Page 27 of Lucky Shot

“Say the rest.”

“What rest?” Her eyes narrow.

“‘I love Monty, sweetheart, but not as much as I love you.’ That’s what you were going to say, right?”

Her smile in response is so natural I feel a bit more at ease. Stop working yourself up, Alexander. For all you know, it really is a surprise.

And yet, the rock in my gut tells me otherwise.

“Right.” Another smile as she pulls me against her and hugs me tight. “Always. I’ll always love you more.” Her voice is thick, like she’s eating peanut butter, and she ruffles the top of my head before holding me at arm’s length. “You ready for your surprise?”

Why does she sound sad?

“No.” I shake my head back and forth as she pulls on my hand to lead me down the hall. “Mummy. No, I don’t want a surprise. I just want to stay here and play football and make biscuits with you.”

“I know,” she says. It sounds weird, but I can’t see her face to know why it sounds like she’s crying.

And there has been a lot of that over the past two years so I know the sound well. But not since Monty came. Not since he showed up in his shiny car with his fat wallet and . . . his pinched expression.

The one that greets me when I turn the corner and enter the sitting room.

“Son? Looks like you lost your shirt there?” He asks in that way that people talk when they’re not a big fan of kids but pretend to be.

I just stare at him, his unmoving hair, and the way his neck bulges over the collar of his dress shirt like a sausage coming out of its casing. My stomach twists.

“Didn’t lose it. No.”

“No, sir, is the proper way to respond, Alexander. Especially with a name as regal as yours.”

I grunt.

“So we have a truly exciting opportunity for you. Due to my status, a school that’s extremely interested in you has approached me. They’re keen to further your education and to grow your football skills.”

If he lifts his eyebrows one more time, they might fly off his face. I snicker. Oops. That might be the wrong thing to do by the clench of his jaw and hands.

I clear my throat as what he says hits my ears. “There’s no such place around here.”

His grin widens. “I know. That’s why this is such a great opportunity. The Cannondale School in Kentwood.”

Like I know where that is. “Where?”

“It’s a few hours south.”

“But how would I get there and back every day? How would I make my practice in time? How would—”

“You wouldn’t.” My mum finally enters the conversation, her hands trembling and her voice shaky. “You’d stay there with all of the other boys who are excited to be there to further their football skills.”

“It’s exceptionally prestigious. Exceptionally,” Monty emphasizes. “Only the best of the best are selected to attend. Some of their alumni have gone on to do incredible things professionally, on and off the pitch.”

All the stupid shows on the telly I’ve watched come back. The evil headmasters. The cruel students. The—

“Think Harry Potter but with football,” my mum says with too much enthusiasm.

I laugh nervously as I twist my fingers together. The ringing in my ears is almost painful. They have to hear it too, don’t they?

“A boarding school,” I whisper and stare blankly at them through squinted eyes.

“Yes, but the football opportunities are most impressive,” Monty says.