Page 122 of Lucky Shot

“Not at all. Hardy—”

“Your turn. Tell me something about you growing up.” Clearly the Alexander Hardy moment of vulnerability is over. It’s okay. I understand that more than he could ever know.

“You pretty much know the whole story considering the media has dug into my past, published my depressing tale, and decided to nickname me Orphan Annie.”

He angles his head to stare at me. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he pauses. “I told you I don’t read much of what the media puts out there. I only know what you told me, but I want more than that. Not the families you moved through or the loneliness—those are a given—but something that shaped you back then.”

“Goodwill.” I have no idea where that came from but the memory is loud and clear and still gives a pang to my chest.

He slides a look my way like I’m crazy. “As in The Goodwill, the thrift store?”

I nod. The smile on my lips is more bittersweet than anything. “I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Somewhere in there. The Goodwill is where I used to have to shop for my clothes because my foster family . . . while they were nice and put a roof over my head, everything else was left up to me.”

“And a teenage girl likes to look and feel nice,” he says, understanding without me even having to explain.

“A teenage girl doesn’t want to be made fun of for wearing the same stuff over and over. It’s a stigma she can never wash away.”

“I can imagine.”

“We had a dance, and I wanted so desperately to be someone else, to wear something other than my usual stuff. I found this dress at The Goodwill. It was navy blue and beaded. I couldn’t believe my luck when it fit me. A whole fifteen dollars, and it was mine. I’d never felt prettier. My foster mom helped me with my hair and makeup, and it was . . . I can remember exactly what I looked like and how pretty I felt.”

“I’m terrified to hear the rest.”

I nod. “I got to the dance, but how was I to know that the dress I’d found, the one that made me feel like a million bucks, was in fact, a one-of-a-kind dress that the prissy snob of the school’s mom had commissioned to be made for her the year before? She recognized it immediately.”

“Whitney.” It’s a groan.

“Yep. And she made sure everyone knew it too. I was humiliated. Mortified. And that’s when I got the nickname that stuck with me through high school graduation—Goodwill.”

“Bloody hell.”

“The shame that came with it still owns me most days.” I shrug. “I never went back there after that. I couldn’t.”

“I know you don’t want me to say it, but I’m sorry. The things that happen to us as teens really do form who you are.”

“They do.”

He yawns. It’s loud and bombastic, and he wiggles down the bed some so that he can prop his head on my shoulder. “Okay, next topic. Something better. Happier. Different.”

“Um . . . you have a pretty killer view out there.”

“It’s not too bad. Did you watch practice?”

“I did.”

“Cool.” He yawns again. “It was close to the field and for sale. I was looking to buy something in the States. Easy. Done.”

“Yeah, but you need pieces of you here. It’s gorgeous, the furniture, the décor, the style, but there is nothing of you here.”

“My time here is almost up. What’s the point?”

It’s the first time I’ve heard him say out loud what I already knew. It’s a gut punch that I don’t want to process, especially when I’m just starting to come to grips with actually wanting something more with him.

“You’re heading back after the season.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but it’s one hundred percent a question in my head.

Our eyes meet. Hold. He nods subtly almost as if it’s an unspoken warning for the both of us, but I’d be blind if I didn’t see the emotion swimming in his eyes. What that emotion is—regret, desire, sadness—I just don’t know.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, his voice gruff.