Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

all that,” he says, gesturing to Vaughn’s overgrown beard, “scratching her special place while you’re going down on her?” The air quotes he makes when he says special place send the guys around us into a fit of laughter.
Vaughn blushes, his cheeks growing scarlet above the dark scruff. “Fuck off.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Coop calls out as Vaughn retreats down the aisle, giving us the one-finger salute over his shoulder.
Okay, so that thing I said about Vaughn’s manners? They’re usually flawless, but Coop’s made it his mission to, as he puts it, “loosen the guy up.” I strip off my T-shirt, pulling it over my head, and slip into my shoulder pads, making quick work of the straps. I should’ve gotten up earlier. As team captain, I should be the first one on the field, not the last.
“So, I hear Special Teams is practicing on the field with us today,” Coop says, closing his locker and leaning a shoulder against it.
I glance up at him, not sure where he’s going with this. “So?”
“So, that means we’ll get to see Carter in action.” He grins and wiggles his brows. “I hope she’s wearing shorts today.”
“Don’t be an asshole.” I glare up at him as I step out of my shorts and toss them in the locker. “It’s one hundred fucking degrees outside. Of course she’ll be wearing shorts. And no one’s going to say shit, got it?”
“That’s what I thought.” Coop smirks. “The lady doth protest too much.”
I shake my head and grab my jockstrap. The thing ain’t pretty, but it gets the job done. “As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Riiiiigght.”
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and brace myself for more of Coop’s brand of wisdom, but it never comes.
“What the fuck?” he says, staring down at his pants. He does a weird little shimmy and before I know it, he’s jamming his hand down the front of his pants, scratching his balls. “What. The. Actual. Fuck!” he howls, going to town on his johnson.
Parker, who’s about as big a morning person as I am, turns from his locker and gives me a WTF? look before turning back to Coop with a wicked gleam in his eye. “I told you to double bag that shit. Bet it burns when you piss too.”
“I don’t have an STD, asshole,” Coop mutters, yanking his pants down and inspecting his junk. “I always wrap it before I tap it.” The volume in the locker room begins to climb and there’s more yelling and cussing than usual. Coop kicks off his cleats and strips off his pants before lifting his jockstrap for inspection. I avert my eyes. I’m used to being surrounded by naked dudes, but I don’t need his dick right in my face. “Which one of you assholes put itching powder in my jockstrap?” he yells, holding up the flimsy garment. “That shit’s not funny!”
Yeah fuckin’ right. It’s hilarious considering Coop is one of the biggest pranksters on the team. Parker and I both snicker. “Payback’s a bitch,” Parker says, extending his closed fist so I can bump it. Then his face goes slack and he glances down, a look of panic on his face. “Oh shit.”
I inspect the jockstrap in my hand and decide not to risk it. Looks like Coop isn’t the only one getting pranked, and I’d rather free ball it than spend the day with my hand down my pants. I toss the jock on the bench and tug on my practice pants.
The locker room erupts in chaos and Coach storms in, no doubt wondering why the team is standing around with their dicks in their hands when they should be on the field. “What the hell is going on in here?” he roars, glancing around at his half-dressed team. He narrows his eyes in my direction. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m captain or because I’m the only one wearing pants. “Reid, care to tell me why you aren’t on the field yet?”
I sigh and rub the back of my neck. Not really. After the Spellman incident, Coach made it clear he expects us to toe the line. If he finds out who did this, there could be a suspension involved.
“Well, sir,” I say, stalling for time and forcing myself to meet his steely gaze. “It seems—”
“Spit it out, son.” He waves his hand impatiently and my gaze slides to Coop. He’s too busy scratching to crack the joke Coach just set up and I know we’re in deep shit.
“Someone put itching powder in our jockstraps,” I say, relieved I narrowly avoided the same fate as my teammates. How’s that for loyalty?
“Fuckin’ pranks,” Coach mutters, shaking his head. “Who did this?” he demands, face flushing a deep shade of crimson as he scans the locker room. I seriously doubt anyone’s going to step forward, but the truth will come out eventually. It always does over a couple of beers and a solid brag. “Y’all wanna win a national title and you’re wasting my time with this kind of romper-room bullshit? You have ten minutes to take care of business and get your asses on the field. And when I find out who did this…” The rest of the threat is lost in the pandemonium of the locker room as he stomps back to his office.
“Who do you think did it?” Parker asks, using a towel to dust off his junk.
“No clue,” I say, glancing around to see if anyone else dodged the itching powder bullet, “but I hope it’s not one of our guys.”
Or worse yet, Carter.
Four minutes later, I take the field fully dressed. I’m nothing if not an overachiever. Most of the guys are still washing up, so it’s just me, Carter, and a few of the support staff.
The sun’s already high in the sky, and I can feel my temperature rise as I swagger down the sideline to where Carter’s stretching, waiting for the team huddle.
“It’s about