Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

member of this team and will be shown the same respect you’d give any other player. You feel me?”
“Yes, sir,” Langley says, although the look on his face is anything but compliant.
Reid steps forward, positioning himself to my left. It’s a show of solidarity from their captain, and I have to admit I appreciate it.
“All right. Settle down!” Reid waves his hands, gesturing for his teammates—our teammates—to bring it down. “Now, I’m proud to be a Wildcat and it’s an honor to lead this team.” He stands tall, shoulders back, and scans the room, making eye contact with each of his guys. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s got a strong jaw and it’s lined with the slightest bit of scruff, like he didn’t have time to shave today. Normally I’d find it sexy, but he’s a football player, so, yeah.
“We’ve got the best offense in the Big Ten,” he bellows, starting back up. He pauses and the guys to my right whoop their agreement with a few shouts of “Hell, yeah!” thrown in. His attention shifts to the players gathered on the left. “And we’ve got the best defense, am I right?”
The response from the defense is even louder and someone sets off one of those roaring sound effects that sounds just like our Wildcat mascot.
“Special Teams caught a tough break losing Spellman,” he continues and a wave of agreement passes through the room. I figure I’m the only one questioning the use of the phrase tough break because, hello, drunken dare? Curiosity takes root and I make a mental note to get the full story from Reid. “Replacing Spellman won’t be easy, but if we want a national championship, we’ve got to explore all avenues to fill his spot. We’ve busted our asses to make this team the best in the conference. I sure as hell don’t want to lose a game over a missed field goal.”
There’s a rumble of assent from the team. “Got that right!” Coop calls. Then the cocky bastard winks at me.
I pretend not to notice and flip the end of my ponytail over my shoulder.
Reid turns to me then, a half-smile playing across his full lips. “Carter’s got a decade and a half of experience playing on the soccer field and she’s got a damn fine leg. We’re lucky to have her on the team. I expect every one of you to welcome her with open arms. Let’s show her the hospitality and class that makes Wildcat football the best in the country!” By the time he finishes, he’s practically shouting, but his enthusiasm is infectious and the team responds to it, stomping their feet and doing the school cheer.
“This is our year!” he thunders, cheeks flushed, eyes alight, totally in the zone. “I want that national title. Who’s with me?” he asks, pumping a fist in the air.
The noise level in the locker room reaches a deafening roar, and I’m impressed by how well Reid commands the room. But I guess I shouldn’t be. He was born and bred for this. The son of a legendary quarterback (yes, I Googled him), he grew up in this world. And he probably knows better than anyone in the room that winning means more parties, more women, and more privilege, something I’ve never experienced. The cocky QB may be talking me up to the team, but I’m not naive enough to think he’s doing it for my benefit. His endgame is clear. He’s doing it for a shot at a national title, one he thinks I can help deliver.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Four
Austin
Morning practices are a bitch, but they’re better than hitting the weight room at six in the morning, which will start next week with the fall semester. The life of a D1 athlete isn’t nearly as glamorous as people think. Our schedules are grueling. Every minute of the day is packed with training activities, leaving just enough time for basic necessities like eating and showering.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to throw off the last dregs of sleep, and open my locker without acknowledging Coop, who’s flexing his biceps in the mirror. I’ve seen him practice the move a few dozen times already this season. Lucky for him, I’m too damn tired to bust his balls about it. I drop my bag in the bottom of the locker, kicking off my sneakers and adding them to the carefully contained mess. Coach instituted a new rule this year: clean locker rooms. It’s part of his Sweep the Shed philosophy. Not that I’m complaining. Man’s got a point. The mess in the locker room has a tendency to spill over into other areas of our lives and onto the field, which is the last thing we need.
“Never have I ever seen a bigger douche,” Vaughn says, giving Coop a slap on the back. Vaughn slams the door to his locker and tucks his helmet under his arm, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ever get tired of admiring yourself?”
“Hell no.” A slow grin spreads across Coop’s face. “Word of advice: you’re going to have a hard time getting laid with that ugly-ass beard of yours.”
“What’s wrong with my beard?” Vaughn looks genuinely perplexed as his gaze flits from Coop to me and back again.
“Aside from the fact that it needs its own zip code?” I ask, shamelessly piling on. Vaughn’s a good sport and despite his intimidating appearance, he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s the kind of guy who will do anything for a friend and has impeccable manners, even in the locker room where anything goes.
“Seriously, bro. Just because you’re from West Virginia doesn’t mean you have to look like a mountain man,” Coop says, shaking his head like he’s an expert on the subject. Then again, he does have a pretty large female following on campus, so maybe he actually does know what the hell he’s talking about. “You think a girl wants