by Celia Aaron
Celia Aaron
Kicked
Celia Aaron
Copyright © 2016 Celia Aaron
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. Please store your files wisely, away from under-aged readers.
Cover art by Mr. Aaron
Content Editing by J. Brooks
Copy Editing by Spell Bound
Table of Contents
Chapter One
CORDY
Chapter Two
CORDY
Chapter Three
CORDY
Chapter Four
TRENT
Chapter Five
CORDY
Chapter Six
TRENT
Chapter Seven
CORDY
Chapter Eight
TRENT
Chapter Nine
CORDY
Chapter Ten
TRENT
Chapter Eleven
CORDY
Chapter Twelve
TRENT
Chapter Thirteen
TRENT
Chapter Fourteen
CORDY
Chapter Fifteen
TRENT
Chapter Sixteen
TRENT
Chapter Seventeen
CORDY
Chapter Eighteen
CORDY
Chapter Nineteen
TRENT
Chapter Twenty
CORDY
Chapter Twenty-One
TRENT
Chapter Twenty-Two
CORDY
Chapter Twenty-Three
CORDY
Chapter Twenty-Four
TRENT
Chapter Twenty-Five
CORDY
Chapter Twenty-Six
TRENT
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CORDY
Chapter Twenty-Eight
TRENT
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CORDY
Chapter Thirty
CORDY
Chapter Thirty-One
TRENT
Chapter Thirty-Two
CORDY
Chapter Thirty-Three
CORDY
Chapter Thirty-Four
TRENT
Chapter Thirty-Five
CORDY
Epilogue
CORDY
“I’ll put you through hell, but at the end of it all, we’ll be champions.” Bear Bryant
CHAPTER ONE
CORDY
I HAD THAT FEELING. You know the one. When your heart is beating against your ribs. Your ears are hot, your fingers are numb, and you could vomit any second. I tried to take a deep breath, but the announcer crowing and the crowd roaring weren’t helping me any. Being in the claustrophobic tunnel with fifty of the largest men in a hundred-mile radius wasn’t helping much, either.
They jostled against each other, their white jerseys with blue numbers taking up every square bit of space I could see. The stadium was full, the fans anxious to see if their team had what it took to be a contender. After all, football season would forever be a big deal in any state south of the Mason-Dixon line.
“You ready, princess?” Ethan Granger, a good defensive lineman but a great dickbag, squeezed my ass. He leaned over and spoke in my helmet’s ear hole. “I think one of these days I’ll dress out with you in the girls’ locker room. Sound good?”
I shoved him, but he barely moved. He was six-five, two hundred and seventy-five to my five-seven, one-forty. I had a better chance of being a star quarterback than moving his chunky ass out of my way.
“You’d faint if you ever saw a girl naked.” I kept my eyes straight ahead and raised my voice so he’d hear me through the helmet. “Now get the hell away from me. I’m trying to concentrate, and your wildebeest stench is making it impossible.” A couple guys turned to look at me and my apparent case of Tourette’s.
“See you, princess.” Ethan stepped away, and another meathead took his spot beside me in the crush of bodies.
I tried to keep it together, to think about what I’d do after the game, or my homework, or the last poem I read that really spoke to me. My conjured distractions failed, and the mass surged as the players burst forward. The lights were bright beyond the dark tunnel, and I was carried out into the stadium by a wave of blue and white. The cheerleaders yelled, smoke billowed, and the band played the Billingsley fight song.
I broke into a trot along with the hulking men, sticking close to them so no one noticed me. Fat chance. After Bill the Bobcat, I was more or less the team’s second mascot. I liked to refer to myself as “Mav.” Sadly, it wasn’t because I was capable of shooting down fighter jets or winning homo-erotic games of volleyball like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Instead, my nickname stood for Mascot with a Vagina (the “w” didn’t count.)
My university—Billingsley—had recently lost a particularly vicious Title Nine lawsuit where several women alleged discrimination in sports spending. To mend the school’s reputation, the president decided to add a female kicker to the football roster. Ornamental only, of course. But it provided a partial scholarship, so I was all over it.
I needed the money; the school needed a female who could kick. That was how I wound up on a football field with the crowd cheering, the Gatorade flowing, and the testosterone reigning.
After a pat on my helmet from the weathered coach, I took my seat on the farthest bench. My long brown hair was braided down my back, and I didn’t bother with any eye black. I wouldn’t have bothered with pads, either, but the dean wanted it to appear as if I were ready to go at any second. I could have laughed at the idea. The only place I got—or wanted—playing time was on the soccer field. Football was a means to an end, nothing more.
I pulled off my helmet and stowed it next to me, the thick plastic thunking onto the metal bench.
The stadium lights, hum of the crowd, and smell of popcorn and beer mixed to create a familiar cocktail of college football. I used to love going to games with Dad when I was little. But now, dressed out as number three of the Billingsley Bobcats, I’d rather have been reading, or kicking the soccer ball around, or getting my nether regions waxed.
I glanced down the row of players standing and chatting before the game. They were nice guys for the most part, each of them doing his best on the field while getting a top notch education on the hallowed grounds of Billingsley. Despite their politeness, the team hadn’t been welcoming. But that assessment wasn’t exactly fair. I hadn’t warmed to them, either. Getting close to them would have meant getting close to Trent Carrington. No, thank you. I was more than happy to remain the outcast, the hood ornament, and the Mav if it kept me away from him.
Sitting alone, I had a decent view of the field, and no one to bother me. I preferred it that way. It was the second game of the season, and I was third-string. I didn’t need any last minute coaching or warming up. Riding the bench, keeping to myself, and earning a chunk of tuition money was the plan for the rest of the year. Easy.
I’d grown up watching football, going to games with my father, and following the state teams. Soccer was my sport, but football was in my blood. All the same, I wasn’t here to play. No
t really. I was just a Mav with a front-row seat for every game of the season.
The bench shifted as someone sat beside me, and the band began playing at my back. “Hey.”
I knew that voice. Trent. Goose bumps rose along my arms, but I didn’t look at him. I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since freshman year, and I didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.
“Cordy?” He used my nickname.
“Yep.” I gripped the edge of the bench, the metal warm in the muggy air. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, flipping coins or something?”
The deep bass of the band thumped through my heart, forcing it to keep a quicker beat than usual. It was the band that sped it up. Not Trent.
“The coin toss doesn’t happen until after the national anthem.”
“Right.” I reached beneath my jersey and yanked out a composition notebook. My pen was trapped in the binding. If I had to be at the games, I figured I might as well get some writing in.
“Still write poetry?”
“Yes. Don’t you have a pep talk you should be doing? You know, like ‘let’s go pluck those Eagles?’” I wasn’t going to talk about myself with him. His easy charm fooled me once. I wouldn’t let it happen again.
“I already gave that.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Well, then”—I sighed, trying to fight my irritation and losing—“maybe you should talk to Coach about how you throw off your back foot too much.”
He laughed, the sound deep and rolling like the thundering bass behind me. “Is that so?”
“You throw across your body and into traffic too much, too. Might want to have that chat. You have a million other things to do other than being here right now.”
“Maybe. But I only want to do this—sit here and talk to you.” The bench shifted, and the heat from his arm radiated against mine. “Besides, this has been enlightening. Any more pointers, coach?”
Before I could inform him that his choice of taking a sack instead of throwing the ball away in the last game almost cost us the win, the band started the national anthem. We both stood and put our hands over our hearts. The singer began off pitch and continued her flat spiral with each note.
He leaned closer, his arm brushing against mine. “I haven’t had a chance to really welcome you to the team yet. But I’m glad you’re here. Do you still play soc—”
“Shh.” I would have rather heard the dying cat sounds of the national anthem singer than listen to his rich, sexy baritone a moment longer.
He sighed and quieted. The song continued, and I glanced at him. My eyes only came up to his chest pads, so it was easy enough to avoid his gaze. Instead, I noted his tan forearm, muscled with veins popping. He was even bigger than I remembered, filled out and ridiculously masculine.
I dropped my gaze as the song finally finished. The crowd gave a roar as hype music began pumping through the stadium once again.
He rocked up onto the balls of his feet and then back down. “That’s my cue.”
“Okay.” I sank back onto the bench. “Break a leg.”
He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. “I think that’s only for the theater, Cordy.”
A tingle of pleasure ran down my spine as his warm breath tickled my ear. And just like that, I broke my rule.
Leaning away, I met his green eyes with my light brown ones. “What are you doing?”
He smiled, his perfect dimples complementing his square jaw and bright eyes. “Flipping a coin.” He rose to his full height and jogged out onto the field, joining two other team captains and heading toward the referee in the center.
I took a deep breath, my heart hammering, my poise broken. Once I’d looked, I couldn’t stop staring. His muscled ass filled out his football pants just right. The pads exaggerated the width of his shoulders, but not by that much. He was the perfect ‘V’—broad shoulders, narrow hips, and made of corded muscle. He’d been beautiful when we’d first met, his boyish good looks the first step in my downfall. But now, he was beyond attractive. He was sexy, powerful—a perfect mix of masculinity and grace that had my body warming.
He swiped his hair from his eyes and called heads. The referee flipped the coin. It landed and bounced on the grass before lying flat. It was heads. Of course it was. Not even the whims of chance could deny Trent Carrington.
I dropped my eyes to my notebook and tried to ignore him again. Why was he even talking to me? We weren’t friends. We were barely acquaintances anymore. Taking my pen out, I hovered it over the page as the teams took the field. The stadium vibrated with the fury of the crowd. So far, we were undefeated. The pressure would build with each game to keep it that way. Not that I cared.
I forced my pen to make words on the page. The words turned into doodles of the number nine. I glanced up to the field, my eyes invariably straying to Trent. It was as if that simple “hi” opened the floodgates. I watched him through the first quarter and into the second, pausing to doodle when the defense or special teams were on the field.
Halftime came and went, and the game finally wound down to one minute left in the fourth quarter. Our offense was on the field. Trent was in control. He’d been steadily driving down the field, all the way to the two, but a missed assignment caused a fumble behind the line of scrimmage. We recovered, but lost a yard. Second down was a busted pass play.
On third down, he called an audible and changed the play. The runners scurried to switch positions as the defensive line tried to adjust. The center hiked the ball. Trent caught it and dropped back, his helmet on a swivel as he scanned downfield for a receiver. There were none. Each eligible player who could catch the ball was well covered.
The box of linemen around Trent gave way, and a defensive back broke through and drove him to the ground. I bit the inside of my cheek. After a small scuffle between the defender and a couple of linemen, Trent jumped up and headed to the sideline, knocking the grass out of his helmet grill.
The prolonged play had eaten clock. There were only nineteen seconds left, and we were tied. That left only two ways to win the game on this set of downs—the offensive line could go for it on fourth down and hope for a touchdown, or special teams could try for a field goal.
The refs moved the chains to the seven-yard line. It would be a twenty-four yard field goal. I shot a look over to Jared Link, the first-string kicker. He had leg for days and served as the field goal kicker and punter. He pulled on his helmet and pushed through the crowd of players. After a swift chat with the coach, he ran out onto the field with the kicking team at his back. The crowd hushed.
Trent was the ball holder, so number nine was still on the field, still catching my eye. Jared walked up to Trent, who gave him a light tap on the helmet. The special teams settled into place at the line of scrimmage, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. This was for the game. Half the stadium held its breath, and the other half gave raucous shouts and jeers to try and distract our kicker. Jared backed away from Trent and took two steps to the right. He lined the shot up with his arm, then squared his shoulders and gave the signal.
The center hiked the ball. Trent caught it and held it perfectly in place as Jared ran forward. Jared kicked hard, plenty of leg for a makeable field goal. But the kick pulled to the left. Worse, an Eagles defensive player broke through the line and ran right into Jared’s outstretched leg after the kick. He went down and clutched his knee as the crowd booed and the ball sailed to the left, no good.
Yellow flags flew to the spot where Jared lay on the turf, holding onto his knee. A ref picked up a flag and signaled a roughing the kicker foul against the defense.
“Half the distance to the goal, replay the down.” The ref’s voice boomed around the stadium via his mic.
That meant we had another shot, but with only a twelve seconds left and the first-string kicker still on the grass.
“Get up Jared. Up, up!” I clenched the bench as our trainers ran out to check on him. He wasn’t rising, just clutching his leg and rolling
back and forth. A sick feeling gurgled in my stomach at the pain telegraphed by Jared’s movements.
Pate, our second-string kicker, stood and began practicing. He wobbled for a moment, then squared off and kicked into the small net behind the benches.
Jared was still down, and a hush fell over the crowd. Three trainers knelt around him, trying to get a look at the injury as he groaned and shook his head each time they touched his right leg. Coach Sterling ran out to check on him and wound up supporting him under one shoulder as the trainers helped him off the field. It didn’t look good. A leg injury was the worst news for a kicker.
I turned to look at Pate. Right at that moment, he retched all over Coach Carver. Even though Pate was at least ten yards away from me, I cringed. The poor guy bent over at the waist and vomited again, this time all over the ball he’d set up to kick into the practice net.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and a litany of “oh fuck” began playing in my head on repeat when the realization hit me. If Pate couldn’t pull himself together, there was only one other kicker on the team. Me.
Coach Sterling called our second time-out and hustled over to me as I watched Pate hurl yet again, vomiting every last bit of his stomach’s contents into the too-green grass of the well-kept field.
My hands went numb as Coach clapped me on the shoulder. He’d always been kind to me, welcoming even, though somewhat aloof. After all, he had real players to take care of. I was just the Mav.
He gave me a thin smile. “You ready?”
I stared up into his weathered cheeks and watery eyes. “I-I’m—”
“Good! Now get your helmet on and get out there!”
I looked from him to the field, and then to Trent, his green eyes focusing on nothing else. It was time. Time to kick.
CHAPTER TWO
CORDY
COACH STERLING SIGNALED FOR our third and final time-out as Coach Carver—still covered in Pate’s lunch—tried to give me some last-minute pointers. “Get your foot under it. You need lift. I’ve seen you do it in practice.”
