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 stupid 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
