“I know.”
“So prove him wrong.” He rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, destroying the artfully messy spike. “Most of the guys on the team want to have your back, but you’re not making it easy. These guys have been playing ball their whole lives and for some, it’s the last time they’ll ever play. The last time they’ll have a shot at a national title. So maybe you could act like you give a damn.”
That fiery ball of outrage in my belly expands. It’s practically a full-scale inferno now. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t give a damn,” I say, poking him in the chest and doing my best to ignore the fact that the wall of muscle doesn’t so much as budge. “Hell, I bailed on a sport I love for one I hate.”
“What do you have against football?” he asks, curiosity lighting his eyes. Or maybe it’s disbelief, because how could anyone not love football, right?
“That’s irrelevant.” I lift my chin and cross my arms over my chest. We are so not going there.
He narrows his eyes, suspicious. “You’re so sure you know what we’re like. Have you ever even spent any time with a ballplayer?”
I flinch. The accusation stings, reminding me of my father, whose absence taught me everything I need to know about football players. “What do you want from me?” I ask, throwing my hands up. “I’m learning a new technique, and I’m here busting my ass every day.”
“Are you? Because it seems like you’ve got one foot out the door.” He pauses and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly Mr. Fidget. Serves the self-important ass right. His voice is soft when he continues. “I stuck my neck out for you. The least you could do is try to fit in with the team.”
His words catch me off guard, hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut. He didn’t stick his neck out for me. He did it for himself. For his shot at a national title and parties and women and draft picks and whatever the hell else it is football players actually give two fucks about.
Not for me.
Laughter bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, and for once I don’t even care if I’m breaking library rules by being loud. “Let’s be honest, you were dead in the water without me. We both know it. So instead of bitching about my team spirit—or lack thereof—perhaps you could say thank you.” I arch a brow for good measure, because, honestly, who the hell does he think he is?
“Okay, that might’ve come out wrong—”
“You think?” I snort and flip my hair over my shoulder, channeling my inner Veronica Lodge.
“Don’t get me wrong, we’re thankful to have you on the team—I’m thankful to have you on the team—but that’s awful big talk for someone who hasn’t proven herself yet.”
“Seriously?” I knit my brows together and purse my lips. What the hell does he think I’ve been doing at practice for the last two weeks? “Because Coach Jackson is thrilled with my progress. In fact, he told me today I’m starting on Saturday.”
If he’s surprised by the news, he doesn’t show it. “See me after your first game,” he says, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “All those soccer games you played? They’re nothing compared to the bright lights and screaming crowds of D1 football. You ever have one hundred thousand fans screaming your name, counting on you to bring home the win? It’s pressure like you couldn’t imagine, so trust me when I say, you’ll want the team at your back.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks away.
I watch his retreat, his words echoing in my head.
Pressure, indeed.
Chapter Six
Austin
I knock on Coach’s door, a feeling of unease twisting my gut. It’s not exactly unusual for him to call me in after practice, and there’s no way he could know about the blowup between Carter and me, but…
“Come on in, son,” he says, waving me into the office. As usual, his face gives nothing away except the fact that he’s spent too much time in the sun. I slide into the chair opposite his desk, casually draping my hands over the front of the armrests, and hope like hell this isn’t going to be a repeat of the Spellman conversation. “How’re things going with Carter?”
“Fine.” Aside from the fact that I can’t stop thinking about the way she bites her plump lower lip. Or how bad I wanted to kiss her senseless when she was spewing righteous indignation between the stacks.
Talk about hot and bothered. Just the memory makes me shift in my seat.
“She fitting in okay with the rest of the team?” Coach tosses his pen on the desk and leans back in his chair to study me.
“As well as can be expected,” I hedge, avoiding an outright lie. In truth, the woman is infuriating as hell, a fact that’s making me feel like a complete failure as captain, something I refuse to accept.
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
