Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

as experience) and somehow convinced Collins to award me a full scholarship. I still can’t believe it, but I agreed to give him my all, dumping soccer and work study. Fortunately, I’ve got a little money saved up from my summer internship, which should get me through the semester, if not the year.
“It’s not too late to change your mind. I’m sure—”
“I’m not going to back out.” I sigh and let my head flop back against the headrest. Not again. “We talked about this. It’s a full-ride. I can’t walk away from that kind of money. Not when you’re working your fingers to the bone at the hospital.” Nursing might be a noble profession, but it’s also grueling, especially when you pick up every double shift you can to cover your kid’s tuition. “It’s just one season. Twelve weeks.” If you only count the regular season.
“Twelve weeks is more than enough time to get hurt,” she snaps, catching me off guard. We’re both silent for a beat. The only time Mom raises her voice is when she’s tired. Her short temper reinforces my decision to take the scholarship. When she continues, her voice is gentler, but I know what’s coming before she even says the words. “You know how I feel about football players, Kennedy.”
How could I not? She’s been telling me my whole life. “Don’t worry. I have zero interest in dating a player, Mom.”
Why would I? My father was a deadbeat quarterback more interested in chasing the NFL dream—and the women, drugs, and parties that came with it—than raising a family. And don’t even get me started on the linebacker I dated in high school. Cheating asshole got some random jersey chaser knocked up senior year and I had to find out about it on Insta. #Loser.
So, yeah. No players for me. Been there, done that, have the emotional scars to prove it. Besides, Coach made it clear if I step out of line, I can kiss my scholarship goodbye.
“Promise me,” she says as the bus pulls up to the stop. “Promise me that you will not get involved with any of those boys on the team, Kennedy. I don’t want to see you end up like me.”
“I promise.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and climb to my feet. I hate it when she says that. I know she loves me down to the marrow in her bones—I’ve always known it—but I can’t help the guilt that claws at my throat every time I hear those words. What would her life have been like if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me? “I have to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.” I disconnect and stuff the phone in my bag. My heart is beating double time and Mom’s little pep talk didn’t exactly help. I exit the bus and stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the home of Wildcat football. The heat wave from hell continues and the afternoon sun glints off the front of the two-story building, forcing me to squint.
Thanks to a massive fundraising effort, the building was renovated a few years ago to the tune of twelve million dollars. Seems excessive to me, but then again, I’m a nerd at heart, so I can think of about twelve million better ways to spend that kind of cash than dropping it on an eighty-nine-thousand square foot sports facility with a thirteen-thousand square foot weight room. And why do they even need four practice fields anyway?
Shit. I’m so nervous I’m doing the numbers thing, letting my brain default to facts and figures because it’s what I know best. Some people do yoga to relax. I do numbers. I gulp down the humid air, solidifying my resolve. I’ll count my way through the whole damn practice if I have to, but I’ve come this far and I’m not going to back out now.
I march right into the building, doing my best to ignore the flashy decor (this place is rocking some serious Wildcat pride), and give myself props for finding the locker room without too much trouble.
Go me!
Coach Jackson is waiting at the door when I arrive. We exchange curt greetings, and I follow him into the nine-thousand square foot locker room, which is home to one hundred thirteen players. All of whom seem to freeze when I enter. That’s two hundred and twenty-six eyes fixed on me. Not counting the coaching staff.
The locker room is split into three wide rows, with one row of white lockers running across the back wall, the better for everyone to get a look at me. Not that I care what they think, but all those eyes? It’s a lot of pressure. I resist the urge to shift my bag and straighten my spine, forcing myself to meet the stares of my new teammates.
Talk about awkward. Scratch that—it’s awkward as hell.
Thankfully Coach Collins enters, disrupting the stunned silence. The locker room devolves into chaos, but he quickly squashes it, calling for attention.
“Listen up,” he says, his gritty voice carrying easily through the large space. “This is Kennedy Carter. She’ll be joining Special Teams as a placekicker, working with Coach Jackson. Carter will take Spellman’s spot on the roster,” he says, turning my way to ensure he’s got my attention, “and just like everyone else, she’ll be fighting for a starting position.”
I meet his stare. Message received.
He pauses and the room erupts again, louder than before. I only catch a few snatches of conversation, mostly shock at the prospect of a female joining the team.
No surprise there. It’s a first for me too.
Pretty sure I also hear something about making the Wildcats the laughingstock of the conference.
“Is this shit for real?” a guy with a fauxhawk mutters and I feel my cheeks redden. I should have realized this would be an issue. Because fauxhawk? He doesn’t look like the kind of dude to embrace feminism.
“Watch yourself, Langley.” It’s Coach Collins who speaks first. “Carter is a