Page 10 of Lucky Shot

“Having a place to belong to such as this saved me from trouble just like it’s done for so many others who played here.”

“Trouble?” she asks as I glance outside the window to where my second-in-command, Martin, is running drills with one of his teams.

“Unemployment. Drugs. Gangs. This is Glendale after all. In the past five years, the area has gone through one economic struggle after another—a large manufacturing plant shut down, inflation rose, and the opioid epidemic. The community has struggled to recover.”

“But they have you,” she says compassionately.

“They do. Always. We’re here for all of the neighborhood kids whether they can pay or not, which is why I’ve contacted other clubs for donations. Every little bit helps us keep the doors open and this place a safe haven for them from whatever else is going on in their lives.”

“And Patrick left this to you, his legacy, when he passed away?”

“Yes.” Blessing or a curse? Being handed a business that saved you is incredible in and of itself. Inheriting said business that was failing miserably because Patrick had too much pride to ask for financial help when he fell ill is a whole other story I refuse to tell.

It’s now my burden to bear, but I can’t let him down. I’ll figure out a way to revive this academy and bring it back to its heyday like it was when we won championships.

I run my fingers over the side of the desk and those etched initials of that championship team.

“That was three years ago?” she asks and has me sitting a little taller.

“You already know this, don’t you?” I ask.

Her laugh is stilted. “I did my research, yes. It’s important that the Mayhem and MLS support youth clubs and owners who truly deserve it.”

I roll my shoulders, not exactly thrilled knowing someone has been poking their nose in my business, but then again . . . she’s on the phone and is offering donations. “I completely understand that. Thank you for considering us.”

“We’re more than thrilled to have gotten your letter. In fact, we were wondering if you’d be willing to let us do a bit more than donate new jerseys for your teams.”

New jerseys? That’s huge considering a majority of our players can’t afford to buy them. Here I was just hoping for some used soccer balls or cones or something.

I cough over a laugh of disbelief. “Sure. Anything.”

“We’d like to have one of our players come out as part of a new community outreach program we’re working on.”

“Are you sure you have the right phone number?” I joke.

“Definitely have the right number.” The sincerity in her voice causes me to pause.

“But I don’t understand,” I say more to myself than to her.

“Just like how it sounds. We’re trying to get involved in the community with more than just donations. One of the ways we’re doing that is by having one of the Mayhem players come out and spend some time there with the kids. We were thinking he does a demonstration and runs a small number of players through a drill. Then after, have him sign some merch and take pictures. That type of thing.”

Like . . . an actual player? The kids will lose their minds—even if it’s a second or third string player.

“Okay.” I draw the word out. What am I missing?

“I’d like to have some media on hand if you don’t object. Maybe a few news stations in addition to our own crew. Just a little press to help raise awareness for the academy and maybe garner some more philanthropy for it as well.”

“Um . . .”

“We’d need releases signed to use the images since they’d include minors, but I’ll have legal arrange all of that for you,” she says like it’s any other day when in reality, she is giving more than I could ever ask for. Attention for the kids. Awareness of the program and an avenue to do it that I can’t reach on my own. Donation of supplies we can’t afford.

“Sure. Fine.”

“It’s important that we have media there.” Her pause catches my attention. “For your benefit, of course.”

“So you’re staging a photo op.” The minute the words are out, I realize what I’ve said and try to fix it. “Not that I mind or anything. I was—was just trying to get a feel for what’s going on so I can make sure you have what you need to have and it looks like it needs to look.” Stop rambling. “Obviously, we’re up for anything.”

My always best friend and sometime helper, Suri, walks into the box of an office and narrows her eyebrows at me. Her pale hair is pulled up in a haphazard ponytail with strands falling out, but she still looks like a freaking model: long-legged, tanned skin, flawless complexion. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her. She points to the phone at my ear, and I hold my finger up.