“I’m the only one left.” I point the remote at the projector and pause the film. “Coach took off a while ago and most of the guys were right behind him.”
“But not you?” She tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and walks down the aisle, still looking unsure of herself, which makes no sense since she’s been killing it on the field and at practice. A fact I only know because I check in with the other kickers regularly.
“Nah, I’ve got to be sharp for Saturday’s game. I can’t afford to make mistakes against Pitt. Not unless we want a repeat of last year.”
Carter stops a few seats away and drops down into one of the empty chairs. “What about the rest of the team? I don’t see them in here watching endless hours of game tape.”
I shrug and tap my pencil on the desktop. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since the kiss two weeks ago and even now, three seats away, I can feel Carter’s pull. The urge to drag her onto my lap and show her what she does to me is nearly impossible to ignore.
It’s fucking distracting.
“Yeah, well, they’re not the offspring of the great Derrick Reid. Every move I make is news and every misstep is analyzed to death. I can’t afford to make mistakes.”
She laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “Sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.” My phone’s been blowing up this week with jersey chasers who want to party, but all I can think about is Carter. She’s the only distraction I’ve allowed myself and the one distraction I can’t afford. And not just because Coach forbade it. “The last thing I want to do is let my father, or the fans, down. Everyone thinks being a football legacy is a gift, but the reality is there’s a lot of pressure to be as good as my old man. Otherwise, I’m nothing but a failure.”
Carter’s brows flatten and a tiny wrinkle forms in the crease between them. “I guess I never thought of it that way before.”
I stretch my legs, trying to look unaffected by her empathy. I refuse to think of it as sympathy because I do not need Carter feeling bad for me. And why the fuck am I telling her these things anyway? Sure, I think them all the time, but I’ve never voiced them aloud. Certainly not to my teammates. Still, I can’t seem to shut the hell up. “You know that old saying, walk a mile in someone else’s shoes?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “My mom used to say it all the time when I was a kid, usually when she thought I was being ungrateful.”
“Let’s just say it never sounded like a bad thing to me. Hell, I would’ve given anything to walk in someone else’s shoes as a kid.” She tilts her head as if she’s trying to put it all together and I realize I’m fucking it up. Maybe this is why I’ve never been stupid enough to voice my thoughts aloud. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the game, but it always comes first in my family. I used to be jealous of kids whose lives weren’t defined by football.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll bet every kid on your team wished they had your life. After all, who wouldn’t want an NFL star for a father, right?” Carter laughs, but it rings hollow, and I can’t help but think we aren’t talking about me anymore.
“You.” I’m not sure exactly what she’s trying to tell me, but everything I know about her tells me it’s true.
She shrugs. “You got me. My dad was a football player. I’ll see your future Hall of Famer and raise you a washout.” There’s a note of sadness in her voice. It strikes me like a late hit. I want to move closer, take her hand in mine, but I’m frozen in my seat. This…baring of souls is the closest we’ve ever come to a real conversation, and I don’t want to upset the delicate balance. She gives me a wry smile and I give silent thanks for the dim lighting. Our secrets aren’t the kind you share in the light of day. “And my dad? He was the worst kind of washout. The kind that couldn’t accept it and spent his best years chasing a life that wasn’t meant to be.”
She doesn’t say it—doesn’t have to—but I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. A deep-rooted sadness that confirms her father is the one who shaped her perception of football players. The drinking. The partying. The women. He sounds like a bastard, and I want to say as much, but I bite my tongue.
She already knows he’s a bastard. She doesn’t need to hear it from me.
“We’re not all like him, Carter.” It’s true. Sure, some football players are dicks, but not all of us. The same could be said of the whole male population. I’d hate to see her spend the rest of the season closing herself off from the team—and, okay, me—because of her father’s mistakes. “I’m not like him.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The hell it doesn’t. She hops to her feet and I follow her lead, noticing the way she seems to straighten her spine and pull herself up to her full height, as if she’s fortifying herself against this quiet moment, against me. When she speaks, there’s steel in her voice. “That kiss? It was a onetime deal, okay? It can’t happen again.”
She doesn’t wait for my reply, just turns on her heel and scurries up the aisle like she can’t get away from me fast enough.
Part of me knows it’s just as well. We’re teammates and nothing good can come of it. I’ve got a job to do, a team to lead, a championship to win. But another part of
