Page 119 of Lucky Shot

If someone shows you who they are, then believe them.

I do believe Alexander Hardy just did.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Whitney

The click of the door wakes me up, the squeak of tennis shoes on the floor telegraphs where he is in the condo, and the loud sigh makes me wonder if he hasn’t had a good practice.

What is he like after training? Exhausted? Surly? Standoffish?

Will this be about the time he realizes he doesn’t exactly want someone in his place when he just wants to come home and do nothing?

There’s a reason I made sure I was in my room when he returned. The last thing I want to do is invade his privacy any more than I already have. It’s damn hard though not to run out there—or more like walk slowly—and throw my arms around his neck and thank him for what he’s done. What he’s doing.

So instead I wait and wonder if I’ll get the chance to thank him tonight or if it’ll have to wait for tomorrow. I hope it’s the former and not the latter.

I track his progress with sound.

The drop of a bag.

The clink of keys on the counter.

The opening and shutting of the refrigerator door.

Then the gentle knock on my door. “Whit? You up?”

So many emotions that I don’t think I could name them all surge through me. The desire to see him almost urgent.

“I am. Come in.”

He pushes open the door, and my stomach flips at the sight of him. He’s freshly showered, a pair of gray sweats hang low on his hips, and his hair is a tousled mess of wet waves.

Holy hell.

Desire shouldn’t be allowed when you’re recovering from surgery, and yet there is no other word to describe what I feel seeing him.

“Wow. You look”—he looks me up and down—“so much better. You finally have some color to your cheeks, and your eyes look clearer.”

It’s the simplest of praise, but like a teenage girl, I bask in it. “I feel better. I . . . how was practice?”

“Good. Typical. Worked on a new formation that I’m not too sure about. I’d like to get your thoughts later on it.”

“Me?” I laugh out the word while being silently stunned. He wants my advice on soccer? Like . . . seriously?

“Yes. You. You know your shit, and I value your opinion,” he states without hesitation as he moves into the room. Without asking, he kicks off his shoes and then climbs into bed beside me. He’s on top of the covers, his back propped up against the pillows and headboard much like I am.

“But practice was good otherwise?”

“Mmm.” He shrugs. “Gallo is annoying the fuck out of everyone, but then again, that’s what he does. You know how keepers are—there’s always something a little off about them.”

“That’s definitely true.” I laugh. “But you’re both why Mayhem is looking stronger and stronger with each game to win the championship so it’s not like you can play without him.”

“True.”

“Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if all the outside noise and time you’ve spent at the academy is affecting you. Then the added time spent with me at the hospital.”

“First, what did I tell you? Stop apologizing.”