Page 22 of Lucky Shot

Our eyes hold and I can see the storm brewing in his irises despite the calm demeanor in his voice.

“Sure. Fine.” I pause, knowing this is exactly the reason I’m still standing here. To say this and put him in his place. “I’d apologize for embarrassing you in front of your mates, but truth be told, I’m not in the least bit sorry. You know why? Because while you were busy being a prima donna today, I had to face over two hundred kids and teens and explain to them why they weren’t good enough for Alexander fucking Hardy to show up.”

“But you got the money.”

I nod. “Thanks for just proving my fucking point.” I take a step back. “It seems making an ass out of yourself and not caring about anything other than you is a common trait of yours.”

“Seems to have worked out so far for me in life.” He shrugs.

I’m dumbfounded by his arrogance. By his lack of humility in confessing what he did. But then again, should I expect any less? I glance around at everyone, see some camera phones up filming, and shake my head. “There’s responsibility that comes with fame like you have. A moral compass that requires you to inspire others and motivate them. I guess you lost that right along with your decency when you skipped university. I hope you have a shitty rest of the season, Hardy. Like can’t find the ball in the back of the net ever kind of season.”

He chuckles, and it’s anything but nice. “I’ll keep that in mind, but that doesn’t seem to be the case so far, huh?”

“Go to hell,” I mutter.

“Been told worse by better.”

“I’m sure you have.” I take a few steps back. “But then again, I’m just a lowly soccer assistant without any experience. What do I know?”

“Exactly.”

Asshole.

“They say never meet your idol. Now, I know why.”

Satisfied with completing my mission, and without another word, I move back toward my table, toward the fresh round of drinks just served, and know I’ll be leaving as soon as I can pay my tab.

And well before the mob of Hardy fans decide to burn me at the stake for criticizing their hero. Because no doubt there is one at this bar.

“You good?” Suri asks, eyeing me cautiously.

I nod. “Best I’ve felt all day.”

CHAPTER SIX

Hardy

Jesus. I map the sway of her hips as she storms off through the bar. The clingy fabric and the curves of her body. Blue is most definitely her color.

Then again, my thoughts are more centered on her losing the dress so who cares what color she’s wearing?

Bloody hell.

The woman has balls, beauty, and brains.

Two are real. One is figurative.

I move back toward the table and take a seat to the boys whistling as I scrub a hand over my jaw and don’t fight the smirk. A woman just dressed me down in public and . . . I kind of liked it.

When has that ever happened before?

I’m used to the trembling, the crying, the big eyes, and overdone cleavage—not that I mind that one—to make me look their way.

Yet Whitney-whatever-her-name-is just walked away after delivering a stinging rebuke without a glance back.

Dare I say I’m turned on by it?

“Who was that?” Santiago, one of my wingers, asks with a glance over his shoulder to the wake Whitney left in her path.