Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 5

  “You think it’s a chick?” I ask, raking a hand through my hair.

  “Chick? Really, Reid.” Carter wrinkles her nose. “Do better.”

  I lift my brow. So, what, now chick is derogatory? It’s like, the equivalent of dude or something. I stare at her, but she doesn’t budge, just meets my defiant gaze with one of her own. Like two twelve-year-olds in a staring contest. Fine. Whatever. “You think it’s a woman?” I say, caving, because I’m truly curious.

  “Totally.” She nods her head, the thrill of victory shining in her eyes. “You know what they say, hit ’em where it hurts.”

  Kennedy

  It’s day one of senior year and my schedule is bananas. I was late for my first class and after spending hours reviewing syllabi, I’m seriously questioning my sanity. In a moment of blind ambition, I signed up for eighteen credits of upper level mechanical engineering classes—a necessary evil if I want to graduate in May—which coupled with football is…insane.

  Seriously. No one in their right mind would willingly sign up for this schedule. Which totally explains why most of the guys on the team take the minimum credit hours during the season. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.

  Not if I want to graduate on time and start paying down my mammoth student loan debt.

  So, yeah, fall semester is already kicking my ass and it’s only day one. First class, then football. Special Teams doesn’t always join the main practice, but when we do, I swear Reid spends half the time scrutinizing me, no doubt judging my progress and wondering if he made a mistake.

  Well, he can suck it. I’ve been busting my ass to perfect my technique and with Coach Jackson’s help I’m currently seventy-thirty on the long-range kicks, which is better than the freshmen, and I haven’t even perfected my technique yet. Bonus: my accuracy skyrockets to ninety-three percent inside the thirty-five, which is the best on the team.

  Still, Reid’s lingering gaze is a distraction I can live without.

  Thankfully, practice is over, and I’ve got the visiting team locker room to myself. It’s just as nice as the home team locker room, with the same pristine white lockers, industrial blue carpet and overwhelming scent of disinfectant, but it’s kind of lonely—I swear to God there’s an echo every time I so much as pee—and for the first time, I miss the women on the soccer team.

  Miss having Becca by my side after a tough practice. Miss the singing and dancing and ridiculous victory celebrations reserved for wins over conference rivals. I glance around the empty locker room, heart sinking. I didn’t realize how much I valued the camaraderie on the soccer team. It’s unlikely I’ll be participating in any locker room celebrations this year, but you know what they say about hindsight.

  It’s a bitch.

  Not that I’m complaining, exactly. Because, hello, full-ride scholarship. And Coach Collins was decent enough to assign me a locker in the home team locker room as well, but it’s mostly a token gesture for inclusivity and game days since getting naked with a bunch of football players is against my personal code of conduct. Sure, there are women who’d give their left ovary to get in that locker room—including Becca—but I’m not one of them.

  I drop onto the heavily padded bench in front of my locker and let my head rest against the solid white door. My locker in the team room glows with the number ninety-three, my jersey number, but this one is plain. Anonymous even. The complete opposite of me. I stick out like a sore thumb around the football building.

  Not that I mind.

  I’m used to being the odd woman out in a major dominated by men. Besides, the only thing that matters right now is my scholarship, and that means taking care of my leg. Which is currently feeling a little tight. Okay, screaming for relief would be a more accurate description, but I’m not about to tell Coach Jackson. Our first game is this weekend and Collins made it clear I’m fighting for the starting position.

  So, yeah, no whining.

  No, what I need is a trainer. Too bad they’re all in the men’s locker room. If I want a rubdown or ice or any sort of assistance, I’ll have to brave all that peen or wait until the guys leave and hope to catch a trainer.

  Which is total bullshit.

  I sit up straight and square my shoulders. Why should I have to wait until the guys leave? We’re teammates, right? And I have just as much need of a trainer as they do. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen a guy’s junk before. What’s the big deal?

  Mind made up, I grab the strap of my bag and sling it over my shoulder before climbing to my feet. I’m a badass, and I’m totally doing this.

  A nervous laugh escapes as I weave my way toward the door. Becca is going to die when I rehash this later. By her own admission, she’d sell her soul to get up close and personal with the kind of muscles these guys are packing.

  Plus she has a thing for asses, and there are no shortage of those on the football team.

  When I reach the door to the team locker room, I pause, taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.

  Don’t be such a chicken! Get your ass in there and take care of business.

  Right. My leg. The one that feels tighter than a brand-new rubber band. I suck in one more fortifying breath and steel my resolve. Then I push the door open and saunter into the locker room like it’s no big thing, like I belong.

  That feeling of belonging? It’s lasts for about point four seconds.

  It doesn’t take the guys long to notice me standing in the doorway. A few grab for their towels, but most just stare at me like they’ve never seen a woman before. Or, more precisely, a woman in their locker room.

  Talk about déjà vu. But they have to get used to me being here at some point, right?

  I lift my chin, determined to see this through and find the trainer. Still, it’s impossible not to notice all the peen in the room. Heat flares at the back of my neck, and I do my best to keep my eyes up, but come on, it’s a total dickfest. Big dicks, hairy dicks, bald dicks, thick dicks. Tiny dicks, too.

  At least now I know why Langley has such a chip on his shoulder.

  I eye his baby peen and arch a brow. His girlfriend must be so disappointed. The tops of his ears turn red and he scrambles to wrap a towel around his waist.

  How’s that for laughingstock, asshole?

  Feeling smug—and, okay, a little bitchy—I turn toward the trainer’s office.

  “It’s about time you joined us, Carter,” Coop booms, sauntering up in a pair of mesh shorts with the Waverly logo on the leg. His shaggy hair is damp from the shower, but at least he’s got pants on. He leans in close and whispers, “I figured it would take you until at least October to work up the nerve.”

  “And I figured it would take you until at least October to remember my name given the parade of women trailing you around campus.” I flash him my brightest smile. “I guess we were both wrong.”

  To my surprise, he throws his head back and laughs. It’s a deep, rich sound, like it’s coming straight from the pit of his belly. “You slay me, Carter. If I were the settling-down type, I’d totally let you be my wifey.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I roll my eyes and grudgingly return his fist bump. Nothing sticks to this guy, but I have to admit he’s growing on me. Kind of like that little spot of mold in the shower I just can’t get rid of. “I’m here to see the trainer, not provide the entertainment.”

  “Don’t let me hold you up.” He throws his palms up in surrender, an expression of innocence transforming his face from wicked rogue to choirboy. “Get your shit taken care of. We need you in top form on Saturday.”

  Holy crap. Did Cooper DeLaurentis just compliment me? I watch in dismay as he retreats to his locker. And here I thought the guy didn’t take anything seriously.

  I weave my way through the locker room, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. Little good it does, because when I turn the corner, I crash boobs first into the solid, slippery chest of Austin Reid. I stumble back and my st
upid feet get tangled in the strap of a half-zipped duffel bag, sending me careening toward the floor. Reid leaps forward, quick as lightning, and grabs my shoulders, slowing my descent and preventing me from falling flat on my ass.

  Just like a real-life Captain America.

  I look up, mortification burning my cheeks, and do a full-body scan. My mouth is drier than the Sahara, and I doubt I could form a proper sentence if I wanted to.

  Damn. The guy really does have muscles for days, and I can see them all because he’s practically naked.

  Not that I’m looking—much.

  “You okay?” He gives my shoulder a squeeze, the sinewy muscles of his biceps flexing in the process. Water drips from his hair and I watch, entranced, as a droplet slides over his well-defined pecs and down the front of his washboard abs, the V-cut pointing directly to the danger zone. The tiny droplet disappears into the white terry-cloth towel wrapped around his waist, snapping my brain back to reality.

  “Huh?” I ask, pulse thundering through my veins.

  “Are you okay?” he repeats, speaking more slowly this time.

  “I’m fine,” I say, making no move to get up off the floor, although I really should. People are starting to stare. Reid’s grip on my shoulders is gentle, and my flesh burns through my Waverly tee as if his calloused fingers were infused with fire.

  Danger! Danger!

  What am I thinking? Reid’s a football player. And a QB to boot. Okay, no need to panic. So he’s hot. There’s no rule that says I can’t appreciate a guy who’s got ripped muscles and a great—okay, godly—physique.

  He may look like Adonis, but no harm done.

  Shit. That’s probably what my mom told herself back in the day. Is this how things started between her and my father? An innocent touch here. A fiery kiss there. Not that I’m thinking of kissing Reid. Just speaking hypothetically, of course.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Reid narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He reaches for my chin like he’s going to inspect me for a concussion. I bat his hand away, finally finding my voice.

  “I’m fine. Other than my pride.” I glance at his towel, which has slipped dangerously low on his hips, damn near giving me a full frontal in his crouched position. “Why don’t you take care of that,” I say, waving a hand toward his crotch, “before you flash the whole locker room.”

  Reid smirks, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to reveal his dimple. “Trust me, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.”

  “Yes, well, I have no interest in seeing it.” I climb to my feet and smooth the front of my T-shirt. Reid stands and gives me a once-over, so I return the favor.

  Big mistake. Huge, actually, because I can’t help but notice the bulge behind his towel. No baby peen for Reid. The guy’s packing, which probably explains the way he swaggers around campus like he’s God’s gift.

  I jerk my gaze back to his face, ignoring the way my belly flips at the thought of his…package. If he notices my stare, he says nothing. I offer a silent prayer, thanking sweet baby Jesus himself Reid can’t hear my thoughts.

  “No need to be embarrassed,” he says, casually draping a hand over the spot where his towel is tied. He steps closer, getting all up in my personal space before continuing in a husky voice, “You know, you can join us in the team locker room any time you want.”

  I snort, something I would never do in front of a guy I was actually attracted to—hormones notwithstanding. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Your loss.” He shrugs a shoulder, and my gaze darts to his smooth pecs, which are devoid of hair. Does he shave his chest? Probably. “It would really help you get better integrated with the rest of the team.”

  My temper flares. Typical. Just when I was starting to think he wasn’t a complete ass—he did break my fall, after all—he goes and proves me wrong. “Yeah, I don’t think having them ogle my breasts is the golden ticket to team bonding.”

  The moment the words are out of my mouth, I know it’s hypocritical, because hello, I just checked him out. But honestly? I doubt these guys care. According to the gossip mill, they’re dropping their pants for women all over campus. Me? Not so much. I can count my hookups on one hand.

  “Jesus, Carter. Give me some credit. I meant for pregame meetings and halftime and shit.” His eyes darken with…disappointment? What the hell? How was I supposed to know it was a serious offer? He sidesteps me and struts halfway down the aisle before turning and calling over his shoulder. “See you at study hall. I’ll save you a seat.”

  Chapter Five

  Austin

  I roll into study hall with my backpack slung over my shoulder and a smoothie in my hand. I’m running late because I had to swing by the nutrition bar and grab snacks for my roommates. I’ve learned the hard way if they aren’t eating, they’re talking, and I can’t get shit done. I feel like a goddamn babysitter, bribing them to sit still and behave for two hours, but whatever.

  I’ve got a shit ton of reading to do for my career management class, which I wouldn’t be taking if it weren’t required. I don’t want to fall behind, even if the class is a joke. Like some prof is going to be able to help me figure out how to manage my career in the NFL.

  Un-fucking-likely.

  That’s what sports management firms are for. Hell, I’ve already got a dozen trying to woo me into signing once my NCAA eligibility expires, despite the fact it’s a foregone conclusion I’ll sign with my dad’s agent.

  The library’s second-floor reading room is mostly empty, a first day perk that won’t last, but it makes spotting the guys easy enough. Not that they’d be hard to spot even if the room were packed. They’re big, loud, and completely at odds with the old-school space that probably hasn’t been updated in decades. Mahogany bookshelves line the walls, broken up only by the half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows that allow the last light of day to filter through. Row after row of heavy oak tables fill the room, each surrounded by neatly arranged chairs with wide backs and seats that are as uncomfortable as hell.

  Still, it’s nice to get out of the academic center—where the underclassmen are required to sign in for study hall—once in a while.

  Parker notices me at the door and waves. “Saved you a seat!” he calls, deep voice carrying across the open space.

  The thing about the reading room? It’s supposed to be a silent space. So even though the room is mostly occupied with football players, there are a few studious types shooting the O-line pissed-off glares as they toss a foam football back and forth over the green table lamps.

  Assholes.

  I’d tell them as much, but there’s no point. For every pissed-off stare, there’s one filled with adoration or lust, which means they’ll keep the antics up all night and I won’t get shit done. I shake my head and weave through the long tables, making my way to the back corner where my roommates are camped out, books spread across the table to create the illusion of studying.

  Parker slides his shit over and makes room for me. I take the seat at the end and unzip my bag, dumping my haul onto the table. Protein bars, single-serve nuts, cereal, and a bunch of other crap spills out on the table, sending the guys into a frenzy as they grab for snacks.

  “Vaughn’s mama ain’t got nothing on you.” Parker grabs a protein bar and shoots Vaughn a toothy grin.

  Vaughn, whose mom still sends care packages despite the fact that her son is now a senior, flips him the bird and tears open a tube of trail mix, pouring the entire contents into his mouth.

  “Yeah, well, I actually need to get some work done. I figured this was the best way to keep you assholes quiet.” I pull a couple of notebooks and texts from my bag and drop them on the table before opening the side pocket to search for a highlighter and pen. “You can show your gratitude by keeping the volume to a minimum.”

  “Dude, it’s day one,” Coop says, rolling his eyes like I’m the diva here. “Chill out.”

  Ignoring him, I crack open my ca
reer management text and begin reading, highlighting passages that seem likely to pop up on an exam, because unlike Coop, academics don’t come easy to me. I have to bust my ass to make grades. Waverly’s got a long tradition of academic achievement among student athletes and as team captain, I’m expected to set a good example, which means I have to make the Dean’s List.

  I’m halfway through my reading assignment when Coop nudges me in the shoulder. “What?” I ask without looking up.

  “Carter’s here,” he stage-whispers, leaning close. “Figured you’d want do your captain thing and roll out the welcome wagon. Unless of course you’d like me to do the honors?”

  He’s jerking me around. I know it, and still I rise to the challenge, shoving my chair away from the table. “On it,” I say, because no, I don’t fucking want Coop anywhere near her, a feeling I refuse to consider beyond my role as captain.

  Carter’s hovering near the door, chewing her bottom lip as if she can’t decide whether she should sit down or make a run for it. Her dark hair tumbles over her slender shoulders in loose waves, and she looks more relaxed than usual, despite the indecision written all over her face. I catch her eye and nod as I make my way across the room, smiling at a couple of jersey chasers—Leslie and Gemma—who wave as I pass their table. They’re regulars at the football house, but who am I to judge? They’re cool as hell and I’m a fan of no-strings sex myself.

  I may not be the most evolved guy on the planet, but I can sure as hell appreciate a woman who’s not afraid to take what she wants, society’s double standards be damned. Besides, if anyone’s being used, it’s the players. Women lose their shit for the muscles we work so damn hard to carve and there are plenty of chicks on campus who just want to bag ’n’ brag.

  “Fans of yours?” Carter asks, rolling her eyes.

  “More like acquaintances.” I stuff my hands into my pockets and immediately regret the words. I know what it sounds like despite the fact that I’ve never hooked up with either of them.

  Carter presses her lips into a flat line, and I can practically hear her calling me a pig in her head. “So.”