Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Claiming Carter: A Waverly Wildcats Novel

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Bonds. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or review.

  Edited by Lea Schafer

  Cover Design by Jennifer Bonds

  Cover Art from Deposit Photos

  ISBN: 978-1-953794-01-7

  First Edition 2020

  www.jenniferbonds.com

  Chapter One

  Austin

  Desperate times. Desperate measures. I never really understood that phrase—until now.

  “Why the fuck did you drag me up here, Reid?” Coop asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He scans the soccer field before turning to meet my stare, a smirk twisting his lips. “Dude, I’m not making out with you under the bleachers. You’ve gotta at least buy me dinner first. Maybe get me some flowers.”

  “You wish, asshole. You’re not my type.” I let my gaze drift back to the field. Not exactly what I had in mind, but training camp ran late and we missed the men’s soccer practice. The women’s team is warming up, and, yeah, I’m that desperate to find a new placekicker for Wildcat football.

  “Bullshit,” Coop scoffs before turning to wink at me. He’s the only guy I know that can pull off a wink without looking like a complete douche—and he knows it. “I’m everyone’s type.”

  “You actually believe that shit, don’t you?” I snort and shove him toward the bleachers. Coop’s the best wide receiver Waverly has seen in a decade. He’s also the king of casual sex. The result? An ego to rival the Grand Canyon. “Let’s go, Casanova.”

  We climb the metal steps two at a time and plant ourselves at the center of the stadium, midway up. It’s trimmed in blue and white—Waverly University colors—and there’s a Wildcat head emblazoned over the player’s tunnel. Big Ten flags hang limply at both ends of the stadium, a quiet testament to the heat wave that’s smothering the campus. The afternoon sun is brutal and the seats are hot as balls, but we’ve got a perfect view of the field and the players on it. Coop leans back and rests his elbows on the bench behind us like he’s out to get a fucking tan.

  Must be nice.

  I don’t have the luxury of kicking back. Not when my last shot at a national championship—and my future—is on the line. So I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees to get a better look at the women on the field. Or, more specifically, their legs. This has to work. Otherwise we can kiss our season goodbye and any hope of a bowl game with it.

  No. I have to deliver a winning season. I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much to watch it all go down the drain because of a drunken dare.

  “Spellman really screwed us,” Coop says as if reading my mind.

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter, nodding my head in assent even as guilt gnaws at me. I’m not exactly thrilled Spellman’s shit choices could tank our season, but I’m not without a heart. After all, the guy’s wearing a fixator, and from what I hear, the brace is hella painful. “What’s done is done. It’s up to us to unfuck the situation.”

  And by us, I mean me.

  After all, I’m the team captain. It’s my job to lead Waverly to victory, to ensure we play like a team and have each other’s backs. It’s up to me to make sure drunken shenanigans don’t cost the seniors a national title or their NFL draft positions come spring. Coach Collins made that perfectly clear when he ripped me a new asshole about Spellman’s busted leg.

  Like I was the jackass who dared him to jump off the roof.

  Man, was Coach heated. In the four years I’ve played ball at Waverly, I’ve never seen him so angry. Not even when a couple of linemen pissed hot during drug testing sophomore year and the news outlets were gobbling it up like a crack epidemic.

  So yeah, it’s day four of camp and I’m third-and-long. Down but not out.

  “Are you going to explain what we’re doing here,” Coop asks, nodding toward the field, “or am I supposed to guess?”

  “We need a kicker. Soccer players have the best legs on campus.” I rub the back of my neck, reluctant to throw the new guys under the bus. “You saw the freshmen. They’re too green. Not enough power and zero poise.”

  “Poise?”

  Poor choice of words. I can tell Coop wants to make a joke about bladder control, but I cut him off. “You know, mental toughness. They’ll crack under the bright lights.” It’s not their fault. They should’ve had a year to develop. “There’s a reason we have redshirts.”

  Coop shrugs, unconvinced. “Since when does Special Teams make or break us?” He snickers and holds his fist up like a microphone, doing a poor imitation of our game day announcer, his voice high and nasally. “With Austin Reid leading Waverly’s offense, the Wildcats have a real shot at a national championship this year!”

  I roll my eyes. Waverly hasn’t won a national title in fifteen years, but this is our year. Even the talking heads are saying it. “I’m not taking any chances. You know as well as I do football is a game of inches. We’re going all the way, and we need a decent kicker to make it happen. One with range.”

  Coop leans forward, his eyes bouncing from me to the field and back again. “You really think this crazy-ass idea will work, don’t you?”

  “It’ll work.” I’ve never failed at anything in my life, and I’m not about to start now. There are too many people counting on me. Not that I mind the pressure. Starting quarterback for a Big Ten university is nothing compared to growing up in the shadow of a future Hall of Famer. “We need power and precision.” I point to midfield where the women are running passing drills. “They’ve got it.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that they look a helluva lot better in shorts than Spellman ever did.” Coop snickers and shakes his head. “I’m gonna need a front-row seat when you pitch this whack idea to Coach.”

  A tall brunette jogs onto the field, ponytail bouncing, and drops her bag on the sideline. She immediately starts to stretch, keeping her head down as she bends at the waist and plants her palms on the grass. Coop gives a low whistle. Can’t say I blame him. Her perfectly toned legs are a goddamn mile long. My dick twitches, reminding me it hasn’t seen any action in weeks. Something I can remedy later.

  First, I’ve got to find a kicker.

  “You’re late, Carter!” the coach yells down the sideline.

  I check the time. This chick’s almost fifteen minutes late. Coach would have my ass for that kind of tardiness.

  “Sorry.” The brunette straightens her spine and grabs her left foot, pulling it back so it’s nearly touching her perfectly round ass. “I came straight from work.”

  “You know the deal.” The coach blows her whistle and gestures to one of the other players before turning back to the late arrival, a hint of warning in her tone. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  The brunette doesn’t respond, but my curiosity is piqued. What kind of deal do they have that allows a Division I athlete to work during the season? That would never fly in the football program. Coach Collins has a zero distractions policy.

  Hell, it�
�s a wonder he hasn’t made Coop quit Sig Chi.

  We watch the practice in relative silence, studying the players to see who has the strongest leg and best accuracy. The goalie’s got a canon, but even I’m not delusional enough to believe we have a shot at recruiting her. She’s probably on scholarship.

  “Pull up the roster.” Like the football program, the soccer team will have headshots, bios, and stats for each player posted online. Makes it easier for jersey chasers, reporters, and scouts to do their thing. And now it’ll make it easier for us to poach too.

  Coop pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously on the screen as the women scrimmage. “Well, if we don’t find a kicker, at least I’ll have some new material for the spank bank.”

  “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”

  “Nah, I’m just a leg man.” He looks up and points to the field without an ounce of shame. “And I’d have to be blind not to appreciate those beauties.”

  It’s hard to fault his logic. Besides, for all his bluster, Coop’s a straight shooter when it comes to hookups. Like me, he prefers women who have a healthy appetite for sex and who aren’t looking for commitment.

  No time when you’re chasing a national title.

  When I return my attention to the field, the less than punctual brunette is squaring up behind the ball. She takes three steps forward and plants her left foot. Then she draws her right leg back and kicks the ball, her foot connecting with a soft thwump. I watch, not daring to breathe, as the ball sails forty yards down the field. It lands directly in front of her teammate, who springs into action, dribbling toward the net.

  I elbow Coop, keeping my gaze locked on the field. “Did you see that?”

  “No, because I’m fucking blind.”

  “Who is she?” I ask, ignoring the sarcasm.

  Coop glances down at his phone, scrolling through the roster. When he finds her headshot, he holds up the phone. “Kennedy Carter.”

  Carter, huh? Up close, I realize she’s got a lot more going on than just the legs. She’s got this whole girl-next-door thing, with warm brown eyes, a wide smile that shows all the teeth, and a few blonde highlights that complement her olive complexion.

  Not my usual type, but I’m kind of digging the natural look.

  “That’s our girl.” I stand and stretch my legs, determination coursing through my veins. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Kennedy

  Sweat trickles down my forehead and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Central Pennsylvania humidity is a bitch, and it’s so hot I swear my boob sweat has boob sweat.

  Despite the heat wave, Coach isn’t cutting us any slack.

  Or maybe it’s just me. You know, since I was late.

  Again.

  “You want a ride back?” my roommate, Becca, asks, looking fresh as a daisy.

  Shit. Apparently Coach was riding me extra hard. I vow to be on time tomorrow. My body can’t handle another workout like today.

  “Thanks, but I’ll catch the Loop.” I check my watch, confirming the next bus is due in twenty minutes. “I’ve got a tutoring session on campus tonight.” My last of the summer session, thank God.

  “Have fun with that.” Becca scrunches her nose, a not so subtle reminder that I need to haul ass if I’m going to squeeze in a quick shower. Because, you know, underclassmen generally prefer it when their tutors don’t smell like eau de student athlete. “I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

  “Later.” I wave as she slings her bag over her shoulder and turns to the lot. Then I zip my bag and head for the locker room.

  “Hey, Carter! Wait up!”

  Instinctively, I slow my steps, glancing back over my shoulder at the two lumbering giants cutting across the field. No one I know. At least, not personally. But even I recognize the face of Waverly’s darling quarterback, Austin Reid, as he jogs across the field, covering the distance in smooth, graceful steps.

  “I’m kind of in a hurry.” And I have zero interest in chatting it up with douchey football players.

  The giants slow to a stop a few feet away, assuming a casual stance, their feet spread wide, arms dangling loosely at their sides. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’ve had coaching on how to look unthreatening.

  Or as unthreatening as possible, given they look like a Captain America-Thor matched set.

  Mmm. Chris Hemsworth.

  “This won’t take long.” Reid flashes a disarming smile. One that has surely relieved a few (hundred) Waverly women of their underwear. Figures. Austin Reid is even better looking in person than in The Collegian. The grainy black-and-white photos in the student paper don’t do him justice. The guy’s a beast, towering over my five-foot-ten frame by a good six inches. With muscles for days and electric-blue eyes that dance with barely contained energy, it’s no wonder women flock to him like freshmen to a rush party. I take satisfaction in the fact that his normally spiky hair is drooping in the humidity, falling over his forehead in a dark wave. After all, I’m a big ball of sweat so it only seems fair. “I’m Austin and this is Cooper.”

  “You can call me Coop,” the Hemsworth doppelgänger says, extending his hand for me to shake. Judging by his size, another football player. He’s got broad shoulders, shaggy blond hair, and eyes like sea glass. And like Reid, he’s stupid hot. If you’re into meatheads. Which I’m not.

  I grip my bag tighter, ignoring the proffered hand.

  “We play football,” Coop says, his lopsided grin reminding me of Becca’s mischievous Labradoodle.

  “And?” If the guy’s looking for someone to stroke his ego, he came to the wrong place, Labradoodle smile or no.

  “We saw you play today,” Austin—Reid—says, smiling so his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ve got a powerful leg.”

  “And damn fine accuracy,” Coop adds, crossing his arms over his muscular chest.

  “I’ve been playing soccer since I was five,” I blurt out, cursing myself for offering the information when I have no idea where this conversation is going. Not that it matters. Whatever they want, I’m not interested. “What’s your point?”

  “Look, I understand you’re in a hurry, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

  I raise a brow. Quick, this one.

  “Waverly football needs a quality kicker.” Reid takes a step forward as if all that bottled-up energy is propelling him into motion.

  “And?” I shift my bag, impatience getting the better of me. If I don’t hit the shower, I’m going to miss the bus. “I’m still not seeing what this has to do with me.”

  “Really?” Coop smirks, looking me over from head to toe as if he’s sizing me up. “You’re a mechanical engineering major. Pretty sure you’ve got the brainpower to put two and two together.”

  Before I can decide if I should be offended or flattered, Reid pins his buddy with a withering glare. “What my teammate is trying to say is that we want you to try out for the football team.”

  This time I actually laugh out loud, making no attempt to stifle my hysterical giggles even as tears leak down my cheeks. Because, come on, it’s ridiculous. Me? On the football team? They can’t be serious.

  When I finally catch my breath, I realize they aren’t laughing.

  Maybe they’re high. “Have you been smoking?” I ask, because, no filter.

  They look at each other and then back at me. “Smoking?”

  “You know, weed? Pot? Or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days.” I check their pupils. Huh, surprisingly clear.

  “I’m serious,” Reid says, planting his hands on his hips, expression unreadable.

  “Besides, we don’t smoke during the season,” Coop chimes in like he’s immensely proud of this show of restraint. “Gotta keep our reflexes tight.”

  Fucking ballers.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” I say, looking pointedly around the field, “I’m already on a team. Besides, I don’t even like football.”

  Or football players.

/>   “Seriously?” Reid shakes his head in apparent disbelief. “Everyone likes football. It’s America’s favorite pastime.”

  “Pretty sure that’s baseball.”

  “Debatable,” he says as Coop mutters, “Baseball is for pussies.”

  Reid and I both ignore him. The rivalry between the two teams is legendary at Waverly.

  “What’ll it take to convince you?” Reid asks.

  “A miracle.” I smile sweetly and turn on my heel, but before I can take a step, Reid grabs my arm. A spark of awareness shoots straight to my belly, reminding me it’s been a while—seven months and twenty-three days to be exact—since a guy touched me. His grip is gentle but firm, his calloused fingers wrapped around my forearm. It’s not threatening. If anything, it reeks of desperation. Just like his absurd suggestion that I try out for the football team.

  “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m serious.” Frustration flashes in his eyes, like it’s the first time in his life he hasn’t gotten his way, and he doesn’t know how to deal. “We need a quality kicker to save our season.”

  “Trust me, I’m not your girl.” I twist out of his grip, breaking the unwanted connection.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I smirk. “Oh, let me count the reasons.” I hold up my fingers and begin ticking them off as I go. “I’m a soccer player. Your last kicker is bedridden.” I pause, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “And let’s be honest, you’ve probably had one too many concussions if you think this is a good idea.”

  Coop snorts, pressing his fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. A smile tugs at the corner of my own lips, and I give myself silent props for hilarity.

  Reid ignores his teammate, eyes locked on me. The smile is back in place, even broader than before, this time accompanied by a tiny dimple in his chin. A dimple that, were it not attached to a football player, would totally be my kryptonite.

  Talk about a waste of a perfectly good dimple.

  “I watched you kick. It’s not that different,” Reid says. “If you can kick a long ball, you can learn to kick a field goal. And while our previous kicker may be laid up, that’s because of an asinine dare, not the game.”