Page 23 of Lucky Shot

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I sure as shit want to.” I follow his gaze and see her flip her hair on the other side of the bar. But when I look back, all five of them are staring at me.

Fuck.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re an ass, Hardy,” Xavi Davies says.

“Why’s that, mate? Because she’s hot and wants me?”

“The academy?” Gallo, our goalie, says. “You fucking stood up kids?”

“There’s more to the story than that,” I say, but I knew then just like I know now, that I should have stayed there today.

I didn’t.

It is what it is.

Santiago twists his lips as he meets my eyes. “You do know about Rush, right? His backstory? How little he had and how it’s his goal to try and give back now that he’s made it big time?” He shakes his head. “When he finds out, he’s not going to think too kindly on your no-show.”

Fuck. I groan and then tilt my lager up and down the rest of it. Time to get the hell out of here.

“Show up. They’re kids, man. Give ’em some time,” Xavi says.

No one ever showed up for me.

“Yeah. What does it hurt to show up for a few hours?” Noah, my center back, asks.

“She’s still here. Go fix it. Go over and—”

“Fine. I got it.” I rise from my seat and throw my hands up in surrender, my good mood now turned to shit. “I’ll show the fuck up. Now get off my case.”

“Not until you go fix it with her,” Gallo says.

“What’s it to you?” I bark back, the power of his punch still fresh in the back of my mind.

“You came to the States to play. We may be in first place, but we need you or else we won’t win the whole fucking championship. We can’t do that if you get benched for this shit. Do what the fuck you’re supposed to do so you can do just that—win with us,” Santiago says.

My shoulders sag momentarily. When he puts it like that. “Right.” I take a few steps away from the table into the crowd and with my back toward them, lift my right hand and flip them off.

I hear their barked laughs, know they’re right, and respectfully hate them and myself for it as I move across the bar. I’ve never been one to care who’s watching. In fact, the more eyes on me the better, and yet this feels a lot like a walk of shame—not that I’d ever know what that feels like.

When I approach the table, Whitney’s disdain darkens the green of her eyes. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man, but then again, she’s already stopping my heart.

Correction. It’s stopped because all the blood is flowing south and for no other reason than that.

Especially when she tilts her head to the side and glares at me. It gives me a perfect view of her—the full lips, the incredible cleavage, the sense that she would eat me alive if she could.

“I’m not a glutton for punishment, babe, but”—I hold my arms out—“go right ahead.”

“Jesus. Even after you chase after me, you’re a prick. Has anyone ever taught you humility?”

I take another step forward and hold out my hand to the other lady sitting at the table. She’s giving me more the look I’m used to—the flushed cheeks, the wide eyes, the stuttered smile. “Hi. Alexander Hardy, but people call me Hardy.”

She takes my hand and shakes it. “Suri Johnson. Nice to meet you.”

“Same.”

“Do you not like Alexander?” she asks as she takes a sip of her drink while Whitney shifts impatiently in her seat.