Page 35 of Lucky Shot

Soccer foreplay at its finest. Not.

“C’mon, Coach. Show him what you’ve got,” Rodrigo shouts, and to my dismay, another round of “Coach” starts being chanted, giving me no chance to back out.

I approach Hardy, my eyes daggers of dislike, and step to where he’s placed the ball in the corner. His expression is arrogant. He motions to the ball. “Be my guest. Since it seems you’re already on the defensive with me, this would be a natural progression, don’t you think?”

“You think you’re cute, don’t you?” I say under my breath as I take up a defensive stance.

“There are much better things to call me than cute,” he says quietly as he takes up the space behind me. The kids begin to push their way down to the edge of the pitch so they can get closer.

“You’re an—”

“You have ears listening to whatever it is you were just going to call me, Coach,” he says beneath his chuckle, his voice and his body way closer than I realized. “You might want to be nice to the guest superstar you have here in your midst.”

I snort and roll my eyes but look up to see pairs and pairs of eyes on me. Shit. Guess he’s right.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

He steps in closer. “Already have more than enough of them when it comes to you.” And then as if this entire private conversation never happened, he turns to the kids. “So we have our offensive player—that’s Coach here—and then me, the defensive player. The goal for Coach is to keep the ball here in the corner without going out while I try and strip it from her. The objective? To waste time. Coach’s team is up one goal, the half is almost over, and the last thing she wants is to give me a chance to get the ball so I can score.”

“Because you will score,” someone says out loud, earning a slew of chuckles.

“Correct. I will score,” Hardy says. It’s hard not to consider that kind of confidence sexy. “So the question is, how do you defend against this? How do you get the ball away so you can give your team the best chance possible?”

He says something next, but I’m not sure what it is because the minute his hand rests on my hip and the warmth of his body hits my back, I stop hearing. The buzz in my ears and the hum racing through my veins is enough to test my sanity. The man creates aches where no part of me warrants aching.

Not in front of the players.

Not during a boring, run-of-the-mill soccer drill.

Not even because his hand is on me.

And yet, my body stirs in ways it hasn’t in a long time.

Defending was never my strong suit—scoring was—but my years of training kick in as I begin to protect the ball at my feet. I bend my knees and stick my ass out to push him off me as much as possible, to create space between him and the ball so that I can keep it there and away from him. His body ghosts mine. Every long, hard, corded muscle of his is pressing against me as we play a strategic game of keep away.

The kids’ cheers break through my fog of concentration despite my inability to discern which one of us exactly they’re rooting for.

I’d like to think me, but I highly doubt it as Hardy’s firm thighs trap mine and his feet begin trying to poke at the ball and push it out of bounds.

I hold my own for a minute or so but I have no doubt the man is just toying with me for the sake of the drill.

He instructs the kids, completely unfazed by the effort he’s putting in, while I’m panting from the exertion.

“Cage your opponent in with your hips and then try and kick between their legs to poke the ball out of bounds. Try not to foul them, but remember, the longer they have the ball, the less time you have to even the score.”

I defend the ball for a few more fleeting seconds before Hardy does what I know he’s capable of and strips the ball away from me with an ease that’s almost comical.

The twinge in my knee comes instantly. I should have expected it as it’s prone to hurt when I pivot. I am so preoccupied with Hardy, with everything that is him, and maybe with trying to prove my worthiness and soccer acumen to all around us that I forget about it for the briefest of seconds.

But that lightning-hot sear of pain that shoots up my thigh is proof of it.

My gasp is drowned out by the players cheering Hardy on, and I’m grateful for it as the last thing I want is any focus to be on me.

That and my ego might just be a little bruised that I couldn’t hold out longer against him.

But I know I’m all but forgotten when he turns on a dime and strikes the ball, hitting it into the net from the most obscene of angles. Effortlessly.

The students roar as he throws his head back, laughs, and then takes a dramatic bow for them.