Page 140 of Lucky Shot

But everything else looks the exact same.

I sit on the bed and look at the person I was. Strangely, I no longer feel like I’m her anymore. Then I look around my tiny apartment, noticing the clothes on the rack I use like a closet. The pictures on my bookshelf that are my past. The old china dishes I bought at a garage sale—dishes no doubt someone would save and only use on holidays. I use them daily.

It’s not that there is anything wrong with any of these things. It’s just that Hardy changed me. He dared me to think I was better and that I deserved more.

Then why did his words drive me away? Why did something I’ve always longed for—to be loved, to feel loved, to be wanted—steal my words and terrify my heart?

Fear.

Isn’t that what it’s always come down to? How I’ve lived my life?

I rise from my bed and grab my uniform—soccer shorts, tank top, sports bra—and bury my face in them. They smell like the old me. My perfume laced with the fear to hope and the uncertainty of what’s to come.

I’m not quite sure if I like that scent anymore after being so used to the one Hardy picked out for me. The one that’s a reminder that it’s okay to actually dream. That hope is a tool . . . not something to fear. And how even with a shitty upbringing, you can still flourish.

“Ugh.” I fall back onto my bed, close my eyes, and relive every moment of last night.

He bought me a foosball table. And it’s not the purchase that got me. It’s the fact he tried to bring me my comfort items. He knew I was struggling and tried to give me what he thought I needed.

What I needed was him.

And then when he gave it to me—when he told me he’d fallen for me—I ran.

Funny how he was able to adjust his ways and open up at a chance with me, and here I am, stuck in my ways and lost in the past.

Fuck.

Just fuck.

When people show you who you are, they say believe it.

I’m sorry, Hardy. I just showed you who I was. Who I am. I’m sorry she’s not good enough to deserve you.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Whitney

What the hell?

I stand at the edge of the complex and feel like a foreigner in my own land.

It’s exactly the same but it feels like everything—and I mean everything—has changed.

The entire complex has been repainted. Goodbye, gray cinderblock walls. Hello pristine-white walls and the club’s logo painted on the center of the main wall. The bleachers have been replaced with new ones that match the color scheme, and I swear there are three times the amount of them lining the pitch. And talk about lining, the entire exterior fence has been replaced with black-coated chain-link and proper, working gates which actually shut and most likely lock.

Then there’s the pitch itself. It’s . . . turf. Brand new turf. Like jaw-dropping gorgeous with beautifully straight painted lines and the club logo at the midline.

And not only is the pitch turf, but the goals are brand-new with crisp, white nets. There are corner flags. We’ve never had those before.

It’s then I notice the new sheds. There are several of them painted to match the new theme. They’ve been erected in a row at the side of me, so I move toward them and peek inside. Disbelief is what I feel as I open one door after the next. Each shed is like a mini warehouse. The first one holds gear—cones, balls, agility sticks, and the like. The second houses shelves with new uniforms, sealed in cellophane bags and arranged by size. The third holds what looks like a thrift shop of other people’s gently used gear. There are shoe racks of cleats and hanging racks of shorts and old jerseys. A sign on the wall says, “Take what you need, and leave what no longer fits.”

I stare in absolute awe at how this place has been transformed in such a short time.

It’s my vision come to life. I’ve never told anyone about my vision because who talks about all the things they can’t afford? It only serves to make you look out of touch with reality.

But this . . . this is just . . . I turn around and take it all in again. Tears spring to my eyes, and a lump forms in my throat.

“What did you do?” I murmur to no one, fully aware that this is one hundred percent Alexander Hardy.