Kicked (3 page)

“Cordy.” Trent leaned down and bumped his helmet into mine so we were face to face. All I could see were his light green eyes. “Calm down. Breathe. This is just like soccer, okay? The only difference is that you can’t line drive it. Get your foot under the ball and you’ll be fine.”

“I-I don’t know if I can do it.” I hated the tremble in my voice. Even worse, I hated that I was desperate enough to rely on the most unreliable man I’d ever met.

“You have to. The team needs you, and I know you can do it. Pretend like it’s just another practice.” He patted my helmet. “It’s a chip shot. You got this.” He walked to the line and gave our players some last-second instructions as the other team’s taunts continued filtering through my helmet.

“This is definitely not soccer.” I craned my head back to stare at the goal posts as the ref blew the whistle.

“Cordy, get set.” Trent knelt, ready to catch the ball and hold it for me to kick.

The play clock ticked as I took a few steps backwards and then shimmied a few steps to the left. Trent stared back at me, his eyes shadowed by his helmet.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I could do this.
Just like kicking a soccer ball.
I’d kicked thousands upon thousands of times. This time wasn’t any different, really. A different sort of ball, but the same principle. I just had to get under it more. Totally doable.
You got this.

I relaxed my shoulders and lined up the shot, gauging the distance I’d need to get the ball through the uprights. I started my forward momentum, leaning forward the way Coach Carver had shown me. The defensive players surged forward as the center hiked the ball.

Trent caught it and set it on the ground, holding it upright for me to kick. I took my long steps, planted my left foot, and let my right leg fly. My foot made contact with a thud.

The ball sailed upward, but the angle was all wrong. I watched in horror as it bounced off one of my own players’ helmets, flew straight up, then came down into the arms of a hulking defender. The line of red surged toward me, the big linebacker plowing ahead with the ball tucked close to his body.

Trent scrambled from the ground and dove for him, but another linebacker moved forward to take the hit. They fell in a tangle as my teammates ran after Big Red. The other defenders blocked my players until I was the only one left between Big Red and a touchdown. He lumbered past me, his feet thundering on the turf. I turned and sprinted after him.

With a leap, I jumped onto his back and wrapped my arms around his neck, trying to bring him down. He kept running as if I weren’t even there. The crowd roared as he carried me across the fifty, never breaking his pace as I tried to strip the ball from his grip. He threw an elbow back and nailed me in the ribs. I grunted from the sharp pain, but didn’t let go.

“Fuck. Off.” Big Red panted and kept hulking toward the end zone.

By the time we were at the twenty-five, another defender tried to shove me off. I held on and pawed at the brute’s arm, but he’d tucked the ball perfectly.

He carried me across the goal line. My heart deflated like a Patriots football as the announcer’s voice boomed, the game clock ticked to zero, and we lost.

The linebacker spiked the ball as I still clung to him. Then he bent over and flipped me to the ground. I landed hard on my back, and all the air left my lungs. I lay there as a sea of players in red rushed the field. It was like
The Shining
, all that red crashing down while all I could do was watch in horror and try to breathe.

Fuck my life.

Big Red’s teammates congratulated him on his run for glory and completely ignored me as I tried to catch my breath. I wanted to sink into the grass and disappear. No such luck. A white jersey appeared above me, the number nine written in the signature Billingsley blue.

Trent knelt next to me and yanked his helmet off. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”
I just want to die is all
.

The celebrating players formed a cocoon of noise and bodies around us. The Eagles fight song mingled with the yells and the din of the crowd.

Trent took my hand and pulled me into a sitting position. Then he undid my chin strap and lifted my helmet off.

“You don’t hurt anywhere, right?” He placed his hands on my cheeks and stared into my right eye, then my left.

“No. I’m not hurt. Just embarrassed. I lost the game.” I tilted my head back. I refused to cry. I hadn’t cried on the field since the peewee soccer days.

“We’re a team, Cordy.
We
lost the game. Not you.” He stood and pulled me to my feet. “It’s okay.”

“Way to go, short stuff.” Big Red clapped me on the back. “Carrying your sorry ass to the end zone will get me on the highlight reel for sure.”

Think of a comeback. Think of a comeback.
I blanked and stared, only adding to my humiliation.

“Don’t touch her.” Trent threw an arm around my shoulder and walked me through the mass of players. Our sideline was glum, many of the guys already heading to the locker room or staring at me and whispering to each other.

“Good work, princess.” Ethan smirked as I walked to my bench and retrieved my notebook.

“Lay off.” Trent tossed his helmet to the equipment handler.

“She loses the game, and you want me to lay off?” Ethan stepped toward Trent.

I snagged my notebook and darted past them. I had to get off the field, away from Trent and Ethan, and somewhere private. Crying on the field wasn’t going to happen, but I didn’t have a rule against crying in the women’s locker room.

“Cordy, wait,” Trent called.

I sped faster, weaving between players until I made it to the tunnel and veered away from the crowd. I pushed into the empty women’s locker room and let the dam burst, tears flowing down my cheeks as I sank onto the nearest bench. I hadn’t failed this badly since I missed the winning goal in a junior varsity soccer practice.

My side hurt as I stripped off my pads and tossed them onto the floor. With my head in my hands, I cried until I was a snotty, teary mess. I hated crying, but sometimes it was necessary. Losing the game and tanking the season? Definitely time for a cry. I lay down and stared up at the fluorescent lights above me as my tears tapered off.

After a few quiet moments, a crazed snort escaped me. Because, at that moment, I empathized with the football. I finally knew what it felt like to be kicked.

CHAPTER THREE

C
ORDY

“
B
ETTER LUCK NEXT TIME?”
Landon, my best friend, forked a piece of my pancake into his mouth.

I wasn’t hungry, my stomach still in knots from the previous night. The familiar hum of chatter and the intermittent kitchen noises soothed my jangled nerves, but I still kept picturing that kick. That total clusterfuck of a kick, the ensuing tears, ugly looks from players and students, and the self-loathing inherent in all of it. Shifting in my seat, I smoothed my hand along my ribs, still tender from the linebacker’s elbow.

“There won’t be a next time.” I sipped my coffee and stared out across the quad.

“What do you mean?” He leaned back and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. He had it cut close on the sides and long on top, giving him a hipster look that I enjoyed ridiculing him for. “Why not?”

“They’re going to have walk-on tryouts.”

He frowned, the morning light glinting from the spider bite piercings in his lower lip. “When?”

“This week. They’ll need a new kicker before the game Saturday. They can’t risk using me again, and Jared is out for the season.”

“What about the second-stringer, what’s-his-face?”

“I don’t think they can count on Pate. Poor guy.” I winced at the memory of him hurling on the football. “So, a new kicker is in order. Now that they have one loss—”

“A loss that was in no way your fault.” He pointed at me.

I sighed. “Come on, Landon. It was completely my fault. If I’d made the field goal, or hell, if I’d manage to get it above the line of defenders even, we would have had a chance. But that touchdown killed us, and it was all my fault.”

“No kicker is one hundred percent.”

“I’m running at zero percent. Maybe even a negative percentage. I saw ESPN. They’re calling it the Kick Six of the century.”
Mortifying
. I set my coffee cup down and pulled my blue cable knit cardigan closer around me. “I wasn’t supposed to kick. That’s not my thing. I’m just there for appearances. The Mav.”

He took a swig of his orange juice and stared at me. I knew that look—eyebrows up, mouth curled at one corner. He’d given it to me only a few times since we became best friends freshmen year, and it basically said, “you’re full of shit, Cordy.”

I sighed. “Do you remember when we met?”

“What is this,
The Notebook
? Of course I remember. You stole my soccer ball.” He draped his arm over the back of the chair next to him, his long, lean frame taking up his side of the table.

“I didn’t
steal
it. You kicked it into the bleachers. I was trying to do homework.”

“Sure you were.” He winked. “I’m pretty sure you were just checking me out.”

I snorted. “In your dreams, pretty boy. And then, after I retrieved your ball for you, I kicked your ass in our little shootout.”

He made a pffftt sound. “You’ve lost your mind. That one goal you scored didn’t even count. Just dumb luck, really.”

“I got it past you. The net was all that mattered.”

“Okay, whatever.” He darted his gaze around the cafeteria, lingering on a cluster of girls at a table in the center. “What’s your point?”

“Can you focus for two seconds, manwhore?”

“Firstly, I learned in my women’s studies class that the term ‘manwhore’ is sexist because it assumes all whores are women. Secondly”—he finally tore his eyes away from the girls—“I’m focused. So shoot.”

I cocked my head at him. “And just how many women from that class did you study?”

He shrugged and stared up at the ceiling, clearly trying to remember. “I think I studied maybe three, possibly four, in depth.”

“Figures.” I tried not to give any hint of a smile, though I was still amused at the fact he’d voluntarily signed up for a women’s studies class.

He snapped his head back down. “What can I say? I’m a feminist. I love women.”

I snorted. “You are so full of shit. Now can we get back down to discussing me for once?”

“I’m all ears. You were telling me about how you scored a lucky goal on me when we first met.”

I let the “lucky” bit slide to keep the conversation on track. “Soccer. That’s what I want to do. When the season starts, I want to be on the soccer pitch. Not on the football field. Soccer is where I need to focus.”

He shook his head. “Tell me something, Cordy. Do you have a soccer scholarship?”

I crossed my arms and leaned my right side against the cool wall beside the window. Landon knew I had no funds from home or rich parents to see me through undergrad. My first two years of school, I’d relied on a full scholarship for students from my small coal mine of a county in West Virginia. But the money ran out when the sponsor, Reliant Coal, closed its doors. So, for the third and fourth years of school, I would have to depend on the slight scholarship money from my kicker spot and the dreaded student loans that would eventually come calling.

My dad spent most of his time at the bottom of a bottle, and I sent him what money I could. Mom was long gone, having left when I was a baby. For the past few years, I relied only on myself. It had been working so far, but the loss of the coal scholarship had been an unwelcome surprise.

“Well, do you?” Landon drummed his fingers on the table. “Have you been granted some full-tuition bomb from the soccer gods that you haven’t mentioned?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“But you
do
have a football scholarship.”

“Yes.”

“Then use your brain for something other than headers.” He tapped his index finger on his temple. “
Think
. Be smart about this. Could you have made that kick?”

I chewed on my lip and looked out at the falling leaves. I’d screwed it up so badly that I wasn’t sure anymore. I’d made field goals in the few practices I’d attended, but the pressure during an actual game was different. “I think I could have.”

“I
know
you could have. You’ve got a lot of leg. So, why did you miss it?” He leaned forward, his light brown eyes searching my face.

“I didn’t get enough lift, so it bounced off of—”

“Nope. That’s what happened, but that’s not the why.”

I shifted in my seat. I knew the answer; I just didn’t want to give it to him.

“Come on, Cordy, fess up.” He gave me a dazzling smile—the same one that dropped panties all over campus.

I huffed out a breath. “Fine. I missed the field goal because—”

“Because you need to practice.” Trent’s voice washed over me like a Gatorade ice bath. But instead of freezing, heat grew in the pit of my stomach.

Trent pulled out the empty chair beside me and sat down. He was smaller without pads, but still a large man. His thigh touched the side of mine, and I shrank away despite the pleasant warmth.

Landon glanced at me and then back to Trent. “Who’s this guy?” His mouth turned down in a glower. “Wait, is this—”

“Trent Carrington.” He held his hand out across the table.

Landon’s eyes narrowed and he avoided Trent’s proffered hand. “What do you want?”

Landon knew all about what happened freshman year. He’d pulled every detail from me one night after I’d had a few too many shots at a campus party.

“I overheard your conversation and thought I might be able to add some information.” Trent withdrew his hand. He wore a gray long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He must have just showered because a clean, woodsy scent drifted around me.

Landon pushed his chair onto its back two legs, balancing while he studied Trent with a critical eye. “What do you think you have to offer?”