Carter.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Her performance today, her reluctance to hang with us, the way she looked at me like maybe, just maybe the walls were coming down. At least, that’s what I thought until she hit me with the bald-faced lie about studying.
Suffice it to say, I’m off my game. Distracted. Stewing in frustration. Happy to let Coop run interference for the rest of us, doing most of the schmoozing, high-fiving, and fist-bumping as we make our way to the alcohol-stocked kitchen.
I’m not big on the party scene, outgrew it last year, which is why I don’t live at the football house. But I need to be seen and chill with the guys, so here I am bumping elbows with sexy coeds and douchey frat guys that care more about tapping ass than delivering against their mission. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Greek life. Coop says there are some decent guys here and I know for a fact he wouldn’t tolerate any shady shit, but I’ve seen enough on Greek Row to be jaded.
Like the sloppy couple dry humping on the counter as I slide past, needing that drink more than ever.
“Party’s lit,” Parker says, rolling his shoulders as he scans the room. Coop liberates four bottles of lager from the fridge and hands one to me. “I’ve got some catching up to do. What’ve you got besides beer?” Parker asks, reaching for the bottle Coop offers.
“Now you’re talking,” Smith says, grabbing a beer. “Where do the brothers hide the good shit?”
Probably in their locked bedrooms, if they’re smart, but I watch in disbelief as Coop opens the bottom drawer of the stove and reveals a trove of liquor bottles. It speaks volumes about their lifestyle.
I twist the top off my beer, taking a long pull of the amber liquid.
“How about whiskey?” Coop asks, holding up a bottle of Jim Beam. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and I suspect we aren’t supposed to help ourselves, but I’m not about to intervene. It’s our only night off and these are his brothers. He can sort it out himself if they get pissy about the missing alcohol.
Coop lines up a couple of red plastic cups and pours a generous shot into each. They’ve got to be at least doubles, but hey, we’re big guys, and, fuck, maybe the liquor will take the edge off my nerves.
Coop raises his cup and we follow suit. “To Carter and her amazing fuckin’ legs.” The asshole winks at me over the top of his cup, but I ignore the bait. The last thing I want to do is shoot the shit about Carter’s legs and he knows it. The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, warming my belly and giving immediate release to the tension coiled in my shoulders. I tell myself it’s from the game, that I should see the trainer for a massage, but the lie falls flat.
“To Carter and her amazing fuckin’ legs,” Parker echoes, his appreciation for her legs apparent in his tone as he slaps his cup down on the counter.
“Show a little respect.” My temper flares white-hot and the words are out before I can stop them, sounding more like a threat than a warning. “She’s your teammate.”
“Hey, man. No disrespect,” Parker says, a lazy grin spreading over his face. “I’m thinking about asking her out. I’m kind of digging the hard-to-get vibe. I mean, I know she’d never go out with this asshole,” he says, nodding at Coop, who clutches his chest like he’s wounded, “but I figure I might have a shot.”
Like hell. Carter needs a guy who—well, I don’t actually know what she needs, which is half the problem, but I know Parker’s not it.
I crumple my cup and toss it in the overflowing trash can. “Keep your dick in your pants unless you wanna ride the bench. Coach doesn’t want any funny business.”
Smith snorts and gives me the side-eye. “Who the fuck says ‘funny business’?”
“You really think Coach would bench me for taking her out?” Parker asks, skepticism etched in the lines of his face.
“You wanna find out?” I take a pull of my beer, doing my best to look impassive despite the irritation roiling in my gut. Parker and Carter? They’re all wrong for each other. Anyone could see it.
“Dude, you guys are bringing me down,” Coop declares, pouring another shot of whiskey and thrusting it into my hand. “This place is full of women dying to congratulate us on a hard-fought victory today. Can we please go enjoy the fruits of our labor and quit standing around with our dicks in our hands?”
Against my better judgment, I throw back the shot and follow the guys to the living room. We’re immediately swarmed with well-wishers who want to rehash the game. Smith and Parker slide in on the beer pong tourney, and it’s not long before a smoking-hot brunette drags Coop upstairs, her barely there skirt giving him a preview of what’s to come.
I can’t imagine what Carter would think of all this. I’m all for no-strings hookups, but I get the feeling she’s not a fan of casual sex. The idea of bathroom BJs would probably offend her sensibilities and leave her fifty shades of embarrassed.
It has a totally different effect on me.
An image of Carter with her thighs backed up against the bathroom sink plants itself front and center in my brain. It’s easy to imagine cupping her ass and lifting her onto the vanity, her sexy legs parting to allow me access. She lifts her chin, revealing the long line of her neck as her hair tumbles over her shoulders, and it’s the sweetest damn sight I’ve ever seen. I’ll bet she tastes like flowers and honey and sunshine and—fuck. Why am I thinking about Carter?
She’s off-limits. Way off-limits.
Hell, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even like me.
Okay, no big deal. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had sex and teammate or not, she’s the woman I spend the most time with. It’s only natural she’d appear in my fantasy, right?
Doesn’t mean a thing. Except that I need to get laid.
I shake off all thoughts of Carter and grab another beer from the fridge. Then I plaster a smile on my face as I field a million questions about our championship odds, bowl games, and what I’m doing later tonight. The night is young and there are women everywhere, plenty of whom are looking to score.
It’s easy to tell which ones are DTF because they don’t waste time on small talk and get right to the point. Sort of like Kendall, who’s got my bicep in a vise grip as she rubs her perky tits against my chest. Her nipples stand at attention and she’s licking her lips like she’s remembering the taste of my cock in her mouth.
Six months ago—hell, six week ago—I would’ve jumped on the invitation. But I’m not feeling it. Not even a flicker of interest from my cock.
WTF. I glance down at my beer, which is almost empty.
I’ve never experienced whiskey dick firsthand, but this must be it, because come on, no guy in his right mind could look at Kendall and not get hard. She’s a knockout with shiny blonde hair, big brown eyes, and the kind of legs shaped by hours of spin classes.
“You played great today,” she says, batting her lashes and giving me the standard line.
“Thanks.” Here’s the thing, it’s easy to tell the jersey chasers from the real fans because they know your stats and they want to actually talk about the game. Like, in play-by-play detail. Kendall’s cool, but I doubt she knows I threw for over two hundred yards today, because she doesn’t know shit about football.
Hell, I doubt we have anything in common except a mutual interest in pleasure.
“Seeing anyone?” She practically purrs as she looks up at me, her seductive smile telling me everything I need to know. Kendall’s back in the game and looking to score.
“Nah.” I drain my beer and nod a greeting to one of Coop’s brothers. Poor bastard’s eyeing Kendall like she’s salvation, but he doesn’t stand a chance. She’s got a type and he’s not it. “You know the drill. No time for commitments other than football.”
Kendall laughs, her fingers loosening on my arm. “That’s what I like about you, Reid. No bullshit.”
“I try.” I shrug and take the opportunity to disentangle myself from Kendall. We had a thing last year and it was fun while it l
asted, but we went our separate ways when the no-strings sex had run its course. We parted on good terms, and last I heard she was seeing a guy on the baseball team. “What happened with you and McCoy?”
“Turns out I’m not cut out for monogamy.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and takes a sip of her beer. “I seem to recall you prefer it that way too.”
“I did.” The words hang between us a moment too long, and I realize my mistake. “I do,” I amend, raking a hand through my hair. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s messing with my head or maybe it’s the way Kendall’s eyeing me like a side of beef, but I need to bounce. “I’m going to grab another beer. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I turn and push through the crowd, not giving her a chance to protest. I should’ve offered to get her another drink too, but the truth is, I don’t need another beer. I need to get out of here. Away from this whole scene and these people with their impossible expectations of who and what I am.
What I need tonight is someone who doesn’t expect much of me at all.
Kennedy
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” Becca calls from the hall bathroom, where she’s spent the last hour perfecting her hair and makeup to the crooning of Imagine Dragons. “The team would love to see you.”
Yeah, right. I’ve got a couple Snapchat messages that suggest otherwise. Not all the women on the team were as understanding as Becca about my choice to drop soccer for a football scholarship. The fallout hasn’t exactly been nuclear, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to crash their girls’ night out.
Not while the wounds are still fresh, anyway.
“No, thanks,” I say, glancing up from my laptop just in time to see her head peek around the bedroom door. “I have a lot of work to do on this proposal for the ACME design competition.”
Technically, I have a few more weeks to get my proposal approved, but since I’m entering solo, I’ll need every spare minute to prepare. The ACME design competition is the competition for mechanical engineering students, and I can’t afford to blow it.
Not if I want to land a decent job after graduation.
“Bor-ing.” Becca rolls her eyes and pushes the door open the rest of the way. “I thought a full-ride would give you more time to, I don’t know, have a life.” She plants her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes like she can see right through my bullshit. “I mean, shouldn’t you be out celebrating with the football team tonight?” She pauses, her next words very deliberate, although I can hear the suspicion in them. Yep. Her bullshit detector is online. “Are you holding out on me?”
“Of course not.” I toy with a loose thread on my comforter. Here’s the thing: Becca’s not going to understand turning down an invite to party with the football team. Where I see danger, she sees man candy. “You know how I feel about football players.”
This earns me another eye roll, even more dramatic than the last. “Sweetie, I know your dad is an asshole—I get it; mine is, too—but you can’t assume all football players are the same.”
“Why not?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. After all, Becca’s going out to cut loose. The last thing she needs is depressing talk about my daddy issues.
“Because if there’s even one nice guy in that bunch of hotties, it would totally be worth the risk.” Spoken like a woman who’s never had her heart broken. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take, not after years of watching my mom try to change my father—and failing. “Oh, and speaking of things that are hot, I put a new book in your bag for next week’s away game.” She gives me a devious smile. “It’s a scorcher, so try not to blush.”
Becca and I have a shared love of romance novels, but she leans toward books with a heat level that are best read in private, while I prefer a nice slow burn. She’s always slipping me books she thinks will expand my sexual horizons, whatever that means.
“What is it this time?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “Bikers? MMA fighters? Tattoo artist?”
She wiggles her brows. “You’ll have to read it to find out! Anyway, text me if you change your mind about coming out, ’kay?”
I smile and nod as Becca retreats into the hall, although I know deep down it won’t happen. I really do need to work on this proposal, and I’ve already made up my mind. I just need to stay the course, even if it means spending my night off trapped in the apartment with no one but Baxter, Becca’s Labradoodle, to keep me company.
A few minutes later, the front door closes with a soft bang.
“Three, two, one.” Right on time, Baxter thrusts his head through the door and struts over to the bed like he owns the place. I lower my hand and he nuzzles against it, his golden curls soft and silky. “It’s just you and me tonight.”
He gives a small yip that could be annoyance or approval and flops down on the floor, using my discarded Waverly sweatshirt as a pillow. I manage to lose myself in the project for a couple of hours, nailing down the overall concept for my design, while Baxter snores softly next to me.
My phone rings and I grab it off the nightstand, surprised to discover it’s after eleven.
Mom’s smiling picture flashes on the screen, and I swipe right.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, not even waiting for me to say hello. “I’m on a break, so I’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to call and congratulate you on the win today. I’m working a double, but I heard most of the game on the radio.”
“Thanks, Mom.” There’s a surge of warmth in my chest at her words. I know she’s proud of me, she always is, but I also know that congratulating me on a football win takes some real effort on her part. “It was kind of crazy. I was a little worried I might actually shank it.”
“Listen to you,” she says, a note of sadness in her voice. “Talking like one of the guys.”
“Ha,” I scoff, telling myself it couldn’t be further from the truth. “Football terminology does not a football player make.” That’s true enough. It’s not the lingo that’s made me a player, it’s the countless hours I’ve spent on the practice fields perfecting my technique. “How’re things at the hospital?”
“Busy.” I know that’s my cue to wrap it up, that they’ve just done shift change and she’s needed on the floor, but I’m not quite ready to let go. “You know how it is, always shorthanded.”
I hate that she tries to make light of it, that her hours are so long, but I hate myself even more for what comes out of my mouth next. “Do you think you’ll be able to make it to a game once your hours get cut back?”
There’s a long pause, but eventually she promises to come see me play. “Of course, sweetie, but I have to get back to work now. Have a good night, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.” I stare at the phone for a while after I hang up, feeling empty. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to come, to watch me play like she’s probably watched my dad do a hundred times before.
My stomach growls.
Or maybe I just need a snack.
I climb off the bed and tuck my phone in my pocket, determined to find something bingeworthy in our barely passable kitchen. The thing is, neither Becca nor I can cook, so we gave up trying, which is probably for the best since she once caught a towel on fire when she tried to use it as an oven mitt. To avoid such disasters (and eviction), we mostly subsist on cafeteria food and frozen meals.
Case in point, the microwave stir-fry I had for dinner that barely put a dent in my appetite. I scavenge through the cabinets and find a box of popcorn. I toss a bag in the microwave, refill Baxter’s water bowl, and lean against the counter to wait.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I watch the bag make its revolutions around the microwave, the kernels inside exploding rapid fire. I should have accepted Reid’s—the team’s—dinner invitation. It was probably a bitch move to decline. It was just burgers and shakes, after all, not a team orgy.
Mmm. What I wouldn’t give for a chocolate milkshake right now.
But no, burgers and shakes, that’s ho
w it starts. The moment I stop seeing Reid for the good-time guy he is, that’s the moment I’ll lose all conviction. Right?
The microwave dings and I grab the popcorn, careful not to burn my fingers on the steam leaking from the bag. I dump the contents in a bowl, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and grant myself the rest of the night off. I played a good game today and made decent progress on my design proposal.
Time to veg out and catch up with my favorite Riverdale couple.
I’m curled up on the couch, doing my best not to think about football—no small feat since every time Red flashes his washboard abs, I find myself comparing them to Reid, who wins hands down every time—when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s so freaking loud I nearly jump out of my skin. Popcorn spills on the floor, but I stay frozen on the couch. It’s kind of late for company and I’m not expecting anyone. The practical part of my brain says it’s probably just some drunk knocking on the wrong door.
Maybe if I wait it out, they’ll go away.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Or not. The idiot actually knocks louder this time.
I sigh and climb out of my blanket fortress. Probably just a drunk neighbor, but I’m a safety girl, so I grab the Taser from my purse and tiptoe toward the door, the thick carpet muffling my steps. Now, I’ve seen a lot in my three years at Waverly. Naked guys streaking across campus, tipsy girls railing Gloria Gaynor as they dance on their front porches, and even professors LARPing in the Quad, but none of that has prepared me for what I see when I look through the peephole.
What the hell is Austin Reid doing on my doorstep?
Chapter Ten
Austin
This was probably a stupid idea, only my whiskey-addled brain can’t decide if the bad idea was consuming copious amounts of liquor or showing up at Carter’s apartment uninvited. Hell, maybe both. I raise my knuckles and rap on the door once more.
If she doesn’t answer this time, I’ll go.
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 10