or worse yet, she could get tackled by the defense.
Sure, her body’s made of muscle, but that doesn’t mean I want to see her crushed by some two-hundred-pound goon who doesn’t mind a personal foul. It sure as shit wouldn’t be the first time and with all the hype surrounding Carter, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are guys in the conference gunning for her.
Shit. I should’ve warned her, given her a heads-up or something, because unlike her, I actually do know what football players are like, and while most are pretty decent guys, there are always a few assholes.
Like Langley.
My gut clenches when the defense leaps forward, closing in fast. What the fuck is she waiting for? A personal invitation? I step forward, stopping just short of the field thanks to Coop’s grip on my shoulder.
Thank Christ. Carter’s finally moving. She springs into action, one short step followed by two longer ones. Her foot connects with the ball, sending it arcing through the air, sailing over the heads of the defensive players with just enough clearance to avoid a blocked kick. The ball flies through the upright, dead center, and just like that, the game is tied up.
That’s my girl!
I pump my fist in the air as the stadium erupts, but no one’s cheering as loud as the guys on the sideline when the announcer calls Carter’s name over the loudspeaker. You’d think we’d won the game by the way the team’s reacting. Or that she’d set a new school record. But I know exactly how they feel. Like it’s all finally coming together. Like this is our season. Like we’re unstoppable.
Relief washes over me like a Gatorade shower after a championship game. I came through for the team, patching the hole Spellman left and making us stronger for it. I may have gotten lucky finding Carter, but she’s with us now and the team is delivering on all fronts.
This is our time, our year.
Carter jogs off the field, and I find myself hanging back as the team surrounds her. There are high fives and cheers and probably an excessive amount of celebration, but what I notice most? It’s the way her cheeks flush and her eyes shine with pride as the guys pile on the congratulations.
She turns to face me. I should give her a fist bump or a clap on the shoulder or…something. But it’s like we’re frozen in time. Just a split second where it’s me and her and no one else. No teammates, no coaches, no crowds. And in that moment of hesitation, I know something has shifted between us. I can feel it in my gut, see it in the way she studies my face, in the tiny wrinkle that forms between her brows.
Fuck.
I’m the team captain. I’m supposed to see her as one of the guys, treat her like one of the guys. I haven’t forgotten Coach’s warning or her feelings on football players or even my responsibility to lead this team to a national title. But when she looks at me—really looks at me—that beautiful smile lighting her face like a ray of goddamn sunshine, I know I’ll do whatever it takes to see that smile again and to hell with the consequences.
Kennedy
I’m still flying high from today’s win—and my totally awesome field goal—when I finally exit the locker room. It’s getting late, and I’m starving. The game ran almost three and a half hours, and I got tagged for an ESPN interview before leaving the field, which is ridiculous considering my role in the final score was minor. Reid and Coop, The Dynamic Duo, as the press calls them (super creative, right?), were the real stars of the game, leading the offense and putting up another six points on our last possession.
As promised.
But I’m starting to understand that everything I do—or don’t do—this season, will be amplified by the mere fact that I have ovaries. As if they’re my defining characteristic. Like, it’s so hard to believe a woman can kick a ball because she has *gasp* ovaries.
Thank the stars above I’m not a real ballplayer. That crap would get old real fast, and I have more important things to worry about, like my GPA and the upcoming ACME Student Design Competition, now that I’ve popped my football cherry, so to speak.
And it was good. So. Good.
Hell, it was better than sex.
Although, to be fair, Two-Minute Mike wasn’t much to write home about, so my assessment could be skewed. (Seriously, my vibrator gives better orgasms than he ever did.) But when that ball sailed through the upright? The applause was insane. I swear the ground trembled beneath my feet. And the knowledge that all those people were cheering for me? Talk about a head trip. Not that I’m turning into Coop or anything (God forbid), but you know what they say: you never forget your first time.
When I round the corner outside the men’s locker room, freshly showered with my damp hair hanging in limp strands over my shoulders, I’m swallowed up by a sea of bodies. Reid and a few of the guys from the O-line are standing around, messing with their phones and rehashing the game-winning touchdown. The one where Reid punched through the defense to bring it home. It was incredible to watch, his muscular body moving with such speed and agility as he plowed through the defenders. I’m sure there were hot-blooded women all over the stadium wishing for a fan, myself included.
“Just the lady we were waiting for,” Reid says, pushing off the wall and rising to his full height.
He’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms to reveal a smattering of dark hair. He looks good—all the guys do—making me immediately self-conscious of my worn Converse and the red and black S T-shirt tucked into the front of my cut-off shorts. Reid’s eyes skate over me, and I resist the urge to tug on the hem of my shirt. I do not care what Reid thinks of my wardrobe choices. A fact that bears repeating after we practically had a moment on the sidelines.
A moment I refuse to consider beyond the weird post–field goal high. Because Reid and I? We cannot have a moment for about a billion different reasons, not the least of which is my promise
to my mom.
“We’re heading to the Diner to grab dinner and then we’re going to hit up a party at Sig,” he says. “You should come with.”
I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip. I’m starving and the Diner has the best milkshakes in town, but partying? With the football team? So not my scene. And they’ll definitely make a scene. Freshly showered—possibly in cologne if my burning nostrils are any indication—and dressed to kill, they look like they’re ready to go hard.
Hell, they look like postcoital bliss and bad decisions.
Definitely a combination I can do without. Especially with the lines starting to blur, with Reid jamming himself into my life—my thoughts—at every turn.
“My treat,” Reid says, fixing me with the dimpled smile that’s my kryptonite. “Thanks for a job well done today.”
I can feel the expectant gazes of my teammates, although my eyes are locked on Reid. They expect me to say yes, to fall in line as if I’m one of them. But the thing is, I’m not. Football is just a means to an end for me, not a lifestyle. Sure, I enjoyed the thrill of the crowd today, but I’m not like them. I thrive on control, order, and commitment.
Not booze, partying, and casual sex.
If I say yes to dinner, I know I’ll let myself be talked into the party. I can already feel interest stirring in my belly, weakening my resolve. It wouldn’t take much, because, honestly? It would be nice to just…let go for a few hours. It’s been ages since I’ve gone out, always too busy or too tired from trying to juggle work, studying, and soccer.
For once, the prospect of warm beer and house music doesn’t sound so bad. Which is exactly why I have to stay strong. This is how it starts. One minute you’re hanging with the guys, playing beer pong and ogling the QB’s ass, the next you’re piecing your heart back together over a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
That’s how it was for my mom, anyway.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, flashing my teammates what I hope is a friendly smile, “but I’m going to pass. Have fun tonight.”
“Come on.” Reid gives me a nudge, sending a jolt of electricity racing up my arm. “We’re a team. At least have dinner with us.” His eyes are doing that thing again, boring into me like we’re this close to having a moment.
Abort! Abort!
“I have to study,” I lie, wrapping my arms around my waist where they’re in no danger of touching Reid again. It’s a lame excuse. Even I know that, because, hello, it’s Saturday night. Plenty of time to study tomorrow, but I’ve thrown it out there and now I have to stick with it.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Should’ve said I had plans with Becca, which would have been far more believable, but Reid’s touch seems to have temporarily short-circuited my brain.
“Riiight,” he drawls, his voice as smooth as Dove chocolate. Heat rolls off his body, and it’s all I can do not to fan myself. “You have a three-point-nine GPA, one of the highest on the team. I’m pretty sure you could take the night off if you wanted to. Hell, you’ve earned it.”
Indignation flares, burning hot in my belly. “How do you know my GPA? Have you been creeping on me?”
He shrugs, that sexy smile shifting to an infuriating smirk my li—fingers—are just itching to wipe off his face. “No need to creep. I saw the grade book on Coach’s desk.” He laughs, a low rumble that sounds like sex personified, falling from his lips. “It was open.”
I narrow my eyes and plant my hands on my hips, scanning the group of players, all of whom are suddenly balls-deep in their phones. No help there. Not that I expected any. He’s their ringleader, after all.
“That’s an invasion of privacy,” I say, feeling like a complete bitch. I really am not this uptight person. What do I care if Reid saw my GPA? It’s hardly a national secret. Hell, it’s on my resume. It’s just that the idea of him checking up on me, getting to know me more intimately makes me uncomfortable. Like my skin is too hot, too tight.
“Relax. It’s no big deal.” Reid hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, drawing my traitorous eyes south to the bulge behind his zipper. The smirk is back in place, and I know I’ve been caught looking. Heat floods my cheeks, but Coop hops on the peer-pressure express before I can die of embarrassment.
“Hell, if I had a three-point-nine, I’d be shouting that shit from the rooftops,” he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “But, alas, I’m fated to be the stereotypical jock with a big appetite, so can we move this little battle of wills—fascinating as it is—to the Diner, because I’m starving?”
The question is directed at me, but it becomes an open invitation and an escape. A bunch of girls I hadn’t noticed step out of the shadows and descend on the guys like bees on a honeycomb. An exchange of greetings ripples through the crowd, and I realize they aren’t strangers, which I guess makes sense because these girls are clearly dressed for the after-party Reid mentioned.
A blonde in booty shorts that could give Queen Bey a run for her money slips an arm around Coop’s waist and bats her lashes as she smashes her boobs against his rib cage. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. “I’m so hot, but maybe a milkshake would cool me down. Mind if we join you?”
Another girl, this one a brunette, slides under his other arm. That’s when it hits me. These are the girls from study hall. The ones Reid was talking to. Acquaintances my ass. “Great game today! You were amazing!” the girl chirps, gushing with more pep than a cheerleader snorting Pixy Stix.
A grin slides across Coop’s face as he looks from the blonde to the brunette and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
Oh, FFS. Just what Coop needs, a threesome to further validate his overblown ego. I’d swear it was a scene from some cheesy, Friday night lights dramedy if I weren’t witnessing it firsthand.
Coop catches me staring and miracle of miracles, his grin actually gets wider. For his part, Reid just stands there, still as a statue, neither encouraging nor discouraging the women. Has he hooked up with them? For some reason, the thought of Reid getting handsy with these girls stings more than it should, and I realize with a sinking stomach that I don’t want to know the answer.
“So, what do you say, Carter?” Coop raises a brow in silent challenge. As if I’ll be so easily baited. “You coming or what?”
The blonde looks me up and down. She quickly dismisses me with a giggle, apparently deciding I’m no threat. Fine by me. I have zero interest in Cooper DeLaurentis.
“I’ll see you at practice on Monday.” I force a little cheer into my words—we did just win our first game of the season, after all—despite the sour taste that lingers in my mouth. Reid gives a curt nod, but says nothing and I watch, feet rooted to the ground, as he and the others retreat down the hall in search of food and festivities.
They might be good teammates, but that’s where it ends. It has to.
This little show proves they’re exactly the kind of guys my mom always warned me about. Too much booze. Too much sex. Too few brain cells. Not exactly a winning combination—despite what the scoreboard said today—and I can’t afford to get tangled up with a guy like that, one who’s temporary at best.
No, I don’t want to get tangled up with a guy like that.
Even if Reid’s smile makes me want to throw caution to the wind and forget everything I know about football players. Even if Reid’s touch makes me want to say yes to his offer, just this once, to see where the night could go.
Chapter Nine
Austin
Greek Row is lit up like a beacon for the young, dumb, and horny when we roll up on Sig Chi, surrounded by throngs of students looking for a good time. The house sits in the middle of the block, hedged in on either side by equally imposing, old-as-hell mansions that have witnessed generations of drunken debauchery I can’t even begin to imagine.
Hell, it’s a wonder some of these places are still standing after the stories I’ve heard.
From the outside the stone and brick behe
moths look stately, a throwback to the good old days when the word gentleman carried weight. But inside? Whole different story. Sticky floors, missing doors—most doing double duty as beer pong tables—and enough sweaty bodies to send the fire marshal into a blind panic.
The party at Sig Chi is a rager, spilling out onto the front lawn with red plastic cups and tipsy girls who move in pairs across the manicured grass. There are a couple of guys sitting on the porch roof, their legs dangling over the front, welcoming newcomers. The whole scene brings back memories of Spellman and the night he busted his leg.
I avert my eyes, the familiar guilt burning a hole in my chest.
Vaughn shakes his head, and I figure he’s remembering it too, but before I can say anything, he breaks off from the group and makes a beeline for a solo drunk girl who’s struggling with a possibly broken heel and cursing a blue streak. If it were anyone else, I’d be right behind him, but it’s Vaughn, which means there are decent odds he’ll bag the party and either walk the girl home or put her ass in an Uber and ride along to make sure she gets home safe.
I follow Coop up the narrow sidewalk, nodding at a few familiar faces. If the entire town wasn’t celebrating our first win of the season, campus police would probably shut this thing down. But we are celebrating our first win and as long as the shenanigans stay mostly aboveboard, the brothers will get a free pass tonight.
It doesn’t hurt that Coop’s a Sig Chi legacy. It tends to make campus police look the other way, but it also helps ensure my guys stay out of trouble. As long as they keep their noses clean. The truth is, they busted their asses today and no one’s going to raise an eyebrow if they want to throw back a few beers.
Not even Coach, thanks to his new on/off training policy. We work hard during the week and keep our noses to the grindstone, then the training switch flips to the off position Saturday night, giving the team a chance to let loose and blow off steam. Monday morning, we’ll be back to business as usual, but tonight, we’re free to party and celebrate the win over Idaho.
Claiming Carter Page 9
