Page 37 of Lucky Shot

And interaction is something I just may be forcing her hand in every chance I get.

Doesn’t hurt that I find a certain joy in pissing her off and making those emerald eyes of hers glint.

Besides, it’s a perfect fucking scenario for me. Show up, fulfill my obligation to Rush, make some positive press for the club overall, all the while pissing her off just enough that she doesn’t want me back here tomorrow. That she asks Ari to have me not return.

That’s all I’ve got when it comes to trying to make everyone happy—my teammates since I’ve screwed their schedules up, the MLS and my team owners, the kids here, the media reporting, and myself and my sanity.

As it is, I’ve tried to include Whitney in every aspect. I’ve volunteered her to help me demonstrate drills. I’ve asked her to run to the shops for me to get my favorite flavor sports drink that I made up on the spot. I’ve even made some diva moves—change the way the goal faces. How I’ll only use yellow cones—not orange ones. That any football I kick must be filled to a certain pressure. Demanding that she’s the only one capable of demonstrating drills with me. That was a surprise—she knows how to play the game. I’d hope that since she is the manager of this school, but it is America after all. Who really knows what their football standards are? At least she could hold her own.

So yeah, I’ve done more than enough to make anyone rightfully annoyed. Enough to make them be done with me.

But in doing all those things, I might have fucked myself over.

Whitney Barnes.

There’s not much on the website that I don’t already know about her. She runs this place. She has no professional experience. She’s fucking gorgeous.

And I can’t get her out of my goddamn head.

Plain. Simple. Reality.

Now I’m just torturing myself every additional second I spend here.

Did I think she’d tell me off? Fuck yes. Did she bite her tongue and take hit after hit from me for the sake of her players? Again, yes.

And I don’t know how that makes me feel. When has anyone ever done that for me? Never.

So I toyed with her. As a means to test her. As a way to wear my welcome thin.

But now all I can think about is that the game is on me. Her arse nestled perfectly against my cock during the drill. The warmth of her skin as she pressed back into me. The scent of her shampoo as her ponytail swung in my face.

You got what you wanted, Hardy.

But now the teasing has become intrigue and the intrigue more of a need to know more. And that need is now owning my mind as I try and string sentences together for this fucking reporter.

Who is this woman, and why isn’t she bending to my will?

When I want a woman, it’s the old cliché of simply needing to snap my fingers. A lone look, a lift of the chin, a wave of the hand. All three have gotten me laid in the past. It never matters how I act or if I even talk—I can do no wrong and still get laid.

Yet sure as shit, I’m standing here staring at the one fucking woman in this place who doesn’t give two shits about me and wondering how I do just that.

You’re failing at your objective, Hardy. Big shocker there. Try harder at getting out of this fucking week-long torture.

I glance around at the hundred or so pairs of eyes taking in my every movement and smile when I look back at the reporter. Might as well sell this shit because no doubt the powers that be with MLS will be watching it somehow—either on social media or through very pointed questions at Ari about how I participated here.

“So you’ll be here for the rest of the week?” the reporter asks as all the kids push forward.

My smile slips ever so slightly as I force a swallow and nod. The slip and the swallow more for show to Whitney than anything. “That’s what I’m being told, yes.”

“And you couldn’t be happier, I assume?” she asks.

“Unfortunately, Hardy is only able to stay with us for today,” Whitney says as she walks up on camera to steal the spotlight from me.

And steal she just did.

I attempt to temper my expression, but no doubt it falters momentarily. Inside I’m secretly fist pumping. But I’m also thinking fuck.

Rush is going to see this. He’s going to know I purposely did something to fuck this up. My plan isn’t as foolproof as I first thought. Motherfucker.