Page 110 of Lucky Shot

“She is an excellent coach.”

“I mean for college level or semi-pros. She knows her stuff.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Me and soccer or football or whatever confusing thing you guys call the same sport is limited. But you know, if you get kicked in the teeth enough times, you forget what it’s like to have to chew. That’s Whitney. First, the shit hand dealt with her mom and drugs. Then the endless foster system. But she found Patrick and this academy and it saved her. It built her up only to tear her down when she lost the scholarship.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She got a few coaching jobs after that but could never advance. She didn’t have her own team experience. No one took her seriously. She was struggling with it all—losing her passion and her dream—and, just like when she was a teenager, Patrick stepped into her life significantly by leaving her the academy.”

This is how the game saved me.

Clearly, I’m not the only one it saved.

“If you think the academy is rough now, you should have seen it when she took it over.” She gives me a dubious look. “It was bad. She’s improved it so much but . . . it’s never enough for her. That’s why she was writing letters to Mayhem for donations and sponsorships. That’s why we’re sitting here right now together.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully we don’t have to sit out here much longer because she’ll get released soon.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m taking her to my place,” I say. “To recover.”

“I was going to take her—”

“Let me take care of her, Suri. I want to.” I need to.

Our eyes meet and whatever she sees in them, she believes. “Okay.” She chews over the word and then adds, “But if you knock down those walls and make her fall for you, and then you break her heart? It’s going to be you up there in that hospital bed because I’ll be the one who puts you there.”

I bark out a laugh but feel the love and fierceness of her loyalty to protect her best friend. Oddly, I feel some of that too. “Deal,” I say as I stand with her.

“I’m going to go back in. You sure you don’t want to come with?”

I’ve conquered my fears enough these past three days, forcing myself to go in the hospital and face the assault of memories. Now that I know Whitney’s okay, I’m good. “Nah, my feet are way more stable out here.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “You’re nothing like I thought you were, Hardy. You should show the world this side of you more.”

“Being the arsehole is way easier.”

She laughs, starts to walk away, but then turns and surprises the shit out of me when she grabs me in a bear hug. “Thank you for saving her. For . . . just thank you.”

And without waiting for me to say anything else, she turns on her heel and walks away.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Whitney

Home.

My bed.

It’s all I can think about as I pant through the pain of getting my clothes back on. “This sucks,” I say to Suri as she puts a jacket over both of my shoulders and helps me lower myself into the wheelchair.

I feel one hundred percent better—or, at least, that’s what I’ve told everyone here. That the pain in my side is less. The nausea from the antibiotics has been thwarted with yet another medication. But truth be told, I’m just listless. Any effort is too much, and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.

“She said give it a couple of days and you’ll be back to yourself,” Suri says as she gathers the bag full of my belongings for me.

“I know. And tell me what I owe you for all of this stuff,” I say as I motion to the new pajamas and the toiletries she brought me for my stay here.

“I didn’t buy any of it. Hardy did.”