Page 14 of Lucky Shot

“Yes. How can I not be? I’ve followed him forever. His days at the academies. His meteoric rise in the Premier League and during World Cup play. His stratospheric jump into mainstream culture. I mean . . .”

“Whitney Barnes, I’ve never seen you starstruck before.”

“Well, I am now. I won’t be when I come face to face with him. Now, I need to get focused. I only have a few days to make the most of this.”

“And here she goes into work mode,” she murmurs.

“I’m thinking we need banners made. Ones with the academy logo, website, and donation links.” I point to the fence around the field, picturing in my head where we’ll have Hardy do this little dog and pony show. If I place the signs behind him, then I could hopefully get some good coverage. “There and there. Bright in color—”

“And where are you going to get the money for that?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

I always do.

CHAPTER THREE

Hardy

This is such bullshit.

Never in the UK would we waste a training day on something like this. After an incident, I’d be told to keep my head down, be ordered not to talk to the press, and wait the shitstorm out until the next over-the-top scandal hit somewhere else and distracted.

Typically, that took about a day.

As for me? It wouldn’t be the first time nor the last time.

I’m not exactly known for walking the straight and narrow.

But here in the bloody United States, it seems none of that theory will work—apparently. A part of me wants to prove to Rush that he’s full of shit and that the MLS doesn’t need to worry. That no one cares about me and some arsehole photographer or how Val accidentally got caught up in the tussle.

It was just that—an accident. But an accident where there’s video and depending on which person you want to throw your support behind, you can find an angle taken that backs up your theory.

Given the fact that I left the Premier League on a one-year loan—add to that a gigantic fucking contract—to grow the game here, I’m not exactly the most liked man in football right now.

Sellout.

Money-grabber.

Untalented prick.

Common pet names yelled my way by my adoring fans. Ha. Those and a couple thousand more in my messages that aren’t exactly as nice.

How was I to know when I signed the contract that my team was going to surprise the whole goddamn league and make it to the FA Cup? Then push far into the Champion’s League finals?

There was no fucking way I could’ve. Now I’ve been labeled as the sellout who left his team high and dry for their season that starts next month because I went to the States for what my teammates and fans deem as me picking money over team and sport. And where I’m from, football and team are right up there with God and country.

But not here.

Here I’ve played and promoted for months. I’ve been their puppet on the strings they control, and when that puppet goes rogue, they like to yank those strings a little to remind me of my obligation and how much they’re paying me to fulfill them.

But a man like me doesn’t like tethers, no matter how hard they rebound. Or how much he’s paid.

And yet, here I am, letting them pull another set of strings to make up for something I didn’t do.

Correction. The punch to the prick’s face was intentional. The tripping over his cohort’s foot, us falling, and Val somehow getting caught up in it, was definitely not.

But now I have to be a good boy and walk the line. I fucking hate it.