Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

her voice. She’s exhausted.
And probably working herself to death.
For me.
So, yeah, I didn’t exactly have a choice when it came to showing up this morning. If I have any chance of landing a full scholarship, no matter how long the shot, I have to take it. Even if it means screwing over the soccer team.
Guilt rears its ugly head and I swallow it back down, throat burning. I have to do this for my mom. She’s all I’ve got.
Just one more year.
One more year and I’ll have my diploma. As long as I keep my grades up, I’ll be able to land a good job. A salaried job. The kind that will allow me to help Mom with the bills and relieve the constant financial pressure.
But if I had a full scholarship, I could help now.
Coach Collins and Coach Jackson are staring at me again, faces unreadable as they approach. And Collins? He looks just as intimidating as those crappy Collegian photos, with a square jaw and flat brows and a mouth that seems stuck in a perpetual frown.
Then it hits me. Coach Collins has RBF. Resting bastard face.
A nervous laugh escapes, and I press my lips flat. So not the time.
“Moment of truth,” Reid whispers, revealing a crack in his cocky demeanor for the first time.
“So much for being a done deal.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and throw up a quick prayer, hoping they’ll at least let me try out.
“Get your ass back on the field, Reid.” Coach Collins jerks his head and Reid bolts, tugging his helmet on as he jogs across the field to join the rest of the team.
“Miss Carter, this is Coach Jackson,” Collins says by way of introduction. “You’ll be working with him today.”
My spirits soar. “Thank you. Sir,” I add hastily, knowing I’ll need every bit of goodwill I can scrape together.
“Get warmed up and meet me in the end zone,” Coach Jackson says, gesturing toward the upright as if he thinks I might need directions to find it. With a herculean effort, I manage not to roll my eyes. Probably best not to piss off the man who holds my financial freedom in his hands.
I begin my stretching routine, doing my best to block out the sounds of practice and focus on my breathing as the warm glow of the sun heats my skin. Easier said than done. Between the crash of helmets and pads, there’s no shortage of trash talk. Or speculation. The guys are still wondering exactly why I’m on their field.
Pretty sure I also catch something about my ass being firm as a melon.
Nice. It’s only been five minutes and already they’re living down to my expectations. Not that I expected much. I’ve always known football players are creeps.
Just like dear old Dad.
I grit my teeth. Doesn’t matter.
Today, only Jackson matters. I can deal with the rest later.
When I finish stretching, I catch Reid watching me again. He nods, but I don’t return the gesture. He’s not the one I have to impress, and I doubt Coach Jackson will be so easily wowed.
I know my leg is strong, but it’s not like I’ve ever kicked a football before. Not that I’m entirely unprepared. I read up on the process last night and did some web research (thanks, YouTube), but that’s hardly the same as actually doing it.
I jog toward the end zone where Jackson is working with two other players. They’re both tall and lanky, but seriously lacking muscle tone. Ten to one they’ve been given strength training programs to bulk up, because even I have more definition than they do.
Jackson looks up as I approach. I slow to a walk, stopping a few feet short of where he stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Dude looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Can’t say I blame him.
Still, I give him a bright smile because I need the guy to like me.
“So what’s your experience, Carter?”
“I’ve been playing soccer since I was five,” I say, deciding this isn’t the time for modesty, “and I’ve got the best long ball in Wildcat soccer. Men’s and women’s.”
He nods and narrows his dark eyes. “What’s your training regimen?”
I run him through my strength training exercises and throw in a few kicking drills that have helped hone my accuracy. He grunts and I’m starting to wonder if this is a secret form of communication in the land of Neanderthals.
Should’ve asked Reid for the secret decoder ring.
“Sir, I need this scholarship. A full scholarship,” I clarify. “I’m a quick study and can learn the fundamentals if you’ll give me a chance.” My words are wrought with confidence, and hell, even I’m starting to believe I can do this. After all, how hard can it be?
“Don’t tell me,” Jackson says, nodding at the field where one of his players is preparing to kick a field goal. “Show me.”
I watch as the guy sets himself up, taking three steps back and two to the left. He sucks in a deep breath and studies the upright. When he releases his breath, he takes three quick steps forward, closing the distance to the ball and booting it into the air with a smooth sweep of his leg. What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in flexibility, his kicking foot flying higher than his shoulder as the ball sails through the upright.
“You’re up,” Jackson says, voice giving nothing away.
If he’s expecting me to fail, he’s in for a surprise.
I take my place on the field and set the ball in the holder, laces out, just like the tutorial recommended. Apparently kicking the back seam maximizes compression for better height and distance. Who knew?
I walk off the steps, same as I would for a soccer kick. The sounds of practice die down behind me, but I don’t dare turn to look. I’d have to be an idiot not to realize all eyes are on me.
Or possibly my ass.
I draw a deep breath,