“Hey.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re going to be amazing. You play ball in front of a much larger audience every week. It’s no different.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow and devoid of humor. “Trust me when I say, it’s very different. If it was as easy as going out there and kicking a ball, something I’ve done countless times, I’d be money.” He doesn’t look convinced, so I try to explain it to him as best I can. “When I’m on the field, I’m just another pair of cleats, a player hidden by a helmet. Sure, the fans know it’s me. But they can’t see my face and I can’t see theirs. It’s all a blur. I’m practically anonymous.” I snuggle under his arm, letting his body heat warm my skin. “During the competition, I have to speak. To look the judging panel in the eye and present my ideas. Answer questions about the design and mechanics while they score my responses and assess my competency. What if I choke?”
It’s a real possibility. I’m the world’s worst public speaker. Sweaty palms, shaky voice, fifty-fifty shot of projectile vomiting like in that a cappella movie. The added pressure of knowing it’s my last chance to final isn’t helping. For four years, I’ve been dreaming of winning this competition. It’s my version of a national football championship. I want it so bad I can taste it. This must be how Austin feels every time he steps onto the field, knowing even one loss could keep him from his dream.
I have no clue how he shoulders this kind of pressure every day. He makes it look easy. Meanwhile, I’m over here contemplating a nervous breakdown.
“You won’t choke.” He says it with such conviction I almost believe him. “And I’ll be there with you.”
I look up at him from under my lashes. I’ve only really ever put my trust in my mom. This is a small gesture on his part, but it feels like a big one. Like a turning point. “Promise?”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Austin
I jog across the parking lot and duck into the grocery store, hoping they’ll have a decent floral department. I’ve never bought a woman flowers before, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Which means there’s a good chance I’ll screw it up. Like, aren’t there rules about colors? And flower types? I don’t want to send the wrong message.
Should’ve checked Google.
It’s times like this I miss my mom the most. She was big on philanthropy and was always planning one high-society fundraiser or another. She knew all about this kind of stuff. And she would’ve been thrilled to give me advice on how to be relationship goals, because she would’ve accepted nothing less from her only son.
Relationship.
The word still feels awkward and clumsy. I’ve been labeled a lot of things: All-American, son, quarterback, friend, captain, hookup. But never boyfriend. It’s not a label I expected. Not this year, anyway. A thrill races up my spine. Being able to say Kennedy is mine and mine alone tends to have that effect. And although they’ll never have the chance to meet, I know my mom would love her. Would love her brains and wit and the way she doesn’t take crap from anyone. Would love her giant heart and the fact that after so much hurt, she was still willing to give her old man a second chance, whether he deserved it or not.
I approach the floral department, taking in the rainbow of blossoms that fill the racks, and hope for the best. Because no way in hell am I going to text my roommates for advice. I’d never hear the end of it. Plus, I’m tight on time, despite cutting my last class of the day. I can’t afford to miss classes, but it’ll be worth it to see the smile on my girl’s face.
Kennedy’s worked so hard on this competition. Hell, she’s even taught me a thing or two about puppet robots and pressure sensors. She deserves to celebrate her accomplishment, win or lose. Not that she’ll lose. She’s been practicing with the robot every spare minute. Possibly to distract herself from the thought of public speaking. Either way, it’s paid off. She maneuvered it around the kitchen with expert precision last night while Becca and I cheered her on.
I scan the floral department, dismissing the potted plants and bouquets that look like Thanksgiving centerpieces. I choose a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. Orchids and roses, according to the shelf tag. They’re the palest shade of pink I’ve ever seen—almost ivory—and they’re perfect. I tuck them under my arm and head for the register. I need to hustle. I’ve only got a few hours to catch the competition and get to practice.
We’ve been busting our asses this week, preparing for tomorrow’s game against Michigan. It’s a big one and alumni are already descending on College Park, making traffic a nightmare. Waverly has a long-standing rivalry with the Wolverines and the games are always close, the stadium filled to capacity. With an 8-1 record, we’re leading the conference and even though the only thing I should be thinking about is tomorrow’s game, Kennedy rules my thoughts as I swipe my debit card at the self-checkout.
I’m grinning like a fool by the time I slide behind the wheel of the Jeep. It doesn’t matter. Things are going my way, and I’ve got the rare opportunity to spend a couple of hours with my girl on a Friday afternoon.
Plenty of time to worry about football later.
My phone rings and Dad flashes on the screen. I punch the accept button on the steering wheel, a sense of dread seeping into my bones.
“Where are you?” he asks without preamble.
“On campus.” He doesn’t need to know I ditched Global Marketing.
He’s slow to respond. “You didn’t forget about lunch with John, did you? I told you to write it on the calendar.”
Fuck.
How could I have forgotten? Coach’s been riding me about the scout visits all week, trying to get me to commit to the Sunday workout. Hell, it’s all anyone’s been talking about in the locker room and on the field. Even the underclassmen are hoping to make an impression. Me? I’ve been trying to block out the noise and ignore the spectators. I grit my teeth and grip the wheel tighter. Maybe I was a little too focused because I completely forgot about lunch with Hart.
I glance down at my clothes. A Waverly polo and jeans. My father will expect better, but there’s no time to go home and change. It’ll have to do. I check my rearview mirror and swing a U-turn. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can leave.
“No, of course not,” I lie, feeling like an asshole. “I’m on my way, but I can’t stay long. Kennedy’s competing in a mechanical engineering contest this afternoon and I promised to be there.”
When I arrive at the restaurant, my father and Hart are already seated with drinks in hand, no doubt toasting the good old days. The scent of seared beef hangs in the air, but even so, I’m not a fan of the place. It’s got an old-school vibe: heavy wood trim, leather-back chairs, pristine white linens. It’s dark and stuffy and I’d be just as happy grabbing a burger at the Diner, but it’s not up to me.
They stand to greet me and I apologize for being late. Pittsburgh may not be my first choice, but I don’t want Hart to think I’m an entitled asshole. He’s a scout for one of the best teams in the NFL, and I know his time is valuable.
“Don’t sweat it.” He claps me on the back and takes a swig of his beer. I can’t help but notice he’s wearing the team colors. “We just got here ourselves.”
We make small talk as we wait for the server to come by, discussing Pittsburgh’s chances of making the playoffs. My foot is tapping a nervous beat under the table, every minute feeling like an eternity as the clock ticks down to Kennedy’s three-thirty presentation. I’ll be cutting it close, but she won’t care if I miss her competitors as long as I’m there for her.
Once we’ve ordered, talk turns to Waverly’s performance.
“You look good, Austin,” Hart says, crossing his arms over his chest and studying me.
“I feel good, sir.”
Hart and my father exchange a conspiratorial look. “I should think so. You’re eight and one. Plenty of guys in the conference who’d kill for that record.”
&nbs
p; “They’ve got a real shot at the national championship,” my father agrees.
I shrug. “I’ve got a great team. It’s easy to win games when you’re playing with a first-rate offense.”
Hart laughs and slaps his knee. “You sure this is your kid, Reid?” he asks my father. “You don’t have a humble bone in your body.”
My dad laughs good-naturedly, but when he turns to me, there’s sadness in his eyes. “He gets it from his mother. He got all the good stuff from her.”
My throat closes up. I want—need—to say something, but I’m not sure how to respond. It’s the first time I can ever remember my father comparing me to my mother. It means more than he realizes. But this isn’t the time or the place to unpack all our baggage. Hell, I’m not sure it’ll ever be the right time. There are too many unspoken truths between us, and I don’t have the first clue where to start.
Fortunately, Hart easily steers the conversation back to football.
“Glad to hear it. I’m always on the lookout for players with a good head on their shoulders. So many kids these days have big egos and bigger attitudes. That doesn’t fly in Pittsburgh.” Hart sips his beer. “But Coach Collins tells me that won’t be an issue for you.”
“No, sir,” I say. “I take my role as a team leader very seriously. I just want to play ball for a good program.”
I’m careful not to specifically express interest in Pittsburgh, not that it matters since it’s assumed.
“Don’t sweat the draft. You’ll land in a good program.” Hart chuckles and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter if the worst team in the league gets first pick. There’ll be plenty of trades made behind the scenes. Hell, things go right, you could end up playing for your old man’s team if you finish the season strong.”
“Austin won’t settle for anything less than a national title, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.” I drum my fingers on the table. Where the hell is our food? I glance around. It’s midafternoon, and the place isn’t exactly busy. We’ve already burned twenty minutes. I take a deep breath, willing the tension to leave my body. I can still make it to the competition. It’s doable.
“Well, leadership wants you, the coaching staff wants you, and so do the fans,” Hart says, toying with his beer. “You’re a legacy.”
The waitress stops at the table to let us know our food will be up shortly. My father and Hart order another round of drinks. I order another water. I need to stay hydrated for practice, even if I am desperate to get this over with.
It’s another fifteen minutes until our food arrives. Hart and my dad are still discussing my prospects in Pittsburgh, but I can’t concentrate. Twice Hart has to repeat himself because I’m not paying attention. It’s the longest fucking meal of my life, and yet the minutes continue to tick by, my anxiety increasing each time I check my phone.
There’s a text from Kennedy.
Kennedy: Where are you?
I glance at Hart, confirming he and my father are too deep in their hypothetical draft to care if I’m texting, and shoot her a quick reply.
Austin: Finishing up lunch with my dad and the scout from Pittsburgh. Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll be there.
It’s a bit of an exaggeration considering Hart’s only eaten half his entrée, but I don’t want her to worry. I force myself to join the conversation, hoping if I do more of the talking, Hart will do more eating. It works. To a point. Apparently the man’s the slowest eater on the planet. How have I never noticed this before?
I check the time again, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. I’m running out of time. If I don’t get on the road soon, I’m going to miss Kennedy’s presentation. My tapping foot has reached a breakneck pace, but I can’t seem to slow it down.
I can’t be late. I promised her I’d be there. She needs me.
After what feels like an eternity, the server finally clears our plates.
Hallelujah.
When Hart orders another round of drinks for the table, I go into full-on panic mode. I pride myself on staying calm under pressure, but something’s gotta give. Hart excuses himself to hit the head and I turn to my dad, already half out of my chair. “I need to go. If I leave now, I can still make it in time for Kennedy’s presentation.”
His eyes widen in surprise, but his voice is carefully controlled when he speaks. It’s his media voice, the one he always uses when talking to the press. Doesn’t matter if it’s good news or bad news or something in between, he’s mastered the art of playing it cool. “Absolutely not. You leave now, it’s an insult to the organization.” He gestures for me to sit down. “The least you can do is stay until John finishes his drink.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he says, drilling the table with his pointer finger. “What could be more important than achieving your dream?”
I falter. I know he means well. That he wants the best for me, but I’m not entirely sure he knows what that is. Hell, I’m not even sure if I know. “Kennedy needs me.”
“This girl again?” My father arches a disapproving brow, the closest he’ll come to showing displeasure in public. He’s made it clear he thinks a relationship is an unnecessary distraction, but we’ve agreed to disagree. As long as my performance doesn’t suffer. “Look, son, if this girl really cares about you, she’ll understand. This meeting? It’s about securing your future and maybe hers too, if she’s that important to you.”
I slide back into my chair, weighing my father’s words. My entire life he’s been my biggest fan. We may not agree on everything, but he’s always supported me. Without him, I wouldn’t be half the athlete I am. Sure, there are days I wish we could be a normal family, but it’s not in the cards. We’re a football family, and I can’t throw it all away now.
Kennedy will understand, won’t she?
I’m not sure, but in the end, I acquiesce to my father’s wishes. Just as I’ve done for the last twenty-one years. Just as he knew I would. Hart returns and as they continue reminiscing about their glory days, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Kennedy
Where the eff is Austin? He promised he’d be here. I glance at the clock. We’re on in five minutes. I straighten my skirt and smooth my hair. My heart is hammering in my chest and it’s entirely possible I’m going to pass out. I already warned Enzo. He swears he’ll catch me, although, truth be told, if I go down, I might be better off cracking my head open so I have an excuse to leave.
No way I’d be able to get back up and finish the presentation after that kind of humiliation.
The arena is packed, most of the students anxious to check out the competition. Bodies press in on all sides, the hum of conversation an incessant buzz that’s impossible to block out. I follow Enzo’s lead as he shoulders his way to the front of the crowd gathered around ring number three. It’s one of five identical rings that’s been set up for the timed trials. It’s also where we’ll be presenting.
I scan the faces circling the makeshift arena, noting most wear ACME badges around their necks. While I’m verging on a panic attack, everyone else looks so cool and collected. How is that possible?
The idea of facing the judges scares the crap out of me.
I draw a deep breath and blow it out through my nose, trying to channel some of Enzo’s calm. He’s on his own—Emma has a late class—and he’s not freaking out. The difference is, he’s not terrified of speaking in front of a crowd.
Unlike me.
It doesn’t matter if it’s in the classroom or in competition, I hate public speaking. Unfortunately, it’s a key component of the ACME Student Design Competition. All team members must participate in the presentation.
Shit. I really should’ve gotten my prescription for anti-anxiety meds refilled.
Too late now.
I just need to focus. I got through the presentation last year and I can do it again. I just have to finish. It doesn’t matter if my voice shakes as long as the rob
ot kicks ass.
I sneak a peek at the group currently competing. Their bot is doing well, and they’ve only knocked over one tube. Not bad, but I’ve seen others complete the task more quickly. They’re no threat.
I won’t be either if I pass out.
“Relax,” Enzo says, laying his free hand on my shoulder. The other holds our sizing box, which houses our robot, replacement batteries, and other supplies we might need while competing. “We’re going to kill it.”
“I like your confidence,” I tell him, my voice sounding pitchy. I press my hands to my thighs, wiping my sweaty palms on my black dress pants. This can’t be over soon enough. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Thanks for saving my butt.”
“Please,” he says, waving me off. “When we win first place and I add it to my resume, I’ll be thanking you.”
The team ahead of us collects their robot and vacates the arena. I swallow and force myself to put one foot in front of the other as Enzo and I move into position. The judges watch intently as we set up Sparky—Enzo’s pet name for our bot—and verify its remote is synced. We only have sixty seconds to set up. Then it’s on to the presentation portion. Once Sparky is powered up, I turn to the judges.
All eight of them.
Which is nothing compared to the countless bodies milling around the arena, pressing closer to hear about Sparky’s design.
Oh, God. This would be so much easier if I had a familiar face in the crowd. But Mom’s working and Becca’s got an away game and Austin…Austin’s abandoning me the one time I need him most. He promised to be here and he’s not. I’m alone. And I’m going to pass out and ruin our chances at winning. Everything we worked so hard for, out the window because of my stupid fear. No awards ceremony. No job offers. No—
Enzo squeezes my shoulder, and I realize we’re on the clock.
I lick my lips, trying to close the lid on my fear. The judges are just people. Super-smart engineering people, but people nonetheless. Even if they hate our presentation, it’ll be over soon.
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 24