A relationship with Austin? I’d never let myself consider the possibility before. That wasn’t the deal. But as I look at him, at the hope in his beautiful eyes, I can’t deny I want it too. A chance to see where things go. To see if maybe the chemistry we share in the bedroom could be a foundation for something more.
“What about the team?” I ask. “Nothing’s changed with Coach or the guys.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He grips my hip with his right hand, tugging me close. His erection is pressed to my stomach, and my body reacts in kind, desire curling low in my belly. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” He leans down and kisses me, slow and deep, our tongues mating in a languid dance. It’s nothing like the frenzied kisses that fueled our hookups, but it has the same smoldering heat. I pour myself into the kiss, enjoying the feel of his soft lips on mine. When he pulls away, disbelief rears its ugly head again. “I can’t believe my mom is okay with this.”
“‘Okay’ might be overstating things a bit.” He laughs, low and husky, the sound reverberating through my body and sending shivers down my spine. “I’ve met some overprotective dads, but they’ve got nothing on your mom. She said she’ll neuter me if I break your heart.”
I lean in to kiss him again, pausing when our lips are a breath apart. “So don’t break my heart.”
Chapter Twenty
Austin
Getting up at the ass crack of dawn to grovel wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, but fuck, sometimes you have to man up. No way was I going to let Kennedy face Coach until I’d smoothed things over. Not because I don’t think she can handle herself, but because that smart mouth of hers would probably get her benched and we need her for this week’s game against Indiana.
Me? I’m a pro when it comes to enduring Coach’s tirades. The key is to stay quiet, show the appropriate amount of contrition, and not make the same mistake twice.
So, yeah. I came. I saw. I groveled.
Coach was pissed when he saw the article. Asked me if I was a damn moron, which I guess was fair since he’d expressly forbidden team hookups. The thing is, Coach wants to win and he’s not stupid. We may have broken his rules, but we didn’t violate NCAA rules and no way in hell are the boosters or the university going to want to see their top players benched for something as trivial as dating.
It’s like I told Kennedy. Coach’s bark is worse than his bite. Under all that bluster, the man’s really a big old teddy bear.
Coach’s punishment? I’ve got to apologize to the team this morning, and it’ll be up to them to decide what repercussions, if any, I face. Should be a lively discussion. I doubt the guys will bench me—they want a national title as badly as I do—but they’re sure as shit going to make me sweat it.
Fine by me. I know how to take my lumps. Besides, I deserve whatever they throw at me.
Now I’ve got an hour to kill before the team hits the road. Normally, I’d enjoy having the locker room to myself, but today, not so much. I survey the pristine space, looking for anything to occupy my mind. The last thing I need is downtime to dwell on the social media shitstorm or the ass chewing my old man’s gonna give me.
He’s not big on distractions. Especially ones with the potential to derail my career. His advice when I came to Waverly? No cheerleaders, no trainers, no teammates. He labors under the delusion that as long as my hookups aren’t attached to the team, the chance for fallout is nil. It’s an old-school view, but I haven’t bothered to correct him.
No point when I’ve always kept things casual.
Truth is, he’ll be more concerned with bad press than anything else. He’s always trusted that the game comes first and I wouldn’t let a woman—or anything else—stand between me and the dream. But bad press? It could negatively impact my draft selection, something he won’t tolerate.
Not that the press has been bad. So far. But I’ve been around sports media long enough to know it’s just a matter of time. The media thrives on scandal. All it’ll take is a few trolls to stir the pot. I scroll through my social media feeds and roll my eyes. The current narrative is sweet and sappy, a modern twist on the old QB-cheerleader cliché.
If they only knew our relationship was more like hate-fucking in the beginning.
Doesn’t matter. The more time I spend with Kennedy, the more I realize how much I want her in my life. Sure, she’s a spitfire, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. She gets me. Not the cocky QB, Austin. And she calls me on my bullshit. She doesn’t pander to me because I’m some hotshot football player.
Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s attracted to me in spite of it.
Plus, there’s the sex.
Fact is, there was no scenario where I was going to walk away at the end of the season. The Collegian article created an opportunity, and I took it. Of course, it also created a lot of headaches, but I’ll handle it, just like I did with Coach. Sure he’s pissed, and I would’ve preferred to wait out the season, but shit happens.
When the guys start pouring into the locker room, I gesture for them to huddle up. My stomach clenches. Good thing I skipped breakfast. Facing the team is going to be more difficult than taking a verbal beating from Coach. These guys made me captain, chose me to lead the team. They expected more of me and I let them down.
I wipe my hands on my shorts.
Never let them see you sweat, my ass. It’s hot as hell in here.
The coaching staff joins us, and Kennedy slips in the back door just under the wire. Can’t blame her. I’d do the same in her position.
The team’s uncharacteristically quiet. Even for an early morning start. Their silence speaks volumes.
No excuses.
I stare out at the sea of faces, most of which are carved in stone. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light or a side effect of the guilt, but whatever they’re feeling, it’s on me. Doesn’t matter if I meant to breed hurt or mistrust, only that I did. And a splintered team doesn’t win games.
Time to get the focus back where it belongs: on football.
“I’m sure most of you saw the article in The Collegian,” I say, forcing myself to meet the eyes of each and every person in the room. “I’m not here to make excuses. I knew Coach’s rules and I not only broke them, I lied about it. My selfish actions have brought undue speculation and distraction to the team at a time when we can ill afford them. For that, I’m sorry. As your captain, I expect more from this team and from myself.”
I pause, giving them time to process my words. The room’s so damn quiet, I can hear Langley’s ragged breath. No one talks. No one moves. Not even Coach. He just watches with flattened brows, stoic expression in place.
“Coach and I had a long talk this morning and we agreed that since the entire team is impacted by my choices, the team should decide the consequences. Up to and including benching.”
There are a few surprised faces in the crowd and a murmur starts at the back of the room, slowly increasing in fervor. Can’t say I’m surprised. Caught me off guard too when Coach said he’d let the team decide. I steal a glance at Kennedy. She’s chewing her thumbnail, keeping a low profile at the back of the room. I know she’s itching to weigh in, but I’m hoping she’ll stick to her word and let me deal with the fallout.
Better me than her, captain or not.
No scout wants to recruit a player who can’t follow simple directions like keep your dick in your pants, but the impact would be minimal, even if I’m benched for a game. Still, I’m hoping the guys are in a forgiving mood. The thought of riding the bench for the Indy game brings bile to the back of my throat.
I swallow it back down.
The noise in the room has reached fever pitch, and I’m laced tighter than a damn pigskin. Finally, Daniels, the defensive captain, steps forward. He raises a hand and the room falls silent, all eyes pinned on me.
Man, this is fucking brutal.
I’d kind of been hoping Coop or Vaughn would speak up—they’re my roomm
ates and I know they have my back no matter what—but it’s probably best to have another captain step up. It’s a struggle not to fidget or wipe my hands on my pants. Hell, it’s all I can do to keep from clenching my fists.
“All right, all right,” Daniels says, his deep voice carrying easily. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t look at me. Not a good sign. We’re on opposite sides of the ball, but we’ve always been on good terms. Like me, he’s a senior. I can’t believe he’d want to see our season blown to shit over a team hookup. “We’ve got a plane to catch, so if you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it.”
Langley’s the first one to step forward. “How can we trust you to lead us when you’ve been lying to us for weeks?”
There’s a rumble of assent from the group, and my conviction waivers. He’s right. A good leader would’ve been honest from the start and accepted the consequences.
“We could bench him for a week,” Smith says, shaking his head in disappointment. “Or two.”
Two weeks? We’d be out of contention for sure.
“I don’t know. You think that’s punishment enough?” Tate asks. “He should suffer.”
The suggestion is met with cheers.
“There’s always the captaincy,” Johnson offers with a smirk. “It’s not too late to name a new captain.”
My palms are sweating in earnest now. I knew they’d be upset, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad. Even Coach wasn’t this angry.
“Are we seriously talking about stripping Reid of captaincy?” Daniels asks, scanning the room, expression unreadable.
“You know what I think?” Vaughn says, face grim. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
There’s a snicker from the back of the room, and before I can ask what the hell he’s talking about, Smith is up in my personal space, fist raised. I knock it. “You had me at hello,” he croons.
Then Jones is coming at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Losing your kicker, Reid, it was the best thing that ever happened to you. It brought you to Carter.”
There’s something familiar about his words, like I’ve heard them before. Then it hits me. They’re movie quotes. Yeah, it takes me a while to catch on. I’m quick like that. Meanwhile, Kennedy’s bent over laughing in the back of the room, a hysterical fit of giggles shaking her entire body.
Sell out.
I rub the back of my neck, refusing to acknowledge the heat creeping across my skin. “Any other words of wisdom?”
“Yeah,” Coop says, big-ass grin on his face. “Don’t have sex, because you will get pregnant and die!”
Parker approaches, doing a creepy little shimmy with his fists up in the air. “You think she’s gorgeous. You want to kiss her. You want to hug her. You want to—”
“What kind of movies have you guys been watching?” I ask, sidestepping him as he tries to drag me into his godawful dance.
“All right, cut the shit!” Coach bellows, arms crossed over his chest. Someone in the back yells, “As you wish!” and the raucous laughter starts anew. When it finally quiets down, Coach tries again. “Am I to understand we’re moving on?”
“Yes, sir,” Daniels says, clapping me on the back with a hearty grin. “We chose Reid to lead us, and we stand by that decision.” To me he whispers, “You’re not half the sneaky bastard you think. The team’s known about you and Carter for weeks.” My jaw nearly hits the floor. They’ve known, all this time? Daniels turns back to Coach. “Reid’s suffered enough. And if he hasn’t, we figure Carter will see to his punishment.”
I could kiss the fucker.
Kennedy
I watch as Austin’s taillights recede down the circular drive. Part of me wants to chase after him, beg him to stay. Or better yet, whisk me back to the safety of my apartment. I fidget with the waistband of my black skirt and smooth my white blouse. It’s not too late to call Uber.
I sigh. What the hell made me think I could do this alone? Oh, right. The endorphins from our win over Indy.
Stupid endorphins. Should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
And now I’m on the hook for dinner with my dad. After weeks of dodging (read: ignoring) his calls and texts, I caved. I can’t remember the last time I was this freaking nervous. My stomach is tangled in knots.
And the knots? They have knots.
I won’t be able to eat a thing.
I look down at my black ballet flats and then up at the sprawling, white brick hotel where he’s staying. It’s a landmark in College Park, the kind of place Mom and I could never afford to stay. Not even for a night.
Anger punches through me, but I force it down. I don’t have a clue how my dad’s paying for it, and I don’t care. I’m not here to slash open old wounds. I’m here to see if there’s anything salvageable in our relationship. And the prospect scares the crap out of me.
Maybe I can stop at the bar for a drink.
Or not. The biting November wind swirls around me like a twister, raising goose bumps on my legs and destroying my neatly combed hair. Several strands get stuck in my lip gloss. Of course they do. I pull them free and trudge up the steps to the massive double doors. Once inside, I’m greeted with warmth and light and an overly helpful concierge who personally escorts me to the restaurant.
I give the hostess my name and am pleasantly surprised when she moves to seat me immediately. My father’s on time. It’s probably a first.
That has to be a good sign, right?
I smooth my hair, determined to make a good impression. I haven’t seen my father in almost four years. When he told Mom and me he couldn’t afford to help with my college tuition—despite years of not paying child support—and wished me the best of luck.
Like luck would pay the bills.
But a lot’s changed since then. I’ve changed. The fact that we’re about to share a meal is testament to that fact. Spending time with Austin, getting to know him has me questioning everything I thought I knew about football players, about my father. Wondering if maybe I should give my dad a second chance. Wondering if he deserves it, if perhaps he’s changed too.
What would it be like to have my father in my life? I’m not sure. And that scares the hell out of me because I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. One who doesn’t really even know her father, although I can’t deny I want to. Some sad, desperate part of me still wants him in my life, despite everything. To have him love me unconditionally. To support my hopes and dreams. To walk me down the aisle one day. To be a meaningful part of my life.
I want it so badly it’s become a dull ache in my chest.
It might be too much to hope for after everything he’s put Mom and me through. Which is why I didn’t tell her I was seeing him. She wouldn’t approve. And I don’t want to hurt her—she’s been my mother, my father, and my best friend for twenty-one years—but I can’t deny this is something I need to do.
For me.
I’ll know soon enough if it was the right choice.
The hostess leads me to a table in the back corner of the restaurant, our feet padding silently over the plush carpet. We weave through a sea of empty tables set with crisp white linens, blue napkins, and enough silverware to give me a panic attack. She stops, and I nearly crash into her.
Focus.
The hostess steps aside and gestures to an empty chair, leaving me face-to-face with my dad. I’d forgotten how much we look alike. Same wavy hair, same dark eyes, same broad smile. One that shows all his teeth, although I suspect he shares his more freely. The years have been good to him—despite his lifestyle—and I’m hit with another stab of resentment. Mom would probably have a few less worry lines if he’d ever bothered to help out.
But tonight is about second chances, not dredging up the past. If he’s really changed, if he truly wants to start over, maybe I could forgive him. Maybe I could make a place for him in my life.
After all, he is my father.
He stands and embrac
es me in an awkward hug, his long arms wrapped around my shoulders. I return the gesture, but it’s a relief when we break apart. Fuck. We can’t even hug properly. This meal has disaster written all over it.
Be. Positive.
“Kenny.” He gestures for me to sit and slides smoothly back into his own chair. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Kennedy,” I say, correcting him as I drop into my seat and cross my ankles. The hostess scurries off to find the server and the urge to follow her is strong.
“Kennedy,” he says, nodding his head in acknowledgment. “How have you been?”
Talk about a loaded question. Where do I even start? My stomach clenches, and I reach for my water and take an uncivilized gulp. My mouth is suddenly parched. This feels all wrong. But I force myself to paste on a smile and try. Otherwise, what was the point? “School’s going well, although I’m looking forward to graduation in the spring.”
His smile is encouraging, and we make small talk as we look over the menu. When the server finally arrives to recite the daily specials, I’m relieved my father suggests we place our orders. He doesn’t want this meal to drag out any more than I do. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It just means we’re both being cautious, wading slowly into uncertain waters.
I should be thrilled we’re on the same page, right?
Once our orders are placed, the conversation turns to football. I should’ve expected as much. It might be the one thing we actually have in common. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“So, how do you like playing football at Waverly?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “The team treating you well?”
I bite my lip, contemplating my response. “I only joined the team because they offered me a full scholarship, but I enjoy the game more than I thought I would.” I would swear his eyes darken, but when I blink, they remain bright and interested. “I’m not, however, a fan of the pressure that comes with kicking a field goal when the game’s on the line. That part kind of sucks.”
Claiming Carter Page 22
