Page 150 of Lucky Shot

“I don’t understand,” she sputters out.

“There’s always ticket scalper sites.”

“The tickets that we find suitable are going in excess of four thousand a seat.”

“Good thing Monty is well-heeled.” Enough to put me in a prestigious boarding school. “I’m sure he can manage.”

“Alexander. This isn’t funny—”

“Sorry, Mum, but I have to go. Team meeting.”

When I end the call with her stilted protest in the background, I realize how damn good that felt.

I move back to the bedroom, to the woman I’m drawn to, and study her lying in my hotel bed. Her thick hair fans across the pillow and her tanned skin stands out against the white of the sheets. How I love her smart mouth and gorgeous smile, but most of all that incredible heart and brilliant mind.

She’s a perfect match for me. A challenge I didn’t expect. A battle I never intended to fight.

I won the girl. Now I have to figure out how to keep her . . . against all odds and interference.

I think I’ve put a good game in play here, but this is hardheaded, big-hearted Whitney Barnes we’re talking about.

Yes, I’ll be going home in the coming month.

I can only hope she’ll be receptive to what I have in mind.

Then again, nothing has been easy when it comes to her.

Why would I expect this to be?

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Whitney

I stifle a yawn.

It was a long weekend with so little recovery time.

The flight out to see Hardy. His hard-fought game. Flying back. Another long night of lying in his arms, of talking, of making love.

Of making love.

The term puts a smile on my lips—I don’t think I’ve ever really made love before—but the smile doesn’t exactly bode well for my concentration in being a hard-ass right now.

“Again. Your cuts aren’t crisp enough,” I tell the high school-aged kids on the pitch. “It’s clear as day which ones of you have been working on your footwork and who hasn’t.” I blow the whistle. “Again.” I move down the line. The sound of cleats hitting the turf and then tapping on the top of the ball is a music all its own. “If you want those scholarships, the boring stuff, the fundamentals, are what get you seen. They mean you put the work in when no one is watching.”

“Coach,” someone whines but I ignore.

“You should already be conditioned. If toe taps are making you tired, there’s no way you’re lasting a whole ninety minutes in a game.” I blow the whistle. “Again.”

“Coach Barnes? Do you have a moment?”

I turn to face the man who’s been standing on the periphery of the pitch for the last hour or so. I’ve noticed him, but ever since Hardy set up his rotating schedule with teammates, we’ve had looky-loos here all the time. They’re hoping for a chance to see their favorite player . . . I assume.

So I didn’t pay half a mind to the older gentleman on the outskirts of the pitch with the baseball cap and sunglasses. It’s Miami, after all. Everyone wears hats and sunglasses.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Simon Garrett with the London Lions Football Club.” He reaches out to shake my hand, but I hesitate and try to figure out what he’s doing here. London Lions FC. A Premier League women’s team?