Page 116 of Lucky Shot

“Angry at you?” I fist my hands on the counter and count to three before looking back up at her. “Do you realize that you scared the shit out of me? That you . . . that you were lying there and I thought you were dead?” I clear my throat to try and hide the break in my voice. I don’t know why I’m angry, maybe because I felt so fucking helpless, and now that she’s okay, I can process it. Fuck if I know. “I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated with you. You were hurting that bad and thought so little of me, that I was that shallow, that you’d rather have me drop you off at a random place rather than your real house? That you’d rather risk your health and life than open the door that fucking much and let me in. To tell me you were hurting that bad so I could help you?” I pace the room, running a hand through my hair while trying to rein in my emotions.

“It wasn’t that.”

“It was that,” I shout and grip the back of my neck with my hands. My thoughts race, my head spins, and every part of me just . . . feels when that’s not ever fucking possible. “You make it so frustratingly hard for someone to love you. It’s fucking maddening.”

She stares at me doe-eyed and lips lax. “Hardy.” My name is a whisper.

“No. It’s fine. It’s what the fuck ever.” I hold my hands up. “You have a whole damn wing of this place to yourself. That should be more than enough.” I set her pills down. “Now here, take your pain meds.”

Her hand touches mine when I hand her some water, and she keeps it there for a second. Almost as if she’s saying she understands and was just as worried as I was. It’s enough for me for now.

I stand there to make sure she takes them, her eyes on me the entire time she does.

“Right now, all you need to think about is resting.”

And as if on fucking cue, her eyes flutter and roll up a little bit as she sways.

“Fuck,” I grit out. I pick her up, cradle her in my arms, and start to walk toward the bedroom.

“No. I’m fine. Hardy. Stop.”

“Are you going to fight me every step of the way?” I ask as I enter her bedroom. “Because this is going to be a long few weeks.”

I set her down on the bed and help her swing her legs onto the mattress.

“I don’t like being taken care of,” she says groggily.

And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to take care of someone more.

I stare at her as her breathing evens out and her muscles slowly relax.

My own words come back to me. Ones I spoke in the heat of the moment.

You make it so frustratingly hard for someone to love you. It’s fucking maddening.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Whitney

I wake with a start in a darkened room.

But it doesn’t take me long to orient myself or to realize where I am this time. I push myself up to seated, feeling slightly better. When I look to my right to see my cell phone, a bottle of water, and more pain pills on the nightstand, I’m feeling grateful.

It’s been some time since I looked at my phone. When I power it on, my inbox is what I expect—full. And my phone messages and texts are from who I expect in my small world—Martin, Suri, and Hardy.

Martin’s texts tell me to feel better, that the academy is under control, and not to worry about anything.

Hardy’s numerous texts say he’s at practice—right down the block—and to eat the dinner he left in the kitchen for me.

And then Suri’s demand I call her when I’m alone and can talk.

She answers on the first ring.

“Well, look who’s back in the land of the living,” she says in greeting.

“Barely. But I’m better. I feel . . .” I wrap the comforter around me. “Better.”

“No doubt that ‘better’ is being helped along by one very smitten soccer god.”