Page 18 of Lucky Shot

“I’m bored. Can we play tag while we wait?”

A glance at my watch says Hardy is almost ninety minutes late. Such bullshit. “Of course. In fact”—I put my arm around both of their shoulders and steer them toward the rest of the students waiting impatiently—“why don’t we break into our groups and start our day? We have goals to accomplish before the end of summer, and we best get started on those.”

“So we’re not waiting?” Rodrigo asks.

“When Hardy gets here, he can wait for us to finish what we’re doing. You guys are more important than him anyway.”

Rodrigo side-eyes me, lifts his eyebrows, and draws the word out, “Right.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Help me get the cones set up for the drills?”

“Only if I get a piece of that candy on your desk.”

“Deal,” I say, but the second he jogs off, my shoulders sag.

He’s not coming.

And it infuriates me that the kids know how others in this world see them. But I know firsthand, don’t I?

I know and probably would have believed every bullshit comment and the clutching of the purse tighter to someone’s chest if it weren’t for Patrick and the confidence he instilled in me.

Fuck Alexander Hardy, his uppity name, and his lack of consideration. The thought hurts me more than I ever could have imagined. I wanted to believe in him too. I did.

Now, I don’t.

These kids matter. More than he ever will.

That thought fuels me through the next hour. One of the media crews packs up and heads to another, more exciting story since ours never materialized. The other films a few of our drills and interviews me on the off chance there’s a slow news day and they need a human-interest story. There’s no guarantee it will ever air. When they finally decide to leave, they tell us to call them when and if Hardy decides to show up.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter under mine as I turn to see Ari in her no-nonsense business suit, standing there with an apologetic smile on her lips and a placating expression on her face.

Seen that look way too many times in my life.

“Did you need me?” I ask with raised brows and no doubt impatience emanating off every fiber of my being.

“Yes. Sorry.” Ari looks over my shoulder at the kids beyond. “Can I talk to you in private for a second?”

“Of course.” I motion to one of my other coaches that I’ll be right back.

“It seems that Hardy fell ill this morning—a bad case of the stomach flu, I believe. He woke up and then fell back asleep—feverish and . . . you know.”

Yes. I know.

“Oh. How horrible.” God forgive me for not sounding sincere.

“He feels absolutely terrible about not being able to make it. He hopes you understand.”

“Hmm.” I nod subtly and force a smile on my lips that I’m certain doesn’t carry through to my eyes. Being stood up will do that to you. “Of course, we do.”

“And as a consolation, he’s donated ten thousand dollars to your organization.”

My thought process skips several beats. “Oh.” It’s all I can manage because ten thousand is an ungodly amount of money for us—like wow—and yet, he let down my kids. He let me down.

And not just let them down but gave them a rude reminder of their place in life—important enough to prop him up if needed but not important enough to actually show up.

“That’s very generous of him, but . . .” I can’t accept it. That’s my first thought. That I don’t want to take it out of principle and yet how can I deny the kids and this club the things it desperately needs because of my obstinance?

Never look a gift horse in the mouth.