Still, I give him a bright smile because I need the guy to like me.
“So what’s your experience, Carter?”
“I’ve been playing soccer since I was five,” I say, deciding this isn’t the time for modesty, “and I’ve got the best long ball in Wildcat soccer. Men’s and women’s.”
He nods and narrows his dark eyes. “What’s your training regimen?”
I run him through my strength training exercises and throw in a few kicking drills that have helped hone my accuracy. He grunts and I’m starting to wonder if this is a secret form of communication in the land of Neanderthals.
Should’ve asked Reid for the secret decoder ring.
“Sir, I need this scholarship. A full scholarship,” I clarify. “I’m a quick study and can learn the fundamentals if you’ll give me a chance.” My words are wrought with confidence, and hell, even I’m starting to believe I can do this. After all, how hard can it be?
“Don’t tell me,” Jackson says, nodding at the field where one of his players is preparing to kick a field goal. “Show me.”
I watch as the guy sets himself up, taking three steps back and two to the left. He sucks in a deep breath and studies the upright. When he releases his breath, he takes three quick steps forward, closing the distance to the ball and booting it into the air with a smooth sweep of his leg. What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in flexibility, his kicking foot flying higher than his shoulder as the ball sails through the upright.
“You’re up,” Jackson says, voice giving nothing away.
If he’s expecting me to fail, he’s in for a surprise.
I take my place on the field and set the ball in the holder, laces out, just like the tutorial recommended. Apparently kicking the back seam maximizes compression for better height and distance. Who knew?
I walk off the steps, same as I would for a soccer kick. The sounds of practice die down behind me, but I don’t dare turn to look. I’d have to be an idiot not to realize all eyes are on me.
Or possibly my ass.
I draw a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut grass and willing my racing heart to slow. I have to make this kick. It’s only twenty-five yards. Hardly a challenge, even for the skinny dude who’s now watching me as intently as Coach Jackson.
Of course, he probably has years of practice under his belt.
But so do I. It’s notthatdifferent.
I release my breath and take my approach steps, keeping my eyes on the ball as I swing my leg back and plow it forward. My cleat connects with the ball and it rockets off the ground, blasting through the upright.
Team Carter, FTW!It’s all I can do not to pump my fist in the air.
Coach looks pleased.
The kid next to him? Not so much. Probably wondering if I’m about to steal his job.
“Again!” Coach calls, his smooth baritone giving nothing away.
I put two more through the upright before he has me move the ball back five yards.
Thirty yards. It’s nothing. I could do this in my sleep. I take my position with greater speed and less hesitancy this time.
Only this time, the wind grabs the ball and I watch in horror as it sails wide.
Shit. Where did that breeze come from? College Park isn’t exactly the Windy City.
I sneak a peek at Coach Jackson. He shakes his head, disappointment clouding his eyes. My gut clenches. “You have to account for your surroundings, Carter.”
I’m well aware of this fact, but the freaking wind came out of nowhere, so I bite my tongue, clenching my jaw so tight he’d need the Jaws of Life to get a response.
“You’ve got plenty of power,” he says, sounding slightly more encouraging this time. “Give it another try.”
So I do. This time, I nail it. I kick three more for good measure before moving the ball back another ten yards.
