Claiming Carter Page 3

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 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, 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 anot
her 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 long pause as if Jackson’s thinking over his answer. My heart thrums in my chest, an unwelcome reminder of the situation I need to fix.

  “Carter’s got a good leg,” he finally says.

  “But?” Collins asks.

  “No but. First time kicking a field goal and she hit four out of five from forty.” Jackson pauses. “Her accuracy’s good and the soccer coach says she takes direction well. I can work with that, assuming she can handle the pressure.”

  I grin, my spirits finally lifting.

  “Only one way to answer that question,” Collins says. “You want to offer her Spellman’s spot on the roster, it’s your call.”

  Jackson doesn’t respond immediately and my palms begin to itch. “There is one other matter we need to discuss. Carter is looking for a scholarship.”

  Coach grunts and slaps something down on the desk. “Out of the question. She’s unproven and we’ve got men on this team who’ve been playing three and four years, hoping for a shot at scholarship money.”

  Fuck. I let my head drop back and it thunks against the wall. I should’ve seen this coming. Collins might be a hard ass, but he takes care of his guys.

  “Quit hovering and get your ass in here, Reid.”

  Busted. But maybe I can make it work to my advantage. I straighten my spine and stroll into the office like I was just waiting for an invitation. “Coach.”

  Neither of the men says anything, but Jackson studies me, head tilted and brows furrowed, like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. Good luck, bro. I haven’t figured my shit out either. I don’t know Jackson well since he works with Special Teams, but I’ve heard good things about him from Spellman. And hey, if he wants to give Carter a scholarship, that makes him good stuff in my book.

  After a beat, Collins clears his throat. “What the hell are you doing listening at my door, Reid? I know your mama taught you better than that.”

  It’s all I can do not to flinch. As soon as the reprimand is out of his mouth, it’s clear he regrets it. After all, my mom’s dead.

  That shit hurts, my chest tightening at the loss like it was yesterday. Or maybe it’s the prospect of disappointing her that burns white-hot. I take a deep breath and embrace the pain. It’s up to me to make this thing with Carter happen. A lot of people are counting on me. Coach. The team. My dad. The fans. It’s a lot of fucking pressure, and I can already picture the headlines if the team stumbles.

  Nope. Not gonna happen.

  “Austin—”

  “Sir,” I say, cutting off what will no doubt be an awkward apology. Hard pass. Got enough of those to last a lifetime when the cancer took my mom. “I understand there are guys on the team who would appreciate scholarship money, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we want a national title more.” Collins nods. He wants it too. I can see it in his eyes. “The guys voted me captain because I’m a leader, so I could be the voice of the team. The way I see it, we can’t expect to win a national title without a kicker. James”—fuck, I hope I got the new kid’s name right—“will be good eventually, but we need Carter now.”

  Jackson shifts in his chair, but says nothing.

  “You realize this is highly unorthodox?” Coach asks, rubbing the gray stubble on his jaw.

  “Sir, I’m a sucker for a good underdog story. I’d throw my lot in with Carter all day long. She needs the scholarship and we need her leg. We can make this work.” I pause, meeting his eye and hoping like hell he can see the determination that’s burning in my gut. “I can make this work.”

  Coach narrows his eyes, but when he throws his hands up, I know I’ve convinced him. “You’re the captain, Reid. It’ll be on you to explain it to the rest of the team. And I don’t want any damn funny business in the locker room. You feel me?”

  I snort. No danger of that happening. Carter’s made it clear she doesn’t exactly hold football players in high regard.


  Coach grunts and I realize he’s waiting for an answer. “No funny business. Got it.”

  “A woman on the football roster,” Coach says, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day.” He turns to Jackson. “It’s up to you to work out the logistics. And make sure she understands I won’t tolerate distractions of any kind. First sign of trouble, I’ll yank that scholarship so fast her head will spin, same as the men.”

  “I’ll get the paperwork started.” Jackson climbs to his feet, looking pleased at this turn of events. “Then we can make the call.”

  Coach shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face. “This girl really wants to play college ball?”

  “Yes, sir.” Assuming Carter hasn’t changed her mind again.

  After all, her record is 0-1.

  Kennedy

  “Hey, Mom.” I do my best to sound cheery despite my roiling stomach. Unfortunately, the greeting comes out more like the croak of a dying frog.

  Good one, Kennedy.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Her melodic voice is a balm to my frazzled nerves. “Just calling to check in. I thought you had your first practice with the football team today?”

  “I’m on my way there now.” I glance out the bus window as we leave the ivy-covered brick buildings of campus behind and take University Drive out to the football building. I’ve never been inside the modern stone and glass behemoth, but I’ve heard it’s a state-of-the-art facility on par with pro athletic teams.

  Go Wildcats!

  “Nervous?” she asks. It’s been just the two of us for as long as I can remember and it doesn’t take her long to suss out my moods.

  “Of course I’m nervous.” No point lying when she already knows the answer. I was shocked when Jackson called to say he wanted to work with me. Apparently he was impressed by my raw talent (because sixteen years of soccer and strength training don’t count as experience) and somehow convinced Collins to award me a full scholarship. I still can’t believe it, but I agreed to give him my all, dumping soccer and work study. Fortunately, I’ve got a little money saved up from my summer internship, which should get me through the semester, if not the year.