Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1)

inhaling the scent of fresh-cut grass and willing my racing heart to slow. I have to make this kick. It’s only twenty-five yards. Hardly a challenge, even for the skinny dude who’s now watching me as intently as Coach Jackson.
Of course, he probably has years of practice under his belt.
But so do I. It’s not that different.
I release my breath and take my approach steps, keeping my eyes on the ball as I swing my leg back and plow it forward. My cleat connects with the ball and it rockets off the ground, blasting through the upright.
Team Carter, FTW! It’s all I can do not to pump my fist in the air.
Coach looks pleased.
The kid next to him? Not so much. Probably wondering if I’m about to steal his job.
“Again!” Coach calls, his smooth baritone giving nothing away.
I put two more through the upright before he has me move the ball back five yards.
Thirty yards. It’s nothing. I could do this in my sleep. I take my position with greater speed and less hesitancy this time.
Only this time, the wind grabs the ball and I watch in horror as it sails wide.
Shit. Where did that breeze come from? College Park isn’t exactly the Windy City.
I sneak a peek at Coach Jackson. He shakes his head, disappointment clouding his eyes. My gut clenches. “You have to account for your surroundings, Carter.”
I’m well aware of this fact, but the freaking wind came out of nowhere, so I bite my tongue, clenching my jaw so tight he’d need the Jaws of Life to get a response.
“You’ve got plenty of power,” he says, sounding slightly more encouraging this time. “Give it another try.”
So I do. This time, I nail it. I kick three more for good measure before moving the ball back another ten yards.
Coach grunts in what I can only assume is approval.
Forty yards requires greater concentration and I take my time, ensuring I’m accounting for the August breeze that continues to kick up in sporadic bursts. I’m four for five with one of the balls pinging off the upright.
Stupid wind.
Coach Jackson remains unreadable when he signals for me to stop. I quickly do the math. I made eleven of my thirteen attempts. That’s eighty-five percent, if you round up. Which I do. But is it good enough?
“Thanks for coming out today, Carter.” He extends a hand. I shake it, hoping he doesn’t notice my sweaty palms. “I’ll be in touch.”
That’s it? My stomach bottoms out. It’s got to be the shortest tryout in the history of tryouts.

Chapter Three
Austin
I’m dragging ass by the time practice ends and not even a cold shower can revive me. I’m going to crash as soon as I get back to the apartment, but first I need to see Coach Collins. He hasn’t said jack about Carter’s tryout, although Coach Jackson seemed pleased enough when she cracked forty yards without breaking a sweat.
Not bad for someone who’s never handled a pigskin.
I weave my way through the locker room, taking note of the somber mood. Most of my teammates look as spent as I feel. There are none of the usual antics or shouts. It’s depressing as hell. Like, one step up from losing-a-game depressing.
I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that’s settled in at the base of my neck. Seeing Coach will have to wait. Duty calls.
“Yo, Smith.” I throw a balled-up towel at the back of the tight end’s head. It bounces off his dreads and drops to the floor. He spins to face me, signature grin fixed in place. I match it with my own cocky smile. “Xbox tourney at my place tonight. You owe me a Madden rematch.”
Smith tosses his head back and laughs. “For real? You know I’m gonna whoop your ass again, pretty boy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Big talk from a guy who won by a fucking point,” I counter, knowing the team needs to see the swagger. It’s good for morale. And hell, if Smith can smile despite everything he’s been through, I guess I can too. Sure, I’m tired, but the team comes first.
The team always comes first. Might as well get it tattooed on my ass, I’ve heard it so many times from my old man.
“Loser buys pizza,” Smith says, doubling down on his mad Xbox skills. “Unless your arm’s too tired?”
“Don’t you worry about my arm.” I smirk and point at him. “You’re going down.”
“Hell, yeah!” Coop shouts, snapping a wet towel against Smith’s ass. “I’ll pick up a case of beer on the way home.”
A ripple of excitement spreads through the locker room. Coach has firm rules about partying during camp, but a little Xbox and a couple beers hardly counts as partying and most of these guys could use a night off. No way this many ballers will fit in the town house Coop and I share with Parker and Vaughn, but most of the upperclassmen live at College Park Apartments since it’s close to the fields and they’ll all open their doors for a little team bonding.
“Count me in,” Parker yells. “You know I’m always down for seeing Reid get his ass beat.” He turns and grins at me. “Good for you to get that ego taken down a few pegs.”
“S’all good.” I shrug and strut toward Coach’s office. “Plenty to go around.”
I arrive just in time to see Jackson slip through the door. Talk about perfect timing. I take up a post outside Coach Collins’s door, figuring I’m within my rights to listen in since I’m the one who found Carter.
Fortunately, Collins takes the open-door policy literally and rarely closes it. Today’s no exception, and he instructs Jackson to leave it open. I inch closer, catching a glimpse of Collins behind the oversize desk before I press my back to the wall. He looks like shit. Apparently the coaching staff is also feeling the effects of the blistering heat.
“Well, how’d it go?” Collins asks, skepticism clear in the tone of his voice.
There’s a