Page 19 of Lucky Shot

True. I get it. But what happens when the gift horse pisses you off and makes you feel less than?

“But?” Ari asks, surprise woven in that single syllable.

My pride tastes so damn bitter as I swallow it down. “But nothing.”

“Great. I had a staff member run this here from our offices for us so we can take a few photos for social media,” she says, motioning to one of those oversized fake checks they use on game shows.

How convenient. Was he ever going to even show up in the first place or was this the plan all along? Build us up to let us down?

“Wow. Aren’t you efficient?”

Her brows narrow momentarily by my muted snark, but I smile to overshadow my tone.

“Always prepared for the unexpected. It’s a lesson I’ve learned—especially when athletes are involved.” She holds out the phony check to me that promises a ten-thousand-dollar donation from Miami Mayhem, on their logo, but is “signed” by Alexander Hardy. “Let’s get the kids around, shall we? A big group picture of you all accepting this gracious donation from one of our superstars.”

“Of course.”

And I go about doing just that—gathering the kids up, standing and smiling for the camera while holding the ridiculous check, listening to the kids ooh and aah over how awesome he is—and grow more and more upset over being stood up.

Call it me being pissy and sore from all the hard work I put in for his visit. Call it PMS. Call it my bullshit radar. All three are probably accurate, but by the time the Miami Mayhem entourage packs up and leaves, I’m in downright bitch mode.

The kids are running drills outside with the other coaches while I stand in my office with my arms crossed over my chest, scowling at the oversized check propped up on the filing cabinet.

“What do you care where the money is coming from so long as it’s coming?” I mutter to myself, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

All that work. All that wasted money I don’t have spent on signage and banners that went to waste. And for what? To be reminded just who we are and what we don’t have? Not to mention my own personal loss I feel over looking up to someone who just let me down.

Then again, maybe that’s too deep for Alexander Hardy. Maybe he’s just simply the type of man who thinks money can buy anything—grace, stature, reputation, absolution.

These kids deserve to know they matter.

That they have hope and opportunities and futures.

And I’ll do my darndest to deliver on that. No matter what it takes.

CHAPTER FIVE

Whitney

“Drink up,” Suri encourages as I toy with the straw in my fingers. “It’s the least you can do.”

“The least I can do?” I cough out the words and then glance down my body. “The least I could do is this, getting dressed up to go out with you because your date bailed.”

“You do look fabulous in that dress.” She motions to the dark blue, low-cut number I borrowed from her closet. “Your hair and makeup were already done from Operation Egotistical Asshole today, so the drinks are deserved. Besides, my date getting sick was not bailing. It’s simply him getting sick.”

“Apparently it’s going around,” I say wryly and roll my eyes, still furious and disappointed in Hardy and the events of earlier today. Money doesn’t fix everything.

My bitterness toward him is proof of that.

“Well, it got you out of the house and at a comedy show you never would have seen otherwise.” She takes a sip and then leans forward. “And it probably even got you to shave places that haven’t been shaved in a while.”

I level a look her way. “I shaved those places when I went on a date with . . . uh . . . shit.”

“It was so long ago you forgot his name, didn’t you?”

“No. It was Darren. Or Derrick.” I think.

“Dean.” She laughs. “His name was Dean.”