Page 17 of Lucky Shot

I roll my shoulders, the ache deep from the ridiculous amount of work I put in over the past few days—painting, pulling weeds, turf repair, net repair, gear clean up—to make the academy look as nice as possible. Being rundown is one thing, but looking like the club owner doesn’t care enough to make it presentable offers little confidence to someone debating whether or not to make a donation.

And I sure as heck plan on pushing the fact that our needs outweigh our budget if I get a chance with the media.

Another glance around tells me that Hardy hasn’t arrived, and by the puzzled looks on their faces, no one quite knows where he is.

Awesome.

And here I stand with my newly trimmed hair, a full face of make-up applied for the first time in forever, and disappointment like a slow drip from a leaky faucet.

I’ve since watched the videos—every angle, every clip—and I hate that right now, his disappearing act with the academy is making him look exactly like the viral video made him look like. And while every angle tells a different side of the story, the one thing they all agree on is that Hardy looks brash, reckless, and reactive. A hothead who can’t control his temper.

Not a good look for the superstar and particularly as the face of this sport.

I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum as if it’ll lessen the bitterness I taste on my tongue. I wanted him to be that guy I built up in my head, that superstar I wanted to adore, and yet as I stand here and look at my waiting kids and the media, who is clearly getting bored, I have to concede he just might be the man those videos paint him out to be.

No one likes knowing the person they look up to, that they admire, that they have a crush on, isn’t worthy of their affection or time at all.

Too bad I still need him—good, bad, or asshole-y—to help my academy.

Then again, he has to show up for me to use him.

I take a stroll over to the fence to straighten a banner I had made—my credit card loved that one—and catch sight of a ridiculously expensive car parked across the street. I’m not one to know the make and model of a car, especially ones that aren’t sitting at the used car lot down the street, but I sure as shit know extravagance when I see it.

My first thought? Gorgeous car.

My second? What the hell is someone doing in this part of town with that? They better not leave it there or if they do, they better expect to come back and have something missing from it.

My last? Who’s checking up on Hardy to make sure he shows up? Or is that Hardy himself in that sexy car, and if so, why the hell is he not getting out?

I stare for a few seconds longer. Hell, I have nothing else to do.

“Coach?”

I turn to find Rodrigo behind me. The kid is one of our twelve-year-old phenoms. His natural ability is off the charts and advanced years beyond his age. My greatest hope is that we can help keep him on the straight and narrow and away from the drugs his dad likes to sell long enough to use the game to get him away from here. High school. College. Beyond. But for now I have to settle with just today, just this week. Because here in Glendale, that’s how kids have to look at life.

“What’s up?” I ask, my smile present despite my irritation at the situation.

“He’s not going to show, is he?”

I study him in his idol’s jersey. H-A-R-D-Y is spelled across its back. I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad that one of the media accidentally let it slip who was supposed to show up today. I almost wish they hadn’t so I could protect Rodrigo’s belief in a man he idolizes.

I offer a reticent smile. “He’s supposed to. That’s what this whole thing is for, right? So the only reason why he wouldn’t be here is because of some kind of emergency.” Or he’s the prick I’m resigned to thinking he is.

“C’mon, Coach. We’re charity cases.” He holds his hand up to stop me from correcting him. “No one comes to visit clubs like ours unless they’re trying to look better or they came from something like this themselves. And Hardy did not come from shit like this. He was a silver-spoon, boarding-school kid with more chances and opportunities than this entire club combined will ever have.”

Well, I can’t say that Rodrigo doesn’t know how to research things with that rebuke.

“We don’t know that’s why he’s not here yet.” I’m crushed for him, for the rest of the kids, and selfishly, for me.

He snorts. “I know you have to be positive. That it’s your job to be, but when you live here, when you get old enough to notice, people outside this area look at you differently. They watch everything you do. If you’re in a store, they think you’re going to steal. When you reach in your pockets, they assume you’re going to pull out drugs. I mean . . . that’s just how it is.”

“I know.” I nod because I do. Because I grew up with that same stigma coating my skin and tainting my outlook. “I know.”

“Thinking he was coming here was just too good to be true.”

“Miss Whitney?” Bella asks. She’s eight and has the cutest freckles and pigtails that bob with every movement of her head.

“Yes, sweetie?”