Page 30 of Lucky Shot

“Your team has to take the hit for that. Their whole schedule has had to be adjusted, no thanks to you.”

“This is fucked. You can’t get me out—”

“Don’t ask,” he warns. “You’re lucky this is all that’s being asked of you. What you keep forgetting to learn is that part of getting to live this dream of ours is that we’re to pay it forward. There’s a responsibility that comes with it.”

“I know, but you’re hurting the team.”

“No,” he shouts, grabbing my attention. “You’re hurting the team.” And when I start to talk, he talks right over me. “Save whatever it is you’re going to say or else I’ll make that week a whole fucking month on my own accord.”

“Christ.”

“You can save your excuses for some interviewer with a short skirt and low cleavage. She’ll listen to you. She’ll buy it. She’ll post the story so she can be connected to you. I won’t. Be there Monday at 8 a.m.”

“I’m here now though.”

“At your convenience. When the place is a fucking ghost town.” He chuckles. “Yes, I know no one is there, but just like one would expect from Alexander Hardy, you keep asserting how you’re there and let me assume you’re putting in the work. You’re not.”

“Mate—”

“Lying by omission is still lying. Don’t lie to me again or you will find your arse back on a plane and really put your teammates in a pinch.”

“It’s not like you’ve given me a second to explain anything, so there’s a lot of omitting going on.”

“Bottom line? Don’t fucking let me down again.”

Or else, what? I think to myself but don’t voice.

And in perfect Rush McKenzie fashion, he reads my thoughts. “Or else the resulting public scene will be much more than a scuffle outside a club. Imagine what it will look like if you’re sent home, leaving your team in a lurch and being excused from your contract with the MLS? Not a very good look for the person they were banking the face of American soccer on.”

“Yep, got it. Not a problem.” My words are as clipped as my attitude is crappy.

“Good. Glad we’re on the same page. Put in the time there. Put in the work on our field. Show me you’re worth the fucking faith I’ve put in you.”

He ends the call before I can respond and leaves me staring at an empty school. I voluntarily came here today and fucking hate it.

But I said I’d be here and I’m fucking here.

That’s good for something, isn’t it?

So I pick up my phone to make sure I get the brownie points I deserve for it.

CHAPTER NINE

Whitney

“I’m here like I said I would be, and you and your players are nowhere to be found. I was true to my word. I’m here. You’re not. Guess that’s one way to safeguard yourself from how attracted you are to me.” He chuckles, and it reverberates through my body despite the roll of my eyes. “Shame. I was rather looking forward to pushing your buttons today. Now I guess I’ll have to do it on Monday instead.”

I listen to the voicemail for a second, or maybe fifth time, letting his sexy accent and gravelly growl sound like a lullaby I could easily fall asleep to.

And then I shake my head to knock some sense into me.

The man is an arrogant ass. Plain. Simple. For real.

But he did show.

I close my eyes and yawn. It’s been a very long day of games and the chaos that comes with getting all my players to the field on the upper east side of town. Players whose parents can’t all get them there due to their work schedule, general absenteeism, drug usage, you name it.

But sitting here in my little office at eight o’clock at night, it was all worth it. Every minute of coordinating, coaching, praising, yelling, and celebrating was worth it for the smiles and wins that came along with them.