Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)
like that?“Practice started at eight. You’re late.” I smirk, remembering her parting shot last night. “Streaking across campus naked?”
She arches a brow, her dark eyes flashing with annoyance—which is kind of hot—as she turns to face me with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m here now.”
“Indeed.” I turn back to the field and cup a hand to my mouth. “Hey, Coach! There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
When Coach finally makes his way to the sideline, I’ve decided the direct approach is best. No sense beating around the bush, not when hard and fast is more my speed.
“Coach, this is Kennedy Carter. She’d like to try out for the team.” To Collins’s credit, his jaw only falls half-open. “As a placekicker, sir.”
Carter’s eyes are bugging out, and I can see the moment she realizes Coach had no idea she was coming. Like I was going to put my neck on the line with zero guarantee she’d show?
Not fucking likely.
“Is this a joke, Reid?” Coach looks from me to Carter and back again, his face growing red. “I am not—”
“It’s no joke, sir.” I glance at Carter, giving her a reassuring smile. I’d hate to see her take off now. Once Coach sees what she can do, he’ll be singing a different tune. Coach and I? We speak the same language: football. “She’s been playing soccer since she was five. She’s got a strong leg.”
Coach says nothing, just studies her face as if he can read her intentions and level of commitment. Hell, maybe he can. The guy’s been doing this for ages.
Thankfully, Carter keeps her mouth shut. Coach isn’t big on sass. He’ll pump the brakes on the whole damn thing if she starts spouting off now.
Finally, he steps back and looks her over from head to toe. Carter stands tall, chin lifted, shoulders back, unwavering in the face of his physical assessment.
“You ever kick a football before?” Coach asks, narrowing his eyes. I can’t fault the guy for being skeptical. I’m not the only one under pressure to deliver a national title and this isn’t some campy feel-good movie where success is guaranteed.
It’ll take blood, sweat, and a bucket of tears to claim the honor.
“No, but I’m a quick study and what I lack in experience I’ll more than make up in determination.” Again with the unflinching confidence as she meets his gaze.
“Sir, she can kick a ball.” I don’t mention that she’s probably got a better leg than both freshman combined. I doubt he’d appreciate my assessment, even if it’s spot-on.
“Walk-on tryouts don’t start until after camp,” he says, rubbing his chin.
“I know it’s unusual, but I thought it best given the circumstances.” I don’t dare mention Spellman’s name. No need to remind him of my role in that mess with a whole day of practice ahead. Not when he’s already busting my balls.
Coach grunts. “Let me talk to Coach Jackson. Wait here.”
Carter says nothing but looks at me expectantly. “Jackson is the Special Teams coordinator. He’ll be the one coaching you.”
She nods, but says nothing, her gaze drifting back to the field where the team is running agility drills with the defensive coordinator. She looks wary as hell, and I can’t help but wonder why.
It’s not like she’s got anything to lose.
Kennedy
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. It’s crazy. No, it’s crazy as fuck. Doesn’t help that my stomach’s twisted up tighter than a Philly pretzel. Stupid nerves. Or maybe it’s guilt. Kind of hard to tell the difference right now. Between Reid’s intense stare (which is bordering on stalkeriffic) and Coach Collins grunting my way as he talks to a bald dude rocking fluorescent green kicks (which totally clash with his blue and white Wildcat gear), I can hardly think straight.
The only thing I know for sure? This is the last place I want to be.
“Nervous?” Reid asks, that stupid smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Hardly.” I cross my arms and shift my weight, wishing the coaches would just make up their damn minds because I’m starting to feel like a show pony.
“Liar.” He leans close, his hot, spearminty breath whispering across my cheek. “I can see it in your eyes, Carter.”
I lift my chin. Austin Reid will not get the best of me.
“If we’re going to be teammates,” he says, giving my arm a playful shove, “you need to lighten up.”
“That’s a big if,” I mutter, gaze locked on the field, determined not to yield another goddamn inch to the obnoxious BMOC.
“Naw,” he says, his voice taking on an “aww, shucks” quality. “It’s practically a done deal. Look at Jackson. He’s all but drooling over your leg.”
I snort. Hardly looks like a sure thing from where I’m standing. Maybe the universe is going to spare me the humiliation of this experience and send me packing.
Reid spins and steps in front of me, blocking my view of the field and forcing me to meet his eyes. We’re so close I can see the tiny white lines that streak across his blue irises like an electrical storm. “So what changed your mind?”
What the hell? We just met like five seconds ago. Does he really think I’m going to open up and share all my personal shit? “Dude. You have serious boundary issues.”
He laughs and adjusts the white headband that’s completely failing its mission to absorb the sweat dripping from his hair. It’s kind of sexy, but I’d die before admitting it aloud. “It’s not a trick question, Carter. You don’t have to get all defensive.”
I shrug, striving for indifference.
Like hell I’m going to admit the only reason I’m here is because my mom’s working seventy hours a week and it’s still not enough to make ends meet with my tuition bills. Or that her POS car—which is eight parts rust, two parts steel—is back in the shop.
Hell, she sounded like she was about to drop when I called to check in last night. She’d never admit it, but I could hear it in