Page 36 of Lucky Shot

Like he needs his ego fed any more.

But when I turn toward the students, all I see are ear-to-ear grins, expressions of joy and excitement. And briefly, they get to forget who they are and what happens outside of this academy—the burdens or fears that hold them back through no fault of their own—because Hardy just showed them possibility and opportunity in one single kick.

I may not exactly like Alexander Hardy, but I will forever be grateful to him for this moment for them.

It’s then I see the media crew set up on the center line of the pitch. Their cameras are angled our way and following the movement of the players.

When did that happen?

And then when I start to walk toward them, do I notice the crowd that’s gathered just beyond the outer periphery of the chain-link fence—men, women, kids. A majority of them are holding their cell phones up, snapping pictures.

Word must have spread and now everyone’s coming out to see the incredible Alexander Hardy.

Ugh for me. Yay for the club.

But the fact that all of this has been happening—a crowd, a news crew—and I didn’t notice is further proof of what I already knew.

Alexander Hardy is a distraction I don’t need.

Not his body against mine.

Not his disarming smile.

Not his ridiculous commands and endless flirting.

Not his arrogance.

Not his nonchalance about what being here means to the kids.

“Miss Barnes?” the news reporter calls out to me, or at least I assume that’s who she is since she’s holding a microphone in her hand.

“Hi. Yes. Can I help you?”

“We’re here with the local ABC affiliate. Ariana from Miami Mayhem invited us out here to film some of Hardy’s interaction with the kids. I’d also like to learn more about the program here at—uh—”

“Prestige Soccer Academy,” I finish for her.

“Right. Yes. Prestige Soccer Academy,” she says with a halfhearted smile as she glances down at her notepad. No doubt she’d rather be reporting on real news instead of about a local soccer club. “Would you mind telling me a bit more about your program and what it means to have Alexander Hardy out here spending time with you?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hardy

The kids here are . . . cute? I guess. Everywhere I fucking turn? Definitely.

I’m not exactly a kid guy. They’re good from afar but close up, they make me itchy. At least this lot is an enthusiastic group. Sure the younger ones make all kinds of weird noises and fidget like they have ants in their pants, but the older ones make up for it. They tilt their heads and try to understand what I’m saying. They raise their hands and wait their turn to ask questions. Those are the kids I’m putting on this show for.

Who knows if they have talent? I doubt it if they’re in this program that doesn’t have a single bona fide coach with professional playing experience on its staff. If they did, it would be all over their fucking website, and when I looked at it yesterday, the site is about as dire as this fucking location.

But I’m here.

I’m putting in the time—wasting it really as my own training is way more important in winning a championship than my presence here is.

The only bonus out of this whole fucking situation is the woman talking to reporters a dozen feet away. She’s a challenge to say the least. Intriguing. Beautiful. Athletic. Aloof.

And as if she’s played perfectly into my hands, she utterly despises me.

It’s more than evident in the distance she keeps from me, and in the roll of her eyes and the grit of her teeth every time she has to interact with me.