Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

 


Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Claiming Carter: A Waverly Wildcats Novel
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Bonds. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or review.
Edited by Lea Schafer
Cover Design by Jennifer Bonds
Cover Art from Deposit Photos
ISBN: 978-1-953794-01-7
First Edition 2020
www.jenniferbonds.com


Chapter One
Austin
Desperate times. Desperate measures. I never really understood that phrase—until now.
“Why the fuck did you drag me up here, Reid?” Coop asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He scans the soccer field before turning to meet my stare, a smirk twisting his lips. “Dude, I’m not making out with you under the bleachers. You’ve gotta at least buy me dinner first. Maybe get me some flowers.”
“You wish, asshole. You’re not my type.” I let my gaze drift back to the field. Not exactly what I had in mind, but training camp ran late and we missed the men’s soccer practice. The women’s team is warming up, and, yeah, I’m that desperate to find a new placekicker for Wildcat football.
“Bullshit,” Coop scoffs before turning to wink at me. He’s the only guy I know that can pull off a wink without looking like a complete douche—and he knows it. “I’m everyone’s type.”
“You actually believe that shit, don’t you?” I snort and shove him toward the bleachers. Coop’s the best wide receiver Waverly has seen in a decade. He’s also the king of casual sex. The result? An ego to rival the Grand Canyon. “Let’s go, Casanova.”
We climb the metal steps two at a time and plant ourselves at the center of the stadium, midway up. It’s trimmed in blue and white—Waverly University colors—and there’s a Wildcat head emblazoned over the player’s tunnel. Big Ten flags hang limply at both ends of the stadium, a quiet testament to the heat wave that’s smothering the campus. The afternoon sun is brutal and the seats are hot as balls, but we’ve got a perfect view of the field and the players on it. Coop leans back and rests his elbows on the bench behind us like he’s out to get a fucking tan.
Must be nice.
I don’t have the luxury of kicking back. Not when my last shot at a national championship—and my future—is on the line. So I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees to get a better look at the women on the field. Or, more specifically, their legs. This has to work. Otherwise we can kiss our season goodbye and any hope of a bowl game with it.
No. I have to deliver a winning season. I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much to watch it all go down the drain because of a drunken dare.
“Spellman really screwed us,” Coop says as if reading my mind.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, nodding my head in assent even as guilt gnaws at me. I’m not exactly thrilled Spellman’s shit choices could tank our season, but I’m not without a heart. After all, the guy’s wearing a fixator, and from what I hear, the brace is hella painful. “What’s done is done. It’s up to us to unfuck the situation.”
And by us, I mean me.
After all, I’m the team captain. It’s my job to lead Waverly to victory, to ensure we play like a team and have each other’s backs. It’s up to me to make sure drunken shenanigans don’t cost the seniors a national title or their NFL draft positions come spring. Coach Collins made that perfectly clear when he ripped me a new asshole about Spellman’s busted leg.
Like I was the jackass who dared him to jump off the roof.
Man, was Coach heated. In the four years I’ve played ball at Waverly, I’ve never seen him so angry. Not even when a couple of linemen pissed hot during drug testing sophomore year and the news outlets were gobbling it up like a crack epidemic.
So yeah, it’s day four of camp and I’m third-and-long. Down but not out.
“Are you going to explain what we’re doing here,” Coop asks, nodding toward the field, “or am I supposed to guess?”
“We need a kicker. Soccer players have the best legs on campus.” I rub the back of my neck, reluctant to throw the new guys under the bus. “You saw the freshmen. They’re too green. Not enough power and zero poise.”
“Poise?”
Poor choice of words. I can tell Coop wants to make a joke about bladder control, but I cut him off. “You know, mental toughness. They’ll crack under the bright lights.” It’s not their fault. They should’ve had a year to develop. “There’s a reason we have redshirts.”
Coop shrugs, unconvinced. “Since when does Special Teams make or break us?” He snickers and holds his fist up like a microphone, doing a poor imitation of our game day announcer, his voice high and nasally. “With Austin Reid leading Waverly’s offense, the Wildcats have a real shot at a national championship this year!”
I roll my eyes. Waverly hasn’t won a national title in fifteen years, but this is our year. Even the talking heads are saying it. “I’m not taking any chances. You know as well as I do football is a game of inches. We’re going all the way, and we need a decent kicker to make it happen. One with range.”
Coop leans forward, his eyes bouncing from me to the field and back again. “You really think this crazy-ass idea will work, don’t you?”
“It’ll work.” I’ve never failed at anything in