Kicked (2 page)

Sitting alone, I had a decent view of the field, and no one to bother me. I preferred it that way. It was the second game of the season, and I was third-string. I didn’t need any last minute coaching or warming up. Riding the bench, keeping to myself, and earning a chunk of tuition money was the plan for the rest of the year. Easy.

I’d grown up watching football, going to games with my father, and following the state teams. Soccer was my sport, but football was in my blood. All the same, I wasn’t here to play. Not really. I was just a Mav with a front-row seat for every game of the season.

The bench shifted as someone sat beside me, and the band began playing at my back. “Hey.”

I knew that voice. Trent. Goose bumps rose along my arms, but I didn’t look at him. I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since freshman year, and I didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.

“Cordy?” He used my nickname.

“Yep.” I gripped the edge of the bench, the metal warm in the muggy air. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, flipping coins or something?”

The deep bass of the band thumped through my heart, forcing it to keep a quicker beat than usual. It was the band that sped it up. Not Trent.

“The coin toss doesn’t happen until after the national anthem.”

“Right.” I reached beneath my jersey and yanked out a composition notebook. My pen was trapped in the binding. If I had to be at the games, I figured I might as well get some writing in.

“Still write poetry?”

“Yes. Don’t you have a pep talk you should be doing? You know, like ‘
let’s go pluck those Eagles
?’” I wasn’t going to talk about myself with him. His easy charm fooled me once. I wouldn’t let it happen again.

“I already gave that.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then”—I sighed, trying to fight my irritation and losing—“maybe you should talk to Coach about how you throw off your back foot too much.”

He laughed, the sound deep and rolling like the thundering bass behind me. “Is that so?”

“You throw across your body and into traffic too much, too. Might want to have that chat. You have a million other things to do other than being here right now.”

“Maybe. But I only want to do this—sit here and talk to you.” The bench shifted, and the heat from his arm radiated against mine. “Besides, this has been enlightening. Any more pointers, coach?”

Before I could inform him that his choice of taking a sack instead of throwing the ball away in the last game almost cost us the win, the band started the national anthem. We both stood and put our hands over our hearts. The singer began off pitch and continued her flat spiral with each note.

He leaned closer, his arm brushing against mine. “I haven’t had a chance to really welcome you to the team yet. But I’m glad you’re here. Do you still play soc—”

“Shh.” I would have rather heard the dying cat sounds of the national anthem singer than listen to his rich, sexy baritone a moment longer.

He sighed and quieted. The song continued, and I glanced at him. My eyes only came up to his chest pads, so it was easy enough to avoid his gaze. Instead, I noted his tan forearm, muscled with veins popping. He was even bigger than I remembered, filled out and ridiculously masculine.

I dropped my gaze as the song finally finished. The crowd gave a roar as hype music began pumping through the stadium once again.

He rocked up onto the balls of his feet and then back down. “That’s my cue.”

“Okay.” I sank back onto the bench. “Break a leg.”

He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. “I think that’s only for the theater, Cordy.”

A tingle of pleasure ran down my spine as his warm breath tickled my ear. And just like that, I broke my rule.

Leaning away, I met his green eyes with my light brown ones. “What are you doing?”

He smiled, his perfect dimples complementing his square jaw and bright eyes. “Flipping a coin.” He rose to his full height and jogged out onto the field, joining two other team captains and heading toward the referee in the center.

I took a deep breath, my heart hammering, my poise broken. Once I’d looked, I couldn’t stop staring. His muscled ass filled out his football pants just right. The pads exaggerated the width of his shoulders, but not by that much. He was the perfect ‘V’—broad shoulders, narrow hips, and made of corded muscle. He’d been beautiful when we’d first met, his boyish good looks the first step in my downfall. But now, he was beyond attractive. He was sexy, powerful—a perfect mix of masculinity and grace that had my body warming.

He swiped his hair from his eyes and called heads. The referee flipped the coin. It landed and bounced on the grass before lying flat. It was heads. Of course it was. Not even the whims of chance could deny Trent Carrington.

I dropped my eyes to my notebook and tried to ignore him again. Why was he even talking to me? We weren’t friends. We were barely acquaintances anymore. Taking my pen out, I hovered it over the page as the teams took the field. The stadium vibrated with the fury of the crowd. So far, we were undefeated. The pressure would build with each game to keep it that way. Not that I cared.

I forced my pen to make words on the page. The words turned into doodles of the number nine. I glanced up to the field, my eyes invariably straying to Trent. It was as if that simple “hi” opened the floodgates. I watched him through the first quarter and into the second, pausing to doodle when the defense or special teams were on the field.

Halftime came and went, and the game finally wound down to one minute left in the fourth quarter. Our offense was on the field. Trent was in control. He’d been steadily driving down the field, all the way to the two, but a missed assignment caused a fumble behind the line of scrimmage. We recovered, but lost a yard. Second down was a busted pass play.

On third down, he called an audible and changed the play. The runners scurried to switch positions as the defensive line tried to adjust. The center hiked the ball. Trent caught it and dropped back, his helmet on a swivel as he scanned downfield for a receiver. There were none. Each eligible player who could catch the ball was well covered.

The box of linemen around Trent gave way, and a defensive back broke through and drove him to the ground. I bit the inside of my cheek. After a small scuffle between the defender and a couple of linemen, Trent jumped up and headed to the sideline, knocking the grass out of his helmet grill.

The prolonged play had eaten clock. There were only nineteen seconds left, and we were tied. That left only two ways to win the game on this set of downs—the offensive line could go for it on fourth down and hope for a touchdown, or special teams could try for a field goal.

The refs moved the chains to the seven-yard line. It would be a twenty-four yard field goal. I shot a look over to Jared Link, the first-string kicker. He had leg for days and served as the field goal kicker and punter. He pulled on his helmet and pushed through the crowd of players. After a swift chat with the coach, he ran out onto the field with the kicking team at his back. The crowd hushed.

Trent was the ball holder, so number nine was still on the field, still catching my eye. Jared walked up to Trent, who gave him a light tap on the helmet. The special teams settled into place at the line of scrimmage, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. This was for the game. Half the stadium held its breath, and the other half gave raucous shouts and jeers to try and distract our kicker. Jared backed away from Trent and took two steps to the right. He lined the shot up with his arm, then squared his shoulders and gave the signal.

The center hiked the ball. Trent caught it and held it perfectly in place as Jared ran forward. Jared kicked hard, plenty of leg for a makeable field goal. But the kick pulled to the left. Worse, an Eagles defensive player broke through the line and ran right into Jared’s outstretched leg after the kick. He went down and clutched his knee as the crowd booed and the ball sailed to the left, no good.

Yellow flags flew to the spot where Jared lay on the turf, holding onto his knee. A ref picked up a flag and signaled a roughing the kicker foul against the defense.

“Half the distance to the goal, replay the down.” The ref’s voice boomed around the stadium via his mic.

That meant we had another shot, but with only a twelve seconds left and the first-string kicker still on the grass.

“Get up Jared. Up, up!” I clenched the bench as our trainers ran out to check on him. He wasn’t rising, just clutching his leg and rolling back and forth. A sick feeling gurgled in my stomach at the pain telegraphed by Jared’s movements.

Pate, our second-string kicker, stood and began practicing. He wobbled for a moment, then squared off and kicked into the small net behind the benches.

Jared was still down, and a hush fell over the crowd. Three trainers knelt around him, trying to get a look at the injury as he groaned and shook his head each time they touched his right leg. Coach Sterling ran out to check on him and wound up supporting him under one shoulder as the trainers helped him off the field. It didn’t look good. A leg injury was the worst news for a kicker.

I turned to look at Pate. Right at that moment, he retched all over Coach Carver. Even though Pate was at least ten yards away from me, I cringed. The poor guy bent over at the waist and vomited again, this time all over the ball he’d set up to kick into the practice net.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and a litany of “oh fuck” began playing in my head on repeat when the realization hit me. If Pate couldn’t pull himself together, there was only one other kicker on the team. Me.

Coach Sterling called our second time-out and hustled over to me as I watched Pate hurl yet again, vomiting every last bit of his stomach’s contents into the too-green grass of the well-kept field.

My hands went numb as Coach clapped me on the shoulder. He’d always been kind to me, welcoming even, though somewhat aloof. After all, he had real players to take care of. I was just the Mav.

He gave me a thin smile. “You ready?”

I stared up into his weathered cheeks and watery eyes. “I-I’m—”

“Good! Now get your helmet on and get out there!”

I looked from him to the field, and then to Trent, his green eyes focusing on nothing else. It was time. Time to kick.

CHAPTER TWO

C
ORDY

C
OACH
S
TERLING SIGNALED FOR
our third and final time-out as Coach Carver—still covered in Pate’s lunch—tried to give me some last-minute pointers. “Get your foot under it. You need lift. I’ve seen you do it in practice.”

“Right.” I nodded, feigning a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Do it just like we practiced.”

When I saw a chunk of hotdog dangling from his shirt, I dry heaved and backed away. “I can’t. That smell.”

He glanced down and rolled his eyes. “Fucking Pate.”

“I got this.” Trent’s voice washed over me, and the number nine obscured my view of the vomit-covered Coach Carver.

I was too shell-shocked to try and avoid his gaze, so I stared up at him. His eye black was smeared, and his hair was a sweaty mess, but he had a smile for me. Encouragement lived in the small upturn of his lips, and I needed all the help I could get.

“Look. We’re tied. Twelve seconds left. After the penalty, it’s going to be a twenty to twenty-one yard kick. If you miss it, we go to overtime, and then it’s on me. No pressure. We can still win it. You can do this. The team needs you, but it’s not life or death.” He put a hand on my shoulder pads and pinned me with his green gaze.

I wanted to shrug him off, but I needed the comfort. My knees turned to jelly as the kicking team crowded around Trent and me. The other players watched us, most of them with an “oh shit” look on their faces. I didn’t blame them. Counting on the third-string Mav to win the game wasn’t a very comforting proposition for anyone, especially me.

“Cordy.” Trent moved his hand closer to my neck and his thumb grazed my bare skin. “We can do this. Together. Okay?”

He rubbed his thumb back and forth against my collar bone. The stadium noise, the glares of my teammates, and even the fear that bubbled in my heart all faded as I focused on that one single point of contact. I hated Trent, but I was also starved for him. How could I still crave him after all this time?

Don’t fall for it.

I stepped back, and he dropped his hand as his smile faltered.

“Time-out is almost over. Get out there!” Coach yelled, and the mass of players around me pushed onto the field.

The Eagles defense was lined up and waiting.

I snugged my helmet over my hair and ran out onto the field. A couple of the red-jerseyed defenders whistled and cat-called as I approached the left hash. My heart had never beat so quickly, and I thought I might go the way of Pate and lose my lunch all over the field.

The crowd roared as the announcer called out my number and name. “She’s a Lady” played over the speakers, and the chances of vomiting rose exponentially. My knees wobbled, and my hands went numb, but I kept trotting to the line of scrimmage. There was nothing else I could do.

“Remember, we can still win even if you miss it.” Trent trotted at my elbow. “I’ll take it to overtime and shove it up their tailpipes with a touchdown. Just do your best. And get the kick off as quickly as possible.” Trent pointed to the play clock. “They will be diving to block this ball.”

I needed to get my bearings, but my brain didn’t respond to my request, only sort of fizzed and tingled.
So screwed.

He moved me back a foot or so and pointed to the ground. “I’ll have the ball ready for you on this spot. So, line up from here.”

I froze. I’d practiced and made these kicks a few times with Coach Carver, but I’d never actually had to try it with the team on the field.

When Jared went down, I was worried. When Pate upchucked, I was scared. But now that I stood on the field, I realized I was screwed.