Page 20 of Lucky Shot

“Yeah. Whatever.” I shrug and take a long sip of my drink. I may have already shaved those places though, simply because I thought I was going to meet a very sexy soccer player today. One who I may have played out ridiculous fantasies in my head about how he was going to take one look at me and fall madly in love.

Ridiculous and childish but still the truth.

That’s why I said yes to Suri tonight. To maybe gain a little bit of my bearings back from the silly realm it had been in.

Besides, the comedy show at the club down the street provided the lighthearted entertainment I wasn’t aware I needed. The bar around us doesn’t hurt either. It’s kitschy and very Coyote Ugly-ish but in all the best ways. It’s crowded and loud with just enough people you can get lost in their camouflage and remain unnoticed—exactly how I prefer to be.

Plus, Suri and all of the above got me to venture to this side of town—the new downtown district—that I normally never go near.

“Dean seemed nice but he was no match for the hurricane of Whitney Barnes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much.” I chuckle and tap my nearly empty wine glass against hers.

Suri Johnson. My best friend and a force to be reckoned with ever since we met during our sophomore year of high school. She was the quiet but outspoken goth who preferred to read in the library during lunch, and I was the awkward, teased kid who had learned being invisible made life much easier in a school full of teenagers.

We bonded over everything—the contents of her lunch she always shared with me, the fantasy book she was reading, how annoying the popular kids were, and how neither of us ever wanted to go home. And when I look at her and smile, I’m extremely grateful that our bond has continued to this day. She always seems to know just what I need, even if I don’t appreciate it in the moment.

“Thank you for twisting my arm and forcing me to go with you. I did, in fact, have fun,” I say.

“Ha. See? I knew you would. Wasn’t that way better than being home stewing about that asshole Hardy?”

“The asshole Hardy?” the waitress asks absently as she slides fresh drinks in front of us. “You mean that Hardy over there?” She lifts her chin toward the opposite corner of the bar where a crowd is hovering around a table.

“He’s here?” I whip my head in his direction and scowl the minute I see him.

“I don’t know if he’s an asshole, but I’ll tell you one thing—that man is everything a woman wants. Looks. Sex appeal. British accent. Athletic. Wealthy.”

“And a prick,” I mutter, getting to my feet without thinking.

“Whitney?” Suri calls at my back just above the fray of noise but it doesn’t stop me. She knows better.

Especially when I see him like a king holding court as he sits among a table of his peers and obvious fans.

Exactly how and where I would have been if today hadn’t transpired.

I detest that I’m staggered by the pure beauty of the man—dark hair with a wave to it, light eyes that look like a lingering cloud deciding whether it’s going to pass over or storm, tanned skin, and defined features that make me think (oddly enough) of a Disney prince.

And most definitely not when he looks up to see me bearing down on the table and flashes a dazzling smile like he’s ready to charm the panties off yet another female who can’t resist him.

“You,” I say as I push my way through the crowd to his table. I have my finger out and am pointing at him.

There’s the slightest stutter in his demeanor, almost as if he is trying to place me from somewhere. Not like it matters because when he turns on the charisma, it’s dazzling.

“Yeah,” he says with a crooked smile and I’ll-fuck-you eyes. “Me.” He bites his bottom lip as his graze scrapes over me. “Can I help you with something?”

The immediacy with which I dislike him is shocking. And not just because of earlier today but more because of his smugness and my body’s visceral reaction to him.

“Yes. Most definitely.” I glance around at the men seated at the table and for the first time, realize exactly who I’m standing amid—six of the starting eleven for the Mayhem. Jesus. I work a swallow down my throat and force myself to find my footing. The last thing I want is to look like the rest of the women standing in a circle around the table, simply staring at them in the hopes that one of them takes notice. “I thought you were sick.”

He chuckles and looks around to everyone at the table like I’m an idiot. “Do I look sick to you?”

“That’s exactly my point.”

“Do we know each other? Did I piss you off in another life? Are you mistaking me for some poor bloke who you knew when or something?”

“Was there somewhere you were supposed to be today, Hardy? Some kids you were supposed to see and make feel like they mattered?” I can see the light dawn in his eyes, but he rolls them to play it off given the audience listening. “That’s what I thought.”

“I was sick. Earlier. Mid-morning,” he tries to explain, but his own teammates glance at one another, brows furrowed. “But then again, I don’t have to explain that to anyone.”