But let’s be honest, I haven’t exactly been a peach myself, doing everything I can to drive a big-ass wedge between myself and this team. And while Reid might very well be a player, he’s treated me with respect since day one. Maybe it’s time to meet him in the middle.
Just this once.
I take one step forward, stopping when we’re face-to-face.
“The reporters might be idiots, but I think it’s safe to say a lot of people are skeptical about my abilities.” I shrug it off like it’s no big deal, although in truth, the knowledge that people are talking shit about me on the internet is a little unnerving.
“Don’t sweat it.” He flashes me a dimpled smile that stirs the butterflies in my belly. “If I do my job well tomorrow, you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Chapter Seven
Austin
Two hours until kickoff and the whole damn town is buzzing with excitement. Coop and I hoofed it to the stadium, experience telling us it’s the lesser of two evils. With tens of thousands of fans descending on College Park, traffic’s a nightmare and there are tailgates on every corner. It’s the first game of the season, and the fans aren’t the only ones out in full force. The media will be waiting in the wings—along with the scouts—to break down every play we make in excruciating detail.
It’s nothing new, but it’s hard to ignore the constant speculation. Can Austin Reid lead Waverly to a national title? Does Reid have what it takes to follow in his father’s footsteps? Is Reid in the hunt for the Heisman? Could Austin Reid be the top draft pick of the new class?
It’s all just noise.
Better to block it out, which is why Coop and I are both wearing headphones. The bulky kind that discourage strangers from stopping you on the street to ask if Waverly’s going to win the game. Like, no, bro, I’m kinda hoping we get our asses handed to us today.
Of course we want to win the fucking game.
Short of going undefeated, there aren’t any guarantees when it comes to getting selected for the championship game. College ball isn’t like the NFL. Championship contenders can’t just win their way into the title game. The top four teams are determined by a selection committee and then compete in a semifinal bowl to determine who will have the privilege of playing for the national title. The road to victory is long, hard, and paved with bruises. Especially when you compete in a conference that’s consistently underrated, despite delivering some of the biggest slugfests week in and week out.
When we arrive at the locker room, my old man is waiting at the door. Just one of the many privileges afforded to an NFL legend. I tell Coop to go on ahead and pretend not to see the flare of jealousy in his eyes. I should be grateful my dad came to watch me play—Coop’s dad never shows—but I’m not really in the mood for career advice at the moment. I just want to focus on today’s game.
It’s Carter’s first game, and I all but promised to keep the pressure off her.
“Austin.” My father looks me up and down, as usual, concerned first and foremost with appearances. Although it’s a home game, I’m wearing dress pants and a collared shirt, well aware that I’m always in the public eye. I must pass inspection, because his gaze returns to my face without comment. I make a mental note to thank Vaughn for ironing my shirt.
“Dad.” Don’t get me wrong, my father’s a good guy and I love him, but once in a while I’d like to come before the game. Hell, just once. “Didn’t expect to see you until after the game.”
“It’s the first game of the season,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and clapping me on the chest. He’s got a half inch on me, but otherwise, looking at my father is like looking into the mirror twenty-five years in the future. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same dimpled chin. And, okay, yeah, same cocky grin. “I wanted to make sure you’ve got your head in the game. The stadium’s full of scouts today and every game can impact your draft selection.”
“I know.” I haven’t told him about my talk with Coach. There’s no point. “I’m feeling good. Should be an easy game.”
He squeezes my shoulder and points a finger at my chest, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t take anything for granted. Play smart, manage the pocket, no turnovers. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” He’s been giving me the same pregame speech for as long as I can remember. I was probably the only kid in the fifth grade getting professional level coaching on pocket management, but I can’t say it hasn’t paid off. I’m one of the best QBs in college football and that’s not bragging; it’s a fact.
“You take care of the ball, son. I’ll take care of the rest. We’ll get you into Pittsburgh, just like we always talked about.”
More like he always talked about.
I nod, keeping my lips pressed flat. If I open my mouth, I might blurt out my interest in Chicago. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Coach said, but I can’t tell my dad. He’d be crushed.
The thing is, Coach Norris is building a powerhouse program in Chicago. The only piece missing is the quarterback. Once they find the right guy, he’ll be able to put his stamp on the program, like I’ve done at Waverly. Taking a team that’s on the bubble right to the cusp of greatness, and this year, God willing, a national title. The same opportunity exists in Chicago, for the right player.
I could be that player. Hell, in Chicago, I could play year one. I wouldn’t be warming the bench waiting for a franchise player to retire.
“You know, Reiker’s only got a year left in him. Two, tops,” Dad says as if reading my mind. “He’s a good QB, but he’s well on his way to retirement.”
“I know.” I step back, putting some space between us. It’s not exactly a secret. Reiker’s upcoming contract negotiations have been headline news, but I’ve got a game to play. I can’t allow myself to get wrapped up in depressing what-if scenarios. The team needs me to be on my A game. Carter needs me to be on my A game. I hitch my bag over my shoulder and nod toward the locker room. “I need to get in there and suit up. Coach’ll have my ass if I’m late.”
“Go on ahead and remember what I said.” He turns to go, but stops, glancing back over his shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s a trick of the light, but I swear his eyes are a little glassy. “Your mom would be really proud of you, Austin.”
Thanks, Dad. That’s what I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. We’ve never been the kind of family to talk about our feelings—not even when Mom passed six years ago—so I just watch silently as he retreats down the hall.
Then I take a deep breath and stuff all my personal shit—draft pressure, Heisman speculation, Pittsburgh, Carter—down deep. The team needs a leader, and they’ve chosen me. I won’t let them down by allowing distractions in the locker room or on the field. That was my commitment when I accepted the role.
I’ll be damned if I don’t see it through.
An hour later, when I lead the team onto the field, pulse pounding and adrenaline pumping, the stadium erupts, the noise reaching an earsplitting crescendo of epic proportions. Some sports site measured the sound in our stadium once, and no surprise, it’s one of the loudest in the country. It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think, but it’s the best feeling in the world.
The kind of high you can only get from sex and football.
The countdown clock’s ticking. We power through warm-ups, the noise of the stadium a steady roar that dies down only when the national anthem is played. I watch from the sideline, hand over my racing heart, and before I know it, I’m jogging onto the field for the coin toss. I’ve done this hundreds of times, but it never gets old. I shake hands with the Idaho captain, who promptly chooses heads and wins the coin toss, opting to defer until the second half.
No skin off my teeth.
I usually prefer to open the second half with possession, but this’ll give Carter a chance to settle down and acclimate to the stadium. Although she joined the team for a pregame huddle in the locker room, she was unusually quiet. In fact, she didn’t make a sing
le smart-ass comment, come to think of it.
Probably nerves. Can’t blame her. We’ve all been there before.
I watch the kickoff from the sideline with the rest of the team, helmet in hand. It’s a solid return and we’re starting with good field position. The crowd is going crazy and the Wildcat roar damn near rattles the stadium as I slip my helmet on. I give the O-line fist bumps, shouting encouragement as we take the field. The first drive will set the tone for the game—and the season—and I intend to make one hell of a showing.
Once my guys are settled on the line of scrimmage, I call the play. The snap is good, the protection even better, and I fire a bullet downfield to Coop, hitting him right in the hands for a forty-yard gain.
Hell, yeah. Now that’s how you win football games.
Kennedy
Fuckity-fuck-fuck. I cannot believe I’m about to admit this, even to myself, but Reid was right. I’ve been playing in front of a crowd for years, but this? The noise and chaos, the charged atmosphere, the near rabid fans? It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
So much for being a pressure player.
Needing a distraction, I crouch down and check my cleats, making sure they’re tied tight. The last thing I need to do is trip over an untied lace in front of one hundred and three thousand screaming fans. One hundred and three thousand and five hundred forty-eight, to be precise. That’s the total attendance today, according to the announcer.
Not a record for Waverly, but pretty darn close.
So, yeah, face-planting on the field? Not an option. I’d be flayed on social media.
And possibly ESPN.
Nervous energy churns in my belly, snaking out into my limbs. My freaking hands shake as I re-knot my laces, and I silently curse Reid for reminding me about the size of the crowd. Granted, I would have figured it out the minute I stepped foot in the stadium, but now I can’t stop thinking about it, and I need an outlet for all these feels.
Reid’s as good a target as any. Even if his assessment of the noise and fanfare was no joke. Because let me tell you, it’s one thing to witness Wildcat pride from the TV or the stands, but it’s another to experience it from the sidelines.
It’s oppressive, like I-can’t-catch-my-breath oppressive. It’s a feeling that has nothing to do with the dense humidity and everything to do with the weight of expectation pouring down from the stands.
I finish tying my shoes and scan the crowd, taking in the exuberant blue and white painted faces. The glint of the sun as it reflects off the band’s shiny brass instruments. The Wildcat mascot crowd-surfing through the student section like he doesn’t have a care in the world, although he’s got to be sweating bullets in that furry getup.
Even so, I’d trade him places in a heartbeat right now, because the anonymity of that mask? It’s looking pretty good.
My attention settles on the scoreboard and my heart leaps into my throat. It’s a close game. Waverly’s down by three. The offense has been strong, but the defense has been a little shaky. It’s just a matter of time until I have to make a field goal attempt. I know it in my bones. Even Reid can’t score on every possession.
Although right now I’m sure as hell pulling for him.
I stand and my gaze darts to the QB who told me not to worry, who promised to play hard today. Not that I’m naive enough to think Reid made the promise for me, not entirely anyway. He’s a freaking powerhouse and a Heisman contender.
Of course he plays to win.
Despite my lifetime ban on football players, it’s hard not to admire his commanding presence as he drives down the field. The guy’s unflappable, appearing cool and confident despite the pressure to tie this game up. Probably why his teammates voted him captain. Plus, he’s a versatile player, looking equally comfortable running and passing. It’s no wonder he’s so highly regarded within—
Oomph! One minute I’m watching Reid, the next I’m doing a pirouette reminiscent of my DDR days as an athletic trainer blows past, our shoulders colliding as he dodges a player with a more intimidating stature than my own.
“Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, not stopping to see if I’m okay.
Note to self: be aware of your surroundings at all times.
Because the sidelines? Total anarchy compared to soccer. Every square inch is packed with players and trainers and coaches. And yes, the proverbial bench, where I should be sitting except I’m too nervous to sit still.
Even during halftime I couldn’t shake the nervous energy racing through my veins. I stood through Coach Collins’s entire motivational speech, most of it lost on me, kind of like when the teacher talks in those Charlie Brown vids. Wah-wah-wah.
So, yeah, turns out it’s a blessing my mom couldn’t get time off work for the game. The experience is proving stressful enough without worrying about letting her down too.
Shit. Smith is tackled short of the first down. I glance at the scoreboard, confirming what I already know. The offense is third and long, which means—
“Get that helmet on,” Coach Jackson barks, coming up beside me. He’s got a Waverly hat pulled down low on his forehead, and the man does not look happy. “If they don’t convert, we’re going to need that leg for about thirty yards.”
I stare at him, but I can’t do much more than blink. Like some fucked-up Morse code. Blink twice for yes, once for no. I think I blink twice, but I can’t be sure. The roaring in my head is too loud. Or maybe that’s just the stadium noise.
Coach shakes his head in disbelief. Right there with you, dude.
“It’s only thirty yards.” He levels his eyes on me, like he can will me to greatness. “You’ve got this, Carter.”
Right. Thirty yards. I could hit it in my sleep. There’s not even a breeze going. Perfect conditions, assuming my heart doesn’t beat right out of my chest. And right now? Definite possibility. My palms begin to sweat as I slip my helmet over my head, fingers fumbling with the chinstrap like the rookie I am. When I finally get the stupid thing secured and look up, a chorus of “Boo!” fills the stadium.
Reid’s been sacked for a loss of five yards and there’s a look of disgust plain as day on his face, like he can’t believe he allowed himself to go down.
“So, thirty-five then?” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. Thirty-five is well within my range. I’ve made ninety-three percent of my kicks from thirty-five or better.
Piece of cake.
Jackson moves to slap my ass, but seems to think better of it, instead clapping me on the shoulder. “Just like practice, Carter.”
Words to live by.
I jog onto the field, passing Reid on his way to the sidelines. He looks far too calm and collected for a QB who just got stuffed. How the hell does he do that? He nods and calls a passing greeting. “You’ve got this. Tie it up and we’ll bring it home on the next possession.”
Coop rushes up behind him and gives me a wink. “Yeah, just pretend you’re smashing Langley’s face.”
I grin, unable to help myself despite the circumstances. “That I can do.” And with that, they’re gone. Relegated to the sidelines to watch and wait, as I’ve been doing for most of the fifty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds of game play.
Breathe! Still seven minutes and twenty-two seconds left on the clock. More than enough time for the offense to make another run down the field, just like Reid said. This is not do-or-die.
Except it kind of feels like it might be.
I line up with the upright and walk off the steps. The punter, James, marks the spot I’ve indicated, the one where the ball will be placed after the snap. I keep my eyes fixed on the upright, doing my best to block out the roar of the crowd. It’s deafening, the volume no doubt driven by the close score and excitement of a new kicker. After all, not only am I a walk-on, I’m a woman.
Which, it turns out, is a big freaking deal.
After the interview yesterday, I cracked and totally Googled myself. In hindsight, I realize it was a stupid thing to
do. The stupidest, actually, because right now all I can think about is the speculation. The speculation Coach was shielding me from by closing practice up until yesterday.
Too bad the interviews are only likely to fan the flames. Everyone’s dying to see what I’m made of, if I’ve got what it takes to wear a Wildcat jersey. Half are hoping for a savior. The other half are betting I’ll be a total failure, letting the team down in the clutch.
But they don’t know me. I won’t fail. I can’t. My mom’s counting on me and so is this team. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a fan of football players, because this isn’t about the guys or my asshole father. It’s about the game and the commitment I made to give it my all. It’s what I’ve spent the last three weeks training for, this moment.
I relax my shoulders and exhale, shoving all the noise and pressure and speculation from my brain. It’s an easy kick. One I’ve made hundreds of times in practice.
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.
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 8
