Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 7

  Coach narrows his eyes to slits, his bushy brows flattening. “Something you want to tell me?”

  “No, sir,” I say, resolved to figure Carter out on my own. It’s rare someone can slip past my defenses and make me lose my shit, but she seems to have a rare gift for pushing my buttons. And vice versa, if I’m being honest. Sure, I’m annoyed, but mostly at myself for screwing things up in the first place.

  In retrospect, I probably could’ve handled the whole teamwork conversation better. But, honestly? There are a ton of guys on the team who’d give their left nut for a full-ride. Doesn’t she get how big a deal this is?

  Even so, I feel like a dick about how we left things at the library. It isn’t like me to walk away—from a fight or a teammate—and the last thing I’d want to do is psych her out before her first game.

  Shit. What if she gets performance anxiety because of me?

  Some fucking leader I am.

  “Good,” Coach says, dragging me back to the present, apparently satisfied with my one-word answers. “I actually called you in to talk shop.”

  My ears perk up, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Got a call from a scout in Chicago yesterday.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together. My heart begins to pound. He’s got my full attention now. “You ever think about playing ball in the Windy City?”

  Fuck yeah, I have. Like every day for the last two years. They’ve got a killer coaching staff and although the team is in a rebuilding phase, there’s a lot of potential there.

  I shrug, not trusting myself to speak.

  “They’ve got a good program in Chicago, despite their record. Coach Norris is a good man and a good coach. He could really help elevate your game as you transition into the NFL.”

  I nod, tamping down my excitement. Coach doesn’t need to know I’m pissing myself at the prospect of attention from Chicago. “I appreciate the interest, sir, but I don’t think it’s in the cards. My family wants me to play ball in Pittsburgh.”

  I’ve always known that wherever I go, all roads lead to the Steel City. It was all my parents ever talked about when I was a kid, seeing me wear the black and gold one day. Just like my old man. Hell, I’m wearing a tiny black and gold striped hat and matching blanket in my first baby picture.

  No way I’m going to let them down when their—the dream is finally within reach.

  “Pittsburgh.” Coach grunts. “I know it’s your old man’s team, but you could be part of something special in Chicago. Blaze your own trail, so to speak. Team’s got the makings of being great one day. They just need a solid QB to jump-start the program.”

  He’s not wrong. Chicago’s always had a first-rate defense. If they could play both sides of the ball at the same caliber, they’d dominate the NFC North. But I’m hardly in a position to blaze my own trail, even if the prospect gets my blood thrumming.

  Outwardly, the draft will decide my fate, but I’m not naive enough to think there won’t be a shit ton of wheeling and dealing behind the scenes. Chicago could very well end up with a top draft pick, but that doesn’t mean they’ll call my name. My father’s got friends in high places and I have no doubt he can make Pittsburgh a reality.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a QB threatened not to sign if he didn’t like the draft team.

  “Look, I know you’ve got history in Pittsburgh, but it couldn’t hurt to talk to the Chicago scout.” He levels me with his eyes, no doubt taking my measure. “You’re one of the top players in the country, Reid.” What he doesn’t say is that I’ll also be a top draft pick, but we both know it’s true. “And a good leader.” Except, apparently, when it comes to Carter. “There are going to be a lot of teams sniffing around this season, son. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t encourage you to explore all your options and find the team that’s right for you. Not your family, you.”

  I grunt noncommittally, ignoring the disappointment gnawing at my gut. No sense wasting the scout’s time or mine. And definitely no sense getting my hopes up for things that aren’t meant to be. I’ll be a franchise quarterback, but it won’t be in Chicago. My future was laid out years ago. Now all I have to do is walk the path.

  “Anything else, sir?” I rise to my feet, the weight of expectation heavier than usual.

  “No, you’re free to go,” Coach says, glancing over my shoulder.

  I turn to leave and find Carter hovering at the door, toying with a wet rope of hair. I freeze, tension coiling in my chest at the sight of her. How much of our conversation did she hear?

  She clears her throat, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Enough then. “Um, you wanted to see me, Coach?”

  I shouldn’t be surprised by her presence. Coach probably just wants to talk to her about Saturday’s game. But football’s the last thing on my mind as I take in the guarded look in her eyes.

  The look I put there.

  My breath comes hard and fast. I want to apologize, tell her I’m sorry for being a colossal jackass, but this is hardly the time with Coach breathing down my neck. Besides, there’s so much shit between us right now, it takes a superhuman effort just to get my mask of control back in place.

  The woman has a talent for slipping past my defenses, I’ll give her that much. Problem is, it can only lead to trouble. For both of us.

  Kennedy

  I stifle a yawn and check my reflection in the mirror, making sure my hair is somewhat presentable. It’s not something I typically worry about for practice—it’ll be a hot mess by the time we’re done—but with the home opener tomorrow and all the speculation surrounding little ol’ me, Coach thought it would be a good idea to let the media watch practice today.

  Oh, and apparently I have to do an interview as well. Just the thought makes me twitchy. I’m not great with public speaking (okay, real talk—I suck at it), but Coach assured me it would just be one or two local reporters plus someone from The Collegian.

  “It’s just a regular practice,” I remind myself, although the face in the mirror looks far from convinced. Or maybe it’s just lack of sleep making my eyes appear flat. With sixteen-hour days and hardly a moment to breathe, the football schedule makes soccer feel like a walk in the park. It also means I rarely see Becca despite the fact that we live together.

  Clearly I should have asked more questions before saying yes, because I had no idea the team was expected to be in the weight room from six to eight every morning. Or that there would be morning meetings and afternoon game tape reviews, in addition to daily practices. Or that my day would start at six in the morning and end at nine at night. If I’m lucky enough to get all my schoolwork done in study hall.

  And that if? It’s a biggie.

  Stupid crazy-pants schedule.

  My phone rings as I move to shut my locker, and I glance at the clock. I’ve got a few minutes before practice starts, so I grab my phone and swipe to accept the call.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie.” Her words are cheerful, buoyant even. Someone’s in a good mood. The thought brings a smile to my face. “How’s your day going?”

  “Good.” Because all things being relative, it is a good day. Despite the fact that I’m about to go perform like a show pony for a bunch of reporters. “I’ve got practice in a few minutes, but I’m glad you called. You sound happy and…well rested,” I say, realizing that for the first time in ages her words aren’t tinged with fatigue.

  Mom laughs, the sound carrying through the phone like the tinkling of a wind chime. “Well, that’s because the car’s running again, and I let my director know I’ll be cutting my hours back when the next schedule comes out.”

  The light at the end of the tunnel.

  Relief floods my veins, loosening the ever-present knot of worry in my chest. “Good. You always preach the value of self-care. It’s about time you indulge in a little.”

  “I’ll certainly have plenty of free time.” She sounds excited by the prospect, reaffirming my decision to play f
ootball. I may be tired, but Mom’s been working her ass off, shouldering the financial burden of our little family for twenty-one years—alone. I can do it for one season. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll even take one of those Zumba classes that are all the rage at the community center.”

  “Whoa, listen to you, wild woman,” I tease, a smile curving my lips. “Don’t get too carried away.”

  We share a laugh, but her voice is wrought with concern when she speaks again. “Speaking of getting carried away, how’re things going with the team? You’re not getting involved with those boys, are you?”

  “Mom!” Heat floods my cheeks, and I turn away from the mirror, not needing to see the evidence of my total humiliation. Thank God my mom isn’t into FaceTime, because I’m pretty sure involved is code for sex and while the only orgasms I’m having are courtesy of two AA batteries, one look at my face would tell her everything she needs to know about my lusty Reid-centric thoughts. “Are we going to have this conversation every time you call?” I ask, hoping to put an end to the subject once and for all.

  I mean, honestly, we’ve been having the same “football players suck” conversation since I got my first period. And fine, maybe I ignored it to my detriment in high school, but message received and lesson learned. It’s time to move on.

  She pauses, and I can easily imagine her pursing her lips on the other end of the line, running her reply through the filter I’m sorely lacking. “I won’t apologize for worrying about you,” she says, her words filled with that fierce tiger-mom pride that floods my heart with warmth. “You’re my baby and it’s my job to protect you. Trust me. They’re all the same. I don’t want to see you learn that lesson the hard way.”

  Like she did.

  I swallow, reminding myself why I agreed to do this in the first place. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything that would jeopardize my scholarship, which is why I’ve got to go. Practice is starting.”

  She sighs. “All right. I don’t want to make you late. I’m sorry I can’t make it to the game tomorrow, but I’ll be listening on the radio at work. You’re going to do great.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She may not like that I’m playing football (probably hates it with the fire of a thousand suns), but I have zero doubt her confidence in me is sincere. She’s always been my biggest fan. “I love you.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I make my way to the outdoor practice field where Coach Jackson is already waiting with the reporters. Five of them, to be exact. Which is two more than I expected. My belly flips, and for a minute I think the apple slices I ate on my way over might make a reappearance. Not exactly the kind of headline I want to make today.

  “Miss Carter,” Coach Jackson says by way of greeting before swiftly introducing the reporters. Their names and affiliations are lost on me—my brain is stuck on a let’s-get-this-over-with-before-I-hurl loop—but I do learn two of them are photographers or videographers or whatever they’re called. So only three interviewers, as promised.

  With the introductions complete, Coach Jackson suggests we start with the Q&A. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. I’m not sure I could focus on kicking knowing they’re waiting to play twenty questions.

  Just, no.

  I suck in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass that lingers in the air, and let the sounds of practice wash over me. Sounds that have become as familiar to me as my own breathing over the last few weeks. The telltale crash of pads and helmets. The calling of plays. The grunts and cheers that follow a well-executed tackle. The sun is warm on my face and there’s no wind today. Perfect conditions for a kicker.

  Perfect conditions for me.

  I open my eyes and smile at the interviewers, letting them know I’m ready when they are and hoping they won’t see straight through me. There are no bleachers on the practice fields, so we dive into the interview where we stand, thirty yards from the end zone where Coach has set up the football and holder. There’s a mesh bag of extra balls off to the side, so I know he’s expecting me to make several kicks. Just like any other practice.

  “Miss Carter, how does it feel to be the first woman to earn a football scholarship to a Division I school?” the first reporter asks. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail and the look on her face is all business. I try to focus on the question, but she’s intimidating as hell. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the introductions, because who is this woman?

  “Honestly?” I say, resisting the urge to bite my lip. “I try not to think about it most days. Out here, I’m just like any other player on the team. I have a job to do and nothing else matters. It’s just me, the ball, and the upright.” Besides, it’s not like I’m the first woman to ever land a college football scholarship, just the first at a D1 school.

  Coach Jackson raises a brow, and I remember what Austin said about having the team at my back. I still don’t want to get close to them, but maybe there’s another way.

  “Like I said,” I continue, pasting a bright smile on my face, “I try not to think about it and focus on the team, but I know I’m fortunate to have this opportunity. There are a lot of guys on the team with more experience than me, who are also deserving of scholarships, but everyone’s been really supportive. The team, the trainers, the coaching staff, they’ve all been very welcoming.” Except that asshat Langley. “And I’m honored to be playing for a program with such a distinguished history and wealth of talent.”

  A smile pulls at the corner of Jackson’s mouth, and I know I’ve said the right thing. One down…

  “Coach Collins has announced you’ll be starting tomorrow against Idaho,” the second reporter, a squat guy with broad shoulders, says. “You’ll be the first woman in history to clock actual game time in D1 football. How are you handling the pressure?”

  Okay, then. No easy warm-up questions here. “I don’t let myself get caught up in hype. I’ve been an athlete all my life, so preparing for tomorrow’s game against Idaho is no different from any other week of training. I’ve been really focused on technique, distance, and accuracy.”

  “You stated you’ve been an athlete all your life,” he says, cutting off the Collegian reporter before the guy can get a word out, “but you’ve never played football, isn’t that right? You were a soccer player before you tried out for Wildcat football?”

  “That’s right,” I say, shifting my weight and keeping an eye fixed on Jackson in case he’s got more nonverbal cues for me. “I played soccer for sixteen years, most recently for the Lady Wildcats, before joining the football team as a placekicker.” I shrug. “The skill isn’t all that different from kicking a long ball in soccer. The same principles apply and my training regimen really isn’t all that different either, although there’s a lot less cardio involved.”

  Jackson grins, and I find myself smiling back, a genuine reaction this time. Because, come on, look at me being all funny and charming.

  “You stated that the team and coaching staff have been really supportive,” the Collegian reporter says, shoving his iPhone closer to ensure he gets a clear recording of my response, “but there are a lot of folks out there who question whether you’ve got what it take to compete in the Big Ten, arguably one of the toughest conferences in college football. What do you say to the detractors?”

  Fuck you? Nope. Jackson would probably keel over. “Like I said, I don’t get caught up in the hype.” Truth. I don’t even know what they’re saying about me online because I don’t have time to worry about it with my crazy-ass schedule. “My focus is on the game and showing up for the team, but I guess I’d tell them not to count me out. The best kickers in the country have a field goal percentage north of eighty-eight percent and so do I.” I hold up a hand before he can argue. “I may not be game tested, but I like my odds.” I nod to the adjacent field where the rest of the team is still running plays. “These guys get me in range on game day, I’ll prove it.”

  The Collegian reporter nods, doing his best to look unimpressed—and failing.
“Percentages can be misleading,” he says. “Most kickers can put up those kinds of stats inside the thirty. What’s your range like?”

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m money from the forty-five, feeling pretty confident, but Jackson answers for me.

  “Why doesn’t she just show you?” he says, gesturing to the spot in the center of the field where he’s set up the football and holder.

  Why not indeed.

  An hour later, I’ve done my best to impress the reporters, but even I know hitting all my kicks in optimal conditions doesn’t exactly carry the wow factor.

  We wrap up the interview as practice winds down—thankfully it’s a short one today—and I find myself walking in step with Reid as we leave the field. We haven’t spoken since the other night at the library. I don’t have the first clue what to say to him, even if I wanted to break the ice. Not that I’ve forgiven him, exactly. But after overhearing his conversation with Coach Collins, I can’t help but feel a little bad for the guy. He’s clearly under a lot of pressure.

  “How’d the interview go?” Reid asks, a warm smile curving his lips. “Did you wow them with your usual grace and charm?”

  A week ago, the comment would’ve had my back up, but I’m starting to get the team’s brand of humor. “Guess we’ll see when the articles come out, but they didn’t seem overly impressed.”

  “Then they’re idiots.” He says it completely matter-of-fact. No room for debate. “You’re playing ball for a top-tier school with only a few weeks of training. If they can’t see how incredible that is, they’re idiots.”

  I freeze in my tracks. It’s the nicest thing Reid’s ever said to me. Is this his version of an apology? He pauses and turns to look at me, a question I’m not prepared to answer in his eyes. He takes a step toward me and I chew my bottom lip, trying to decide if it’s enough, this proverbial olive branch he’s extended. The rational part of my brain—the part that’s cataloged the date and time of every shitty thing my father’s done—is screaming at me to keep on walking, chin held high.