“Later.” I wave as she slings her bag over her shoulder and turns to the lot. Then I zip my bag and head for the locker room.
“Hey, Carter! Wait up!”
Instinctively, I slow my steps, glancing back over my shoulder at the two lumbering giants cutting across the field. No one I know. At least, not personally. But even I recognize the face of Waverly’s darling quarterback, Austin Reid, as he jogs across the field, covering the distance in smooth, graceful steps.
“I’m kind of in a hurry.” And I have zero interest in chatting it up with douchey football players.
The giants slow to a stop a few feet away, assuming a casual stance, their feet spread wide, arms dangling loosely at their sides. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’ve had coaching on how to look unthreatening.
Or as unthreatening as possible, given they look like a Captain America-Thor matched set.
Mmm. Chris Hemsworth.
“This won’t take long.” Reid flashes a disarming smile. One that has surely relieved a few (hundred) Waverly women of their underwear. Figures. Austin Reid is even better looking in person than inThe Collegian. The grainy black-and-white photos in the student paper don’t do him justice. The guy’s a beast, towering over my five-foot-ten frame by a good six inches. With muscles for days and electric-blue eyes that dance with barely contained energy, it’s no wonder women flock to him like freshmen to a rush party. I take satisfaction in the fact that his normally spiky hair is drooping in the humidity, falling over his forehead in a dark wave. After all, I’m a big ball of sweat so it only seems fair. “I’m Austin and this is Cooper.”
“You can call me Coop,” the Hemsworth doppelgänger says, extending his hand for me to shake. Judging by his size, another football player. He’s got broad shoulders, shaggy blond hair, and eyes like sea glass. And like Reid, he’s stupid hot. If you’re into meatheads. Which I’m not.
I grip my bag tighter, ignoring the proffered hand.
“We play football,” Coop says, his lopsided grin reminding me of Becca’s mischievous Labradoodle.
“And?” If the guy’s looking for someone to stroke his ego, he came to the wrong place, Labradoodle smile or no.
“We saw you play today,” Austin—Reid—says, smiling so his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ve got a powerful leg.”
“And damn fine accuracy,” Coop adds, crossing his arms over his muscular chest.
“I’ve been playing soccer since I was five,” I blurt out, cursing myself for offering the information when I have no idea where this conversation is going. Not that it matters. Whatever they want, I’m not interested. “What’s your point?”
“Look, I understand you’re in a hurry, so I’ll cut to the chase.”
I raise a brow. Quick, this one.
“Waverly football needs a quality kicker.” Reid takes a step forward as if all that bottled-up energy is propelling him into motion.
“And?” I shift my bag, impatience getting the better of me. If I don’t hit the shower, I’m going to miss the bus. “I’m still not seeing what this has to do with me.”
“Really?” Coop smirks, looking me over from head to toe as if he’s sizing me up. “You’re a mechanical engineering major. Pretty sure you’ve got the brainpower to put two and two together.”
Before I can decide if I should be offended or flattered, Reid pins his buddy with a withering glare. “What my teammate is trying to say is that we want you to try out for the football team.”
This time I actually laugh out loud, making no attempt to stifle my hysterical giggles even as tears leak down my cheeks. Because, come on, it’s ridiculous. Me? On the football team? They can’t be serious.
When I finally catch my breath, I realize they aren’t laughing.
Maybe they’re high. “Have you been smoking?” I ask, because,no filter.
They look at each other and then back at me. “Smoking?”
“You know, weed? Pot? Or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days.” I check their pupils. Huh, surprisingly clear.
“I’m serious,” Reid says, planting his hands on his hips, expression unreadable.
“Besides, we don’t smoke during the season,” Coop chimes in like he’s immensely proud of this show of restraint. “Gotta keep our reflexes tight.”
Fucking ballers.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I say, looking pointedly around the field, “I’m already on a team. Besides, I don’t even like football.”
