“I guess we go wake him up.”
I gesture for her to lead the way, but when we get to the living room, it turns out Baxter’s taken it upon himself to rouse our guest, giving Reid an up-close-and-personal wakeup call. The dog is giving him a total tongue bath, but Reid takes it in stride, stroking Baxter’s head before sitting up and moving out of his reach.
Sometime during the night he must’ve stripped off his button up, leaving only a tight white T-shirt that shows all the muscles. My pulse thrums at the sight of all that masculinity and puppy-loving goodness and I hope like hell my roommate can’t hear it.
“He’s a dog lover,” Becca whispers. “Could he be more perfect?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because seeing Reid all sleep rumpled and adorable? It’s almost more than my ovaries can handle.
“Morning,” he says when he sees us hovering in the hall. He rubs the back of his neck, completely oblivious to the fact that his hair is sticking up at odd angles. “Who’s the little guy?”
“Oh, that’s Baxter,” Becca says, flouncing across the room to scoop the puppy up. The little guy was asleep in my room when Reid showed up last night, proving he has zero future as a guard dog. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s not used to male company. It’s been ages since Kennedy’s brought a guy home.”
What the hell?
Heat blazes up the back of my neck and fans out across my chest. I give my best friend the side-eye—I’m so going to kill her—but she ignores me. No doubt thinking she’s being helpful by making it painfully obvious I’m single. And have been since New Year’s when I called it quits with Two-Minute Mike, unable to bear the thought of even one more sloppy gropefest.
Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice guy, but the sex?
It was like getting humped by a dog.
My gaze slides back to Reid. What would sex be like with him? Judging by the way he kisses, incredible. I resist the urge to touch my lips, remembering the way his kisses felt like being at the center of a supernova, white-hot and explosive.
“So what did you two crazy kids get into last night?” Becca looks from me to Reid, the picture of innocence, although there’s a spark of amusement in her eyes.
Traitor.
“We just watched some TV,” Reid says casually, the words falling from his lips smooth as silk. He steals a glance my way and when he smiles like we’re sharing a private joke? I swear my stupid heart skips a beat. Not good. Time to wrap this up. “Hey, did you notice Baxter and Coop have the same smile?”
His question is so unexpected, I laugh out loud. It feels good, like a release valve for the tension that permeates the air. “Right? I had the same thought the first time I met Coop.”
Reid stands and slips on his shoes. “I should probably go and let you ladies get on with your day. Thanks for letting me crash on your couch.”
Before I can formulate a response, Becca’s given him an open invitation to return. “You’re welcome anytime.”
I’ve got to give Reid credit; he seems to be taking Becca’s antics in stride. This sort of thing probably happens to him all the time, because he just shakes his head and gives a half-smile. Then he moves to let himself out and I follow.
So I can lock the door, not because I’m checking out his ass. Obviously.
He turns and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you at practice.”
“Sure. Practice.” Okay. This isn’t awkward at all. Are we just going to act like the kiss was no big deal? Or maybe he was so drunk he doesn’t remember it? But no, he wasn’t drunk. Pretending he was would be an easy excuse, a way to explain our actions, but it would be bullshit and I’m not in the habit of lying to myself.
He rakes a hand through his hair, and for a second I think he’s going to bring up the kiss, but he just says, “Until tomorrow then.”
“Until tomorrow,” I echo as he turns to go.
Maybe I’m overthinking it. It has been a while since I’ve been with a guy and it was just a kiss. A super-hot, panty-melting kiss, but a kiss just the same. Hell, I should be glad he doesn’t want to talk it out. It just proves we’re on the same page, that it was a onetime thing, right?
Chapter Eleven
Austin
I reset the game tape and settle in to watch the footage of last week’s Pitt game. I’ve already watched it twice, and most of the guys have called it a day, but Pitt beat us last year. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let it happen again. They aren’t even in our conference.
I press play and the players on the screen leap into motion. It’ll be a tough game and Coach has reminded me every damn day that there will be scouts present, like I could possibly forget. I just need to get my head in a good place. Half the game is mental, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, and I’ll be useless to the team if I can’t learn from last year’s mistakes.
I’m watching Pitt execute a perfect zone blitz when the door clangs shut. I turn in my seat and spot Carter at the back of the dark auditorium.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, wringing her hands in a very un-Carter-like gesture. “I thought Coach might be in here watching game tape.”
“I’m the only one left.” I point the remote at the projector and pause the film. “Coach took off a while ago and most of the guys were right behind him.”
“But not you?” She tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and walks down the aisle, still looking unsure of herself, which makes no sense since she’s been killing it on the field and at practice. A fact I only know because I check in with the other kickers regularly.
“Nah, I’ve got to be sharp for Saturday’s game. I can’t afford to make mistakes against Pitt. Not unless we want a repeat of last year.”
Carter stops a few seats away and drops down into one of the empty chairs. “What about the rest of the team? I don’t see them in here watching endless hours of game tape.”
I shrug and tap my pencil on the desktop. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since the kiss two weeks ago and even now, three seats away, I can feel Carter’s pull. The urge to drag her onto my lap and show her what she does to me is nearly impossible to ignore.
It’s fucking distracting.
“Yeah, well, they’re not the offspring of the great Derrick Reid. Every move I make is news and every misstep is analyzed to death. I can’t afford to make mistakes.”
She laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “Sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.” My phone’s been blowing up this week with jersey chasers who want to party, but all I can think about is Carter. She’s the only distraction I’ve allowed myself and the one distraction I can’t afford. And not just because Coach forbade it. “The last thing I want to do is let my father, or the fans, down. Everyone thinks being a football legacy is a gift, but the reality is there’s a lot of pressure to be as good as my old man. Otherwise, I’m nothing but a failure.”
Carter’s brows flatten and a tiny wrinkle forms in the crease between them. “I guess I never thought of it that way before.”
I stretch my legs, trying to look unaffected by her empathy. I refuse to think of it as sympathy because I do not need Carter feeling bad for me. And why the fuck am I telling her these things anyway? Sure, I think them all the time, but I’ve never voiced them aloud. Certainly not to my teammates. Still, I can’t seem to shut the hell up. “You know that old saying, walk a mile in someone else’s shoes?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “My mom used to say it all the time when I was a kid, usually when she thought I was being ungrateful.”
“Let’s just say it never sounded like a bad thing to me. Hell, I would’ve given anything to walk in someone else’s shoes as a kid.” She tilts her head as if she’s trying to put it all together and I realize I’m fucking it up. Maybe this is why I’ve never been stupid enough to voice my thoughts aloud. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the game, but it always comes first in my family. I used to be jealous of kids whose
lives weren’t defined by football.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll bet every kid on your team wished they had your life. After all, who wouldn’t want an NFL star for a father, right?” Carter laughs, but it rings hollow, and I can’t help but think we aren’t talking about me anymore.
“You.” I’m not sure exactly what she’s trying to tell me, but everything I know about her tells me it’s true.
She shrugs. “You got me. My dad was a football player. I’ll see your future Hall of Famer and raise you a washout.” There’s a note of sadness in her voice. It strikes me like a late hit. I want to move closer, take her hand in mine, but I’m frozen in my seat. This…baring of souls is the closest we’ve ever come to a real conversation, and I don’t want to upset the delicate balance. She gives me a wry smile and I give silent thanks for the dim lighting. Our secrets aren’t the kind you share in the light of day. “And my dad? He was the worst kind of washout. The kind that couldn’t accept it and spent his best years chasing a life that wasn’t meant to be.”
She doesn’t say it—doesn’t have to—but I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. A deep-rooted sadness that confirms her father is the one who shaped her perception of football players. The drinking. The partying. The women. He sounds like a bastard, and I want to say as much, but I bite my tongue.
She already knows he’s a bastard. She doesn’t need to hear it from me.
“We’re not all like him, Carter.” It’s true. Sure, some football players are dicks, but not all of us. The same could be said of the whole male population. I’d hate to see her spend the rest of the season closing herself off from the team—and, okay, me—because of her father’s mistakes. “I’m not like him.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The hell it doesn’t. She hops to her feet and I follow her lead, noticing the way she seems to straighten her spine and pull herself up to her full height, as if she’s fortifying herself against this quiet moment, against me. When she speaks, there’s steel in her voice. “That kiss? It was a onetime deal, okay? It can’t happen again.”
She doesn’t wait for my reply, just turns on her heel and scurries up the aisle like she can’t get away from me fast enough.
Part of me knows it’s just as well. We’re teammates and nothing good can come of it. I’ve got a job to do, a team to lead, a championship to win. But another part of me? The part that’s sick of always doing what’s expected? It says fuck that.
We’ve got the kind of chemistry that could burn up the sheets. Saturday night proved it.
And now that I’ve had a taste of Carter? I want more. More of the fiery passion that keeps me jerking off to the memory of her lips on mine, the only cure for the near constant hard-on I’ve battled since Saturday night.
No, there’s something worth exploring between us and I’m not about to walk away.
I’ll put in the work to show her not all football players are assholes. And the next time I kiss Carter? It’ll be because she wants it, because she’s begging for it.
“Hey, Carter,” I call out just as she reaches for the door. She freezes, but doesn’t turn to look at me. That’s okay. My ego can handle it, because I know this thing between us is far from over. Hell, we’re just getting started. “You can try to shut me out, but the thing is, I’m an offensive player. There’s no one better at reading—and bypassing—a defensive move than me.”
Kennedy
“I can only talk for a minute.” I glance at the clock in the makeshift dressing room, which is really the office of one of the Nebraska assistant coaches. Not that I mind. It’s private and smells better than a lot of the locker rooms I’ve had the misfortune of using for away games.
“I won’t keep you long,” Mom says. “Just wanted to say good luck today, since we didn’t get to talk yesterday.” Mom’s hours have been cut back, but not as much as either of us would like. Apparently there’s a nursing shortage—again. “How’d your proposal for the ACME competition go?”
I’m about to step on the field to play Big Ten football and my mom’s more concerned with my academics. I wish I could reach through the phone and hug her. “My advisor loved the concept, although he’s concerned about the complexity. He’s worried I won’t be able to finish on time.” But he’s wrong. Without work study, I’ll be much better positioned to work on this year’s design, even if it is far more complex than anything I’ve attempted in the past.
“Are you sure you won’t need help?” Her tone is cautious, like she knows how much I’ll hate this question. After all, she’s the one who raised me to be self-sufficient. “Maybe you should consider a partner this year.”
Yeah, right. And put my chances of success in someone else’s hands? So not happening. It’s a national competition, and the top finishers are pretty much guaranteed the best job offers. Hell, the company sponsoring this year’s competition has locations in a half-dozen major cities and career tracks with sweet starting salaries. Plus, they’d pay for my master’s degree.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”
Mostly.
She clears her throat. “Speaking of control, how’re those boys on the team treating you?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Stop worrying.” No way I’m telling her I kissed one of them or that I can’t stop thinking about him. The thought of Reid’s lips crashing against my own sends a flash of desire straight to my lady bits, and just like that I’m thinking about what it would be like to have his chiseled body pressed to mine. Damn Reid and his kissable lips. “Team’s on a winning streak. We’re five and oh. Soon to be six. Everything’s great. But I need to get my butt over to the locker room for Coach’s pregame huddle. Talk soon, okay?”
She barely gets out her goodbye before I disconnect. Real smooth, Kennedy. I’m sure she won’t suspect a thing.
My phone vibrates and a text pops up on the screen.
At first I think it’ll be a message from my mom, the “I love you” I cut off with my hasty disconnect. I couldn’t be more wrong.
Hey Kenny. Let me know when you’re free for lunch. I need to see you.
Red-hot fury coils low in my belly, incinerating all thoughts of Reid’s nibblicious lips. I hate it when my dad calls me Kenny. It just reinforces the knowledge that if I’d been born with a penis, if he thought we had anything in common, he might’ve taken more interest.
I shove the phone in my bag without responding. I have no idea why he wants to see me now, or why he assumes I’d want to see him. We haven’t spoken in months, so why now?
The answer is so painfully obvious, I almost laugh. He saw my picture in the press and he wants something. Like one of those distant relatives who comes crawling out of the woodwork when you hit the lottery.
I try to stuff my anger down, to ignore the pain that comes with it. So, my father’s an asshole. It’s not new news. And still, the knowledge finds the cracks in my armor, wedging itself into the dark corners of my heart I’d thought long hardened to his machinations. I hate that I care so much when he cares so little. It’s not fair.
Yeah, well, life’s not fair. If you haven’t figured it out yet, let this be a reminder.
I suck in a breath, the air sliding into my lungs like razor-tipped barbed wire. It doesn’t matter. This is hardly the time to reflect on my father’s shitty parenting skills. I’ve got a game to play and the team’s counting on me. I grab my helmet and head for the team locker room on shaky legs.
Four hours later, I return to the tiny office/dressing room, secure in the knowledge I lost my team the game. What should’ve been a 6-0 record is now 5-1. I kick off my cleats and then strip off my jersey and pads, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor. I never should’ve looked at my stupid phone before the game. I let my father get in my head and it cost me.
Cost the team.
Hell, it might even cost them their title run.
I shimmy out of my pants and trade them for a black skirt that falls to midthigh. I should’ve made that field goal
. I’ve been hitting seventy-nine percent of my long-range kicks. Forty-five yards is completely doable, especially with ideal conditions.
“ARGH!” I roar, frustration getting the better of me as I wriggle out of my sports bra and fling it over the arm of a chair.
Relax. It isn’t like they’re going to revoke your scholarship over one missed field goal. That’s the most important thing, right?
Right.
Except…I hate feeling like I let the team down. No one will come out and say it, but I know it’s on me. They were counting on me to deliver today, and I screwed up. I may have a full set of baggage when it comes to football, but I’m no stranger to being on a team, and it grates that I didn’t give it one hundred percent today. I’m better than that.
I slip on my lace bra and white blouse, fumbling with the tiny buttons. It takes twice as long as it should to button the damn shirt in my irritated state.
Knock! Knock!
The last thing I need right now is company, but I doubt it’s for me anyway. Probably just someone looking for the coach whose office I’ve been assigned. I glance down, confirming I’m presentable, and open the door to find the last person I expect.
“Hey.” Reid’s still wearing his uniform, the jersey covered in grass and mud, a testament to the hard-fought battle. “Can I come in?” he asks, gesturing to the tiny office at my back.
“Sure.” I step aside to let him enter. Should I close the door or leave it open? Closing it would give us more privacy for whatever it is he’s come to say, but the last thing I need is to be alone with Reid. It’s been almost three weeks since our chat in the team meeting room, and I haven’t forgotten his…declaration. Still, I don’t want him to think I’m afraid to be alone with him, like I can’t control my hormones, so I leave the door cracked, giving us a modicum of privacy. “What’s up?”
“I thought maybe you could use a friend.” Reid leans against the wooden desk, arms crossed over his chest, relaxed as you please. Even with the bulky pads, his body is long and lean, a veritable powerhouse. His voice is like gravel when he finally speaks again. “That was a tough game.”
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 12
