Page 32 of Lucky Shot

I open my mouth and close it. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. “Long day.” It’s all I say, and it’s greeted with an unnerving silence. “Are we done here?”

“Sure. Why not. But I’ll be there Monday.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Monday through Friday, so I’ve been told.”

“Ah, an extended punishment then for not showing the first time. That sullied reputation isn’t going to clean itself up, huh?”

The quick agreement I expect doesn’t come. “Something like that.” There’s a voice in the background. It’s soft and sultry and is followed by a giggle. Here I thought he was pausing because he was embarrassed about my punishment comment, but rather it’s because he has some woman no doubt rubbing up against him.

“Sounds like you’re busy. I’ll let you go.”

“Not busy. No.”

“Well, I am,” I lie. “Good night, Hardy.”

“See you on Monday, Whitney.”

But when the call ends, I stare at the cell in my hand.

It’s a Saturday night. He’s out with friends, and yet he felt the need to step outside whatever club he’s in and away from the women most likely falling all over him to talk to me.

It shouldn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

I don’t know why the thought makes me sink down in my chair, wrap my arms around myself, and smile, but it does.

CHAPTER TEN

Whitney

He showed when I wasn’t banking on him showing.

He arrived with a huge grin, a bag full of Miami Mayhem swag that had all of the kids squealing and standing taller, and a swagger that had the kids trying to emulate it.

He stayed and has been great with the kids—incredible, really—while being an absolute royal pain in my ass.

He’s here, on the pitch, with his infuriating good looks, his natural skill on the ball anyone would kill to have, and those eyes that taunt and tease.

“He’s better with them than I expected him to be,” Martin says.

“Way better,” I agree as Hardy shows the kids some foot skills they can practice in small spaces like their bedrooms.

“After all those bullshit demands, I figured he’d be a total prick to the kids. He wasn’t. He isn’t. I mean . . . at least there’s that.”

“I know,” I murmur as Hardy moves off the ball and wows the kids with a rainbow kick.

But he’s also an ass.

Purple Gatorade is the only color he’ll drink?

“Run to the shops and grab me one, will ya?”

Dream on.

“Decent pitch but what if I don’t like goals facing that way? I need them redirected before I can talk to the kids. Be a good girl and move them, won’t you?”