After all, if Harry Potter can take down Lord Voldemort, surely I can best Austin Reid.
“Really? What book?” He inches closer, the fresh, spicy scent of his cologne tickling my nose. “I’ll help you look.”
“No thanks.” When I turn to meet his gaze, our mouths are dangerously close.Nope, nope, nope.I snap my attention back to the bookshelf. “I’ve got this.”
“I’ll bet.” His voice is a low rumble as he reaches around me, fingers skimming across my bicep, and pulls a book from the shelf. A shiver races up my spine, and I can’t bring myself to look at him as he scans the cover. “What’s a mechanical engineering major need with a bunch of psychobabble bullshit?” he asks, holding up a psych book with a picture of an abstract brain on the cover. The smirk on his face says I’m totally busted.
Pulse racing, I wipe my palms on my thighs, certain it’s annoyance making my heart beat double time and not Reid’s dimple. “Well, what do you know?” I snatch the book out of his hand and clutch it to my chest like a golden ticket. “Just the one I was looking for.”
“Uh-huh,” he deadpans, shifting his weight and crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I’m serious. We need to talk about your role on the team.”
Clearly he’s not going to let this go, so I decide to roll with it. Might as well get it over with, whateveritis. “What about my role on the team?”
“As team captain, it’s my job to make sure the team gels and plays like a cohesive unit.” He pauses, blue eyes scanning my face for understanding. “That works best when everyone pulls together. It’s good for morale and winning games.”
I tilt my head, completely lost. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say, but I’m not some delicate flower you have to worry about crushing. Just give it to me straight, okay?”
It’ll be less painful for both of us.
“You’re a wild card.” He heaves a monumental sigh and plants his hands on his hips. “It’s messing with team morale. The guys don’t know you and therefore don’t trust you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand and plows forward.
“Look, I get it. Kickers do their own thing at practice, but it wouldn’t kill you to act like part of the team once in a while. There are some pretty good guys back there,” he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the reading room.
“Really?” I challenge, indignation fanning a fiery ball of outrage in my belly. “Because I hear the talk. I know what football players are like.”
He quirks a brow. “Do you?”
“Oh, come on.” I blow a loose strand of hair out of my face. “Langley thinks I’m going to make Waverly the laughingstock of the conference.”
“Fuck Langley.” He doesn’t miss a beat and the passion behind his words catches me off guard. His swift agreement takes some of the wind out of my sail, because most of the guys have been more welcoming than Langley. “He’s an asshole.”
“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.
