Page 39 of Lucky Shot

“I don’t know. You win, you walk away. Time served. I win, you stay for . . . I don’t know—”

“A month,” Rodrigo calls out from the crowd that has now started chanting the word month.

“What?” he mutters under his breath. “An entire month?”

“A month?” the reporter says with wide eyes and a huge grin, thrilled she’s going to get first dibs on reporting this with her midday timeslot.

“Yes. A month,” I say.

“And that’s what you want? For me to be here for a month?”

Our eyes lock, and I can see the subtle lift of his eyebrow, almost as if reminding me what a pain in the ass he’s been today.

“Yes. Most definitely.” I glance toward the crowd around us and then look back at him. “What? You don’t think you can beat me?”

“No. I know I can. I just . . . I ran defensive drills with you earlier. I know your skill level. I’m surprised you’d set yourself up for failure like this.” He stares at me, trying to figure out whatever angle I’m playing, because I am in fact playing an angle here. “I’m not getting how this benefits you, Whitney.”

“Let’s go get set up. Four balls each,” I say, grabbing a bag of them and moving to the penalty kick spot.

He jogs after me, his own set of four in his hands. “What are you getting at here?”

I glance over to him. The man really is too good-looking for his own good, but he’s more trouble than he’s worth at this point. Is it so much to want the benefits of his presence but him gone all at the same time? “You’ll kick my ass. You’ll clear your name. I’ll get you out of my hair and still look like a hero to my kids for even trying.”

“So you want to lose?” He narrows his eyes at me like he can’t even grasp that concept.

“No. I want you to beat me.” There’s a difference there. A huge one.

“Losing is losing, and I have zero problem beating you. Not a problem there.”

We spend the next few minutes setting up before I turn to my crowd of onlookers to explain the rules of the game. “We each get one shot at a time. Each shot will be the same for each of us. We’ll start with the upper left corner.”

“Whew. Starting us off with the hardest of all of them,” Hardy says.

“Depends on your perspective,” I say, knowing he’s playing up to the audience.

He looks at me. “Ladies first.”

I shake my head. “Not here. Guests always take the first shot.”

He eyes me and nods. “Fine. Okay. Guess in a fine, reputable academy such as this, I’ll accept that.”

Reputable, my ass.

Good riddance, Alexander Hardy. Take you and your firm thighs and great looks and charming but beguiling smile elsewhere and away from my kids.

“Still don’t see any premier leaguer here,” he mutters.

“Guess that includes you too.”

He laughs, lines up his shot, and then sails the ball just wide of the goalpost about a foot. There’s an audible gasp from the students—me included. He turns to me and smirks as he passes by me. “That’s so you can save a little face. I’d hate for it to be four-nil in my favor and embarrass you in front of your academy.”

I stare at him and feel the condescension ooze out of each word. Anger fires anew, and my every gracious thought that got us to this point on the pitch vanishes.

Fuck this.

He wants to act that way? Like I’m less than? Like there’s no way I can own this club or be reputable without playing in college? Then I’ll act like it.

“I don’t need to save face,” I say as I set the ball down, glance over my shoulder at him, smile, and murmur just loud enough for him to hear. “I’m a good fucking shot.”