Kicked (5 page)

I realized I was still backing away when a normal person would have turned and walked by then. “Okay, so bye.”

“Right.”

Do not think about kissing him. Do not think about kissing him.

I turned and hurried away.

But the wind still carried his low, sexy voice to me. “Bye for now.”

CHAPTER SIX

T
RENT

I
TOSSED THE BALL
above my head and caught it easily, the leather slapping against my palms. The sun shone high and bright, warming the exposed skin of my arms and neck. I tried not to stare toward Cordy’s dorm, but I couldn’t stop my gaze from returning there again and again.

Five minutes before two, and I’d already been at the field for half an hour, waiting. All I could think about was her in my arms, where she belonged. She fit perfectly against me. I’d enjoyed holding her so much that I could have kissed the wayward Frisbee player for making it happen. I wanted it again, her trembling against me—but not out of fear, and preferably naked. The thought sent a jolt to my cock, though I’d given it quite the workout earlier today while I imagined Cordy beneath me.

Focus.
Even though the whole “practice kicking” idea was, at its heart, a scheme for me to get close to Cordy again, I did intend to help her become first-string. She needed the scholarship, and I would do everything I could to help her win it. She belonged on the team, with me. I just needed her to believe it as much as I did.

Finally, I saw two figures approaching the field. My heart leapt at the sight of her luscious frame—high tits, smaller waist, flaring hips, and strong, shapely legs from years of soccer. She wore athletic shorts and a white logo t-shirt, the kind you get for free at college fairs. My joy was only slightly dampened by the sight of Landon at her side.

They walked onto the neatly-kept grass, Landon looking out of place in his black death metal t-shirt and jeans with a long chain hanging down his leg and attached to his wallet. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I squeezed the ball between my hands until my fingers ached. When she laughed, I forced myself to breathe. They were friends, nothing more.

He gave her a half-hearted salute and peeled off to sit on the bleachers. She kept walking toward me and pulled an elastic from her pocket. Whipping her hair into a ponytail, her t-shirt rode up, and I got a glimpse of the paler skin of her stomach. My cock tried to join in the fun, but I looked away—and specifically, at Landon, and the mutiny down below quieted. A boner in my athletic shorts wouldn’t inspire Cordy’s trust.

“So, what are we doing?” She didn’t raise her eyes to me.

I grinned and placed the ball on the ground. “First, we run some laps to get warmed up.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fine.” Then she took off running toward the edge of the field.

I caught up with her easily, keeping my stride slow so we ran at the same pace.

“Run Forrest, run!” Landon leaned back and slid a pair of shades over his eyes before popping in some earbuds.

“Why is he even here?” I tried to keep my tone even as we cut across behind the yellow goal post, circling the field at a steady pace.

“He doesn’t trust you.” She kept her eyes forward. Her ponytail bounced back and forth with each of her steps.

“What does he think I’m going to do? Maul you on the practice field?” I didn’t think it would be wise to mention that I would love to pin her to the ground and make her come so many times she passed out from exhaustion.

She glanced at me. “Maybe.”

“I thought we already cleared up that I don’t have a kidnapper van.”

We jogged past Landon, who was laid out on the bleachers, hands behind his head, one knee bent with his foot tapping to a rhythm only he could hear.

“Just because you don’t have the van doesn’t mean you don’t have a thing for snatching girls and putting them down the well with the lotion basket.” She smirked.

I wanted to kiss that little quirk of a smile right off her lips.

“I don’t have lotion in a basket, but I do like to dance around and talk about how fuckable I am.”

She snorted. “Do you make videos, too?”

We rounded the other goal post and headed up the visitor’s side.

“Sure do. There’s an entire YouTube channel dedicated to them. Very popular.”

“Good to know. I’ll have to check that out later.”

“You do that.” I smiled. Did we just have a fun conversation about serial killers like normal people do?
Yes, we did.
“One more lap.”

“You’re slow, QB.” She increased her speed.

I lengthened my stride, getting out ahead of her as we came around to the first goalpost again.

She sped to my elbow and then cut ahead of me to the inside as we ran around the end zone.

“Whoa.” I darted to her left so I didn’t trip all over her.

She reached out and ran her fingertips along the black padding at the base of the goalpost as we passed. “Try and keep up,” she said over her shoulder, her amber eyes taunting me.

My heart sped up a beat at even the hint of competition. Athletes, from the lowliest third-stringer to the top quarterback, have always thrived on competition. To beat another person at something that person thought they were good at? Nothing better. To see that competitive glint in Cordy’s eye? I knew I’d need a cold shower after the training was over.

I stayed at her elbow and fought the desire to smoke her to the opposite goalpost. We reached it at the same time and spent a few moments catching our breath.

I pointed to the turf. “Stretch.”

She widened her stance and bent over at the waist.

Don’t stare at her ass. Don’t stare at her ass.
I did the same, stretching along with her to keep me from doing exactly what I was telling myself not to. We went through the regular positions—yanking our heels to our asses, loosening our shoulders, and finally ending up on the ground, legs spread in front of us while we pulled on our toes.

Making a very diligent effort not to follow the line of her legs to her pussy, I got to my feet. “Ready?” I offered her my hand.

After a moment of hesitation, she took it, and my heart swelled from that one tiny bit of trust.

“Yes.” She stood and trotted over to the ball holder, a three-legged contraption that held the ball upright for her to kick it.

I picked it up and set it on the ten-yard line, right hash. Once the ball was in place, I backed away to watch her form.

“This would be about the distance you’d have for the point after touchdown. Show me your usual set up, but don’t kick. Stop right before your foot impacts the ball.” I tried to turn off my appraisal of her body—the way the t-shirt clung to her breasts and how her shorts gave me an excellent view of her thighs. Instead, I focused on her posture and balance as she lined up behind the ball, took three steps back, then two steps to the left.

She took a deep breath and started with long striding steps toward the ball, stopping right before kicking just as I’d instructed. Like any right-footed kicker, she stopped her forward motion by landing on her left foot to brace, then swinging with her right.

I walked the few paces to her and dropped down to my haunches. The smooth curve of her left leg called for my fingers, but I kept my hands to myself. This time.

“You’re planting your left foot wrong, for starters.” I pointed. “Your heel should be in line with the ball, about a foot away. You’ve got the distance right. There’s a foot there, but you’ve lined up with your laces next to the ball. That little bit of difference can cost you a lot of lift once the ball comes off your shoe.” I peered at her kicking foot. “This is good, turned to the side perfectly. But”—I gripped her heel and pulled her foot down an inch—“if you could make contact with the ball lower, then you have a better chance of getting it over the defenders.”

She put her kicking foot down and placed her fists on her hips. “Coach Carver always told me to line the ball up with my shoelaces. And he always put a two-inch tee under the ball for practice.”

“You’ve been using a kicking tee?”
How in the hell did she ever manage to get it off the ground on Saturday
?

“Yeah.”

I stood. “You don’t need a kicking tee. It’s a crutch. You have to learn to kick from the ground, not on a tee. Got me?”

She nibbled her bottom lip. “Yeah. I guess Coach just never thought I’d actually have to kick, so—”

“So he went easy on you. I won’t. Your posture needs work, your balance is atrocious, and first we need to get your feet set correctly. Now do your setup, and stop again before kicking. I want to see that heel planted even with the ball or you’ll have to do a lap.”

“What?” Her mouth opened, her pink lips glistening in the sunlight. I wondered if she’d taste the way she did two years ago—like fruity gum.

“You heard me.” I adopted the same stern expression I used during the high school quarterback camp I guest-taught during the summer.

She glowered right back, but marked off her backward steps, then took two more to the left. Taking her long strides, she stopped right before making contact with the ball.

I knelt down and inspected her left foot with a smirk. “Even with the laces. Take a lap.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

C
ORDY

F
OUR HOURS AND TWICE
as many laps later, I finally planted my heel even with the ball each time I set up to kick. Though, during the entire afternoon, Trent had yet to let me actually make contact with the pigskin.

Landon had eventually grown bored and come over to lie in the grass next to us. His light snores became the background music to Trent’s criticism.

After I set up perfectly ten times in a row, Trent ran a hand through his dark hair. “I think your approach is as good as it can be.”

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The sun sat low on the horizon, casting an orange glow on everything and lengthening each shadow to monstrous proportions.

Trent leaned over and grabbed the ball and the holder. “I have team practice in the morning and classes right after, but I can meet you out here at three. Sound good?”

“Yeah. I can do that.” Despite my athleticism, my legs were sore and my back ached from the posture corrections Trent had instituted. I needed a shower and some rest.

“Why don’t you ever come to team practice?” He followed me over to Landon.

“I don’t have to go, and I’d rather do other things.”
And you’re always there.

“Wake up. Time to go.” I toed Landon’s side.

“Good. I’m hungry.” Landon sat up, then rose to his feet before brushing all the grass off his jeans. “I may have dozed off for a second. Did he touch you?” He lowered his mirrored sunglasses and glared at Trent.

“A second? Try two hours. And no, he didn’t touch me.”

“Then I won’t kick his ass.” Landon slung his arm around me, even though I was sweaty and pretty certain I had that ‘just worked out’ smell. “Can we do tacos?”

I laughed. “Not again.” Landon would be content if he ate nothing but tacos for the rest of his life. Me, not so much.

He pulled me along with him toward my dorm. “Come on. It’s buy-one-get-one-free night at MegaTaco. I’ll pay and everything.”

Trent walked on my other side. “I’ll take her for a real dinner. She needs protein and plenty of fluids.”

Landon tensed, but kept walking. “And I bet you’re just the guy to give her fluids, right?”

“Ew.” I disentangled myself from Landon and walked out ahead. “I’ll just shower, hit the caf, and take the food back to my room. I’ve got reading to do for class.”

“You sure? Did you hear the part about MegaTaco?” Landon pouted.

“I did, but I’m just not down for taco night. Can you pencil me in for Tuesday? Taco Tuesday?” One taco night a week was my limit.

He shrugged. “I guess I can make that happen. Let me walk you to your room.”

A white car parked along Campus Circle chirped and lit up. It was some sort of Mercedes, but identifying hood ornaments was the extent of my car knowledge.

Trent headed for it and placed the ball and the holder in his trunk. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

A pang of something sparked in my chest. Disappointment? It grew as Trent dropped into the driver’s seat and started the engine, a smooth purr cutting through the cooling air.

“Rich guys.” Landon shook his head and led me toward Hope Hall, my dorm.

I didn’t let myself watch Trent drive away. Even so, the familiar feeling of abandonment rattled around inside me. Of course Trent left. That was his thing. Like a catch phrase or a signature style. If Trent Carrington had a calling card, it was that he always walked away first.