Page 38 of Lucky Shot

“We’ve had a great time with him and have felt so fortunate that he took the time to spend with us today, but he has other obligations for the rest of the week that he can’t break,” Whitney tells the reporter.

On live television.

Double motherfucker.

I mean, yes, mission accomplished, but I didn’t expect her to say that on live TV and screw me over with that excuse.

“Other obligations? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” I flash a smile at the camera and hope to sell the lie.

“We have to go to a quick commercial break,” the reporter says, “but stay tuned, everyone, as we’ll settle this matter when we return. Will Alexander Hardy be at the Prestige Soccer Academy for the rest of the week, where you can come out and watch the soccer star practice and instruct for free? On the other side of the break we’ll find out.”

The cameraman holds up his fingers and counts backward from three to one before the camera cuts away and the reporter drops her microphone and steps to the side to talk to her producer.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull?” Whitney grits out as she turns to face me so her back is to our audience. “We don’t want you here. Can’t you just go?”

My ego wars against necessity. They do want me here and no, I can’t go.

“I can’t. No.”

“Ah, so this was a redemption tour for you. You’re stuck here, and you’re miserable.”

“No shit. You think I’d be here of my own free will?”

“Wow. You are an asshole.”

“And yet you still want me.”

“You can take your purple Gatorade and your orange cones and shove them up your—”

“And we’re back in three, two, one,” the cameraman says as he pans the crowd of waving kids before landing back on the reporter.

My phone in my pocket vibrates. Shit. I lift it out and look at the screen. Rush’s five words fill the screen. “Yes. I’m watching. Fix this.”

“At the break we were talking about whether or not Hardy will remain serving our community as a guest coach the rest of the week.”

My mind races. Fix this? Fuck.

“A contest,” I blurt out without thinking through the ramifications. Both the reporter and Whitney turn to face me with curious expressions.

“A contest?” Whitney asks.

“Yes. Uh . . .” I fumble. How do I get out of this while making myself look good while on camera? “You put your best coach here up against me.”

Whitney snorts, eyes wide, and those pink lips formed in a perfect pout that has me thinking of all the things I could do to them. “To do what?”

“I don’t know.” I grin. “You put me on the spot, so I’m thinking on the fly here. Um, how about a game of Around the World.”

“Against me?” She laughs as the reporter sticks out the microphone to capture every single sound between us.

“Yes. Sure. Against you. Are you the best the owner has to throw at me? Do you need to ask him first?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Whitney

“Do I need to ask him first?” I snort. The man truly doesn’t know anything about this club, does he? “No. I don’t need to ask him first. I’m authorized to make decisions for the owner.”

“Good. Perfect.” He glances around. “What are the terms of this contest?”