“Enzo.” They do one of those complicated dude handshakes and I can’t help but feel he used Enzo’s first name for my benefit. It irks me that he knows me so well. It feels like a weakness, but the truth is, I don’t practice with the team most days and I haven’t had the opportunity to learn the names and faces of all one hundred and thirteen players. Austin turns back to me. “Have you met my man Enzo?” he asks. “This kid’s wicked smart and he’s a mechanical engineering major too.”
I hesitate. I don’t think we’ve met. Any familiarity is probably just from football.
Enzo smiles, revealing a row of bright, even teeth. “We haven’t been officially introduced,” he says, “but we were in Beck’s class last spring. You probably didn’t notice me because I always sit in the back.”
“Nice to meet you.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. “Beck, huh? That class was brutal.” I got a B, but just barely. The man gave new meaning to the phrase anal retentive. Rumor has it ME students complain about his unfair policies every semester, but the complaints fall on deaf ears. And since the only path to graduation is through him, we all earn our battle scars one lecture at a time.
Enzo rubs the back of his neck. “Toughest SOB on campus as far as I’m concerned, but I managed to squeak out an A.” My jaw nearly hits the table. An A? From Beck? It’s unheard of. Enzo chuckles. “I also got a severe case of anxiety. Glad I didn’t have him during the season.”
“Right?” I shake my head in wonder. Austin was right. Enzo’s a smart guy. But he’s obviously busy with his own course load, judging by the stack of thick textbooks on his table. I don’t want to impose, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to feel him out. I could use another pair of eyes on this stupid equation because I am about one step short of crazy town. “I can’t imagine dealing with Beck on top of the ACME design.” I gesture to my work and give him a wry grin. “I’ve been working on this equation half the night and can’t find my mistake.”
“I’d be happy to take a look. If you want?”
“Honestly? I’d totally owe you one.” Truth. I’ve gone over the numbers so many times I doubt I could find the mistake at this point even if it were highlighted.
He waves me off. “We’re teammates. This is study hall. No biggie.” I watch in silence as he pulls a chair up next to mine. Then I slide my laptop and notes over so he can take a look. While he’s checking my calculations, I turn on my phone and steel myself against my dad’s latest barrage of text messages.
I scroll through them quickly, although the urge to swipe delete is tempting.
You can’t ignore me forever. I’m your father.
I know your mom raised you better than this, Kennedy.
Please call me back. I miss you.
The last one steals the air from my lungs. I sit frozen, staring at the message for a long time. How can he claim to miss me when he’s been MIA most of my life? That was his choice, not mine. And where does he get off acting so self-righteous? Self-absorbed would be a more fitting role. Hell, I can’t even begin to count the number of times he’s let me down. All the times he’s shattered my heart with his stupid, selfish—
“Carter?”
I glance up, realizing too late it’s not the first time Enzo’s said my name. All the guys are staring at me as I stuff the phone in my bag and force a smile. It feels brittle, but it holds. “Any luck?”
“Yeah, I think I found the issue.” He points to the screen, tapping one of the calculations. “The numbers were transposed. Should be twenty-three, not thirty-two.”
I give myself a mental facepalm because, data-entry error. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
Enzo shrugs. “Truth be told, I’m kind of jealous you’re competing. I couldn’t find a team to work around my football schedule. You’re lucky.”
I snort. Hardly. Going it alone is probably closer to insanity. Even my advisor thinks so. At first I thought he was just citing the rules, but the further I go down this rabbit hole, the more I’m sweating the scope of work required. Problem is, I’m used to doing things on my own. It’s how I was raised and the idea of needing help rankles. Besides, having a teammate means giving up control, and I’m not a fan of putting my fate in someone else’s hands.
I watch as Enzo stands and turns back toward his own table, shoulders slumped. He got an A from Beck, which means he’s meticulous. And he found the error in my calculations in just a matter of minutes. Still, the competition is important. Placing in the top three guarantees interviews with some of the top engineering companies in the country.
And not finishing on time guarantees you won’t place at all.
“Hey, Enzo?” I call, the words tumbling out before I have time to change my mind. “I actually entered solo, but it’s not too late to add a partner.” I pause, and he looks at me in surprise. “I—I have a design concept, but there’s still a lot of work to do on the final prototype. I could really use a sharp pair of eyes for validation and drafting the report. If you’re interested.”
“Yeah?” he says, flashing me a giant grin as he sits back down at the table.
“Yeah.” There’s a nervous flutter in my belly. Please don’t let this be a mistake. I have so much riding on this competition. I steal a glance at Austin, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop, although he hasn’t turned the page in his book since I opened my mouth. Then it hits me. This must be what he feels like on a daily basis, shouldering the burdens of the team, and the expectations of his family and fans, every decision feeling like it’s make-or-break under that kind of pressure.
I shake off the thought.
What Austin and I have isn’t about empathy or shared experiences. I don’t need—or want—to get in his head. No, the only brain I need to pick is my new partner’s.
Enzo and I spend the rest of the study hall reviewing my design, and when I meet Austin in the parking lot an hour later, I’m not thinking about my dad or the design competition. The only thing on my mind is pleasure, something I know Austin can deliver.
Chapter Sixteen
Austin
The minute I step foot inside the football house, I know I’ve fucked up. Pizza boxes and empty beer cans litter the living room, covering every flat surface. There are a couple dozen guys, including Johnson and Smith, shouting at the TV where Bama is giving Ole Miss a beating they won’t soon forget. The music’s so fuckin’ loud, it’s a wonder the neighbors haven’t called campus police…yet.
That’s not even the worst of it. One of the freshman recruits is puking his guts out in a trash can, and there are a half-dozen jersey chasers in various stages of undress, which probably means there’s some kind of strip game going on. I scrub a hand over my face and try not to think about what’s going on in the rest of the house.
I’m probably better off not knowing.
My temper flares, a hot flush streaking up the back of my neck. I’m not sure who I’m more pissed at, Johnson or myself.
“What the fuck?” I shout, slamming the front door. God forbid someone roll past and get a look at this shit show. It’s a bye week and Coach asked me to show a few high school recruits around campus, which I agreed to do, despite being dead-ass tired and up to my eyeballs in…everything. Not like I could say no. I’m the team captain and it’s my duty to host potential talent.
Besides, it’s important to give these kids face time with the team and a taste of life on campus. It can make a real difference when it comes time to sign their letters of intent. Which is why I met them at eight and took them on a tour of the football facilities, the stadium, and the best parts of campus. We even went to lunch at the Diner, so they could check out the social scene downtown.
My mistake? Leaving the recruits with Johnson for a few hours while I met with my study group. Two fucking hours. He was supposed to take them for dinner at the dining hall and get ice cream, not get them wasted.
I should’ve skipped study group. The thing is, I’ve got a paper due for career management next week, and I ne
eded the extra help. I didn’t do great on the midterm, and I need an A on my paper to offset it.
“Relax, we’re just watching the game,” Johnson says, lifting a beer can toward the TV. He’s slouched in a recliner, and Kendall’s sitting on his lap. Neither of them is wearing a shirt. “It’s not like we took them to the End Zone.”
The local strip club. Thank Christ for that. “They’re underage, asshole.” I point at the kid who just puked in the trash can. “Do you have any idea what happens if we get a UAD during a recruitment visit?”
Johnson gives me a blank stare. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s wasted or if he really doesn’t understand what a big fucking risk this is to the program. To our shot at a national title.
To our futures.
I cross the room in a few easy strides and shut off the TV and the music. “Party’s over.”
There’s a collective groan, and the puker heaves into the trash can again.
I close my eyes and count to ten, ready to be done with this day. The whole place is starting to smell sour, a putrid mix of sweat, beer, and vomit. If this is the kind of shit they can get into in just a few hours, I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I’d been gone any longer. “If you don’t live here, get dressed and get out.”
Several of the guests file out. I hope like hell they won’t be lighting up social media with pics of our drunken recruits. Kendall stops on her way to the door, brushing her fingertips down my bicep the way a kid might stroke a favorite pet. If she notices my muscles tense at the unwanted contact, she ignores it.
“I never took you for a buzzkill, Reid.”
I ignore the cheap shot—Kendall’s the least of my problems—because there are fucking baseball players in the house. Talk about courting trouble. There’s no love lost between the two teams, so what the hell are they doing here?
Kendall tracks my gaze and flashes a thousand-watt smile. Mystery solved.
I grit my teeth. “Never took you for the kind to stir shit up.”
“You haven’t been returning my calls.” She shrugs. “I got bored.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“What a bunch of pussies,” McCoy says, slinging his arm around Kendall’s shoulders. His buddies laugh, and I curl my fists so I don’t do anything stupid. “Told you we should’ve gone downtown to the watch the game.”
The shortstop snorts and takes a pull on his beer. “Wha’d’ya expect? They’ve got a girl on the team.” He pauses and looks me dead in the eye. “She’s kind of hot though. I’d fuck her.”
This asshole thinks he can come up in our house and talk shit?
Fuck. That.
I get right up in his face, close enough to see the peach fuzz on his cheeks. He’s lit. I can see it in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand here and let him disrespect Kennedy. “I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and take a walk.”
“Or what?”
Silence falls over the room, and even though I’d like nothing more than to knock the smirk off his face with my fist, it’s not an option. Not today, anyway. That shit would get me benched for sure.
I crack my knuckles and turn to McCoy, anger pulsing through my veins like molten steel. “Get your boy out of here before I throw him out.”
McCoy gives his buddy a shove. “Let’s go.”
The asshole takes a few steps toward the door, then turns back to me. “Must be some good pussy to get your hackles up like that. Tell me, Reid. Does she give all the guys a taste or just you?”
White light explodes behind my eyes and I lunge forward, prepared to beat an apology from his dumb ass. He stumbles backward, just out of reach, and a pair of strong arms lock around my waist, holding me back.
“He’s not worth it!” Smith yells. “He’s not worth our season, man! He ain’t shit.”
The stupid fucker actually steps forward and tries to take a swing at me before McCoy grabs his collar and jerks him back.
“All right! Break it up!”
When I look up, campus police stands in the foyer, surveying the scene.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Could this day get any worse?
All the fight leaves my body, and Smith relaxes his grip. I straighten my shirt, praying the cop doesn’t ask for IDs. “Can I help you, sir?”
“We had a noise complaint,” he says, resting his hands on his belt as he surveys the scene. “But it looks like you’ve already taken care of the music, so I’m going to let you off with a warning. We get another call, I’m going to need names and IDs. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy and I say in unison. Rivalry or not, neither of us can afford to see our guys facing charges.
The cop looks me over. “Good game against Ohio, son. Best damn game I’ve seen in ages.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He wishes us luck against Wisconsin, and the baseball players follow him out when he leaves. Kendall brings up the rear, sauntering out the door with Johnson’s eyes glued to her ass.
I heave a massive sigh of relief. That was too fucking close.
The door slams and I do a quick head count, verifying all the recruits are present. Then I turn to Johnson.
“What the hell were you thinking?” It’s a rhetorical question, but his half-assed shrug has me seeing red, fury making my chest heave like I’ve just run the forty-yard dash. “You want to be captain next year? Being captain isn’t about being everyone’s drinking buddy. It’s about being a leader and setting a good fucking example!”
This time, he at least has the decency to look chagrined.
Coach’ll cut off my nuts if word of this gets out. This is the kind of shit that ruins reputations and gets teams put on probation. This is not what Waverly football is about, and it’s sure as shit not how we recruit. I can’t believe Johnson could be this irresponsible, but I’m even more pissed at myself for not realizing it ahead of time. These kids are my responsibility. I’ve let them down, even if they’re too fucked up to realize it at the moment.
“Dude, chillllax. We’re just having a little fuuun,” says one of the recruits, slurring his words. I narrow my eyes at him. Hawkins, from Maryland. The kid may be quick on his feet, but I’m not in the mood for excuses. Especially not from a shit-faced high school punk who can barely string two words together. “No harm, noooo foul.”
I’m about to unleash some next level heat on the kid when Tate, one of Johnson’s roommates, wanders down the stairs with his girlfriend close on his heels.
“You were part of this too?” I ask, unable to believe Tate could be this stupid.
He steals a glance at the kid hugging the trash can and holds up his palms. “Hey, man. I thought it was just going to be a few beers.”
“Just a few beers?” My voice comes low and calm despite the anger roiling in my gut. This is exactly the kind of juvenile bullshit that gives football players a bad rep. “We aren’t going to win a national title drinking and partying like a bunch of overindulgent assholes. It’s going to take discipline. Respect for the team. Respect for each other,” I say, glaring at Johnson, Smith, and Tate in turn. The hypocrisy of my words isn’t lost on me—I am, after all, sneaking around with Carter—but I’m too pissed to think clearly at the moment. I glare at a few of the recruits for good measure. Most drop their eyes. “There’s some real talent in this recruiting class, but if this is how you conduct yourselves, well, I guess it won’t much matter if we win the championship or not because you won’t stand a chance in hell of defending it.”
I turn back to Tate, the only sober one of the group. “Get your keys and help me get these guys back to the hotel.” I pause, sweeping the room with my gaze. “The puker rides with you.”
I have enough shit to deal with. I don’t have time to scrub vomit out of the floor mats.
It takes us an hour to get the recruits settled at the hotel with enough water to keep them hydrated and I’m in a foul-ass mood as I drive home. My cell phone vibrates in the cup
holder and I glance at the screen. I’m still feeling raw about the day’s events. The last thing I want to do is shoot the shit with my dad. I consider letting the call roll to voice mail but answer on the third ring.
No point delaying the inevitable.
“Hey, Dad.”
“I just got off the phone with John Hart,” he says, skipping the greeting and diving right into business. “He’ll be in town for the Michigan game in three weeks. He wants to meet.”
A familiar tightness grips my chest and crawls up the back of my throat. Hart is an old friend of the family. He’s also a scout in Pittsburgh. “Shouldn’t we wait until the end of the season, when my eligibility expires?”
My father makes a dismissive sound. “The NCAA doesn’t forbid us from having lunch with an old family friend. Besides, Hart has already spoken with Coach Collins. Practices will be open that week. I doubt Hart will be the only one watching, so make sure you’re on your A game. The more interest you generate, the more valuable you are to the franchise.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Like I need to be told to make a good show for the scouts. It’s my future on the line and I’ve trained for this nearly every day of my life. “When’s the meeting?” If my old man notices the hard edge to my words, he doesn’t mention it. I blow out a breath, reaching for whatever patience I have left.
“Friday at two. Should work for your schedule.” He pauses, but it goes without saying we’ll be meeting at his favorite College Park steak house. “Make sure you put it on your calendar. I know how busy you are, son.”
“I’ll take care of it when I get home.” I tap my blinker and turn left onto University Drive. “I’m heading there now.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear you aren’t out partying.” If he only knew. “You need to rest up this week. Wisconsin will be a tough game.”
He’s not wrong. Their defense is on fire. It’s going to be a hard-hitting game. “We’ll be ready for them. You coming to the game?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, and I can hear the pride in his voice. I may not share my dad’s love of Pittsburgh, but I know he just wants what’s best for me. Or what he thinks is best. The pressure is like a vise, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. That I don’t want what he wants. That meeting with Hart in a professional capacity makes me want to gauge my eyes out.
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 17
