KENNEDY
It’sday one of senior year and my schedule is bananas. I was late for my first class and after spending hours reviewing syllabi, I’m seriously questioning my sanity. In a moment of blind ambition, I signed up for eighteen credits of upper level mechanical engineering classes—a necessary evil if I want to graduate in May—which coupled with football is…insane.
Seriously. No one in their right mind would willingly sign up for this schedule. Which totally explains why most of the guys on the team take the minimum credit hours during the season. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.
Not if I want to graduate on time and start paying down my mammoth student loan debt.
So, yeah, fall semester is already kicking my ass and it’s only day one. First class, then football. Special Teams doesn’t always join the main practice, but when we do, I swear Reid spends half the time scrutinizing me, no doubt judging my progress and wondering if he made a mistake.
Well, he can suck it. I’ve been busting my ass to perfect my technique and with Coach Jackson’s help I’m currently seventy-thirty on the long-range kicks, which is better than the freshmen, and I haven’t even perfected my technique yet. Bonus: my accuracy skyrockets to ninety-three percent inside the thirty-five, which is the best on the team.
Still, Reid’s lingering gaze is a distraction I can live without.
Thankfully, practice is over, and I’ve got the visiting team locker room to myself. It’s just as nice as the home team locker room, with the same pristine white lockers, industrial blue carpet and overwhelming scent of disinfectant, but it’s kind of lonely—I swear to God there’s an echo every time I so much as pee—and for the first time, I miss the women on the soccer team.
Miss having Becca by my side after a tough practice. Miss the singing and dancing and ridiculous victory celebrations reserved for wins over conference rivals. I glance around the empty locker room, heart sinking. I didn’t realize how much I valued the camaraderie on the soccer team. It’s unlikely I’ll be participating in any locker room celebrations this year, but you know what they say about hindsight.
It’s a bitch.
Not that I’m complaining, exactly. Because, hello, full-ride scholarship. And Coach Collins was decent enough to assign me a locker in the home team locker room as well, but it’s mostly a token gesture for inclusivity and game days since getting naked with a bunch of football players is against my personal code of conduct. Sure, there are women who’d give their left ovary to get in that locker room—including Becca—but I’m not one of them.
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.
