Page 40 of Lucky Shot

And when I take the shot, when my foot strikes the ball perfectly, and it punches into the top left corner of the net, the crowd whoops itself into a frenzy.

I throw my hands up in the air and shout with them.

“Lucky shot,” he says behind me, but there’s also resignation in his voice, an oh, shit quality to it.

Lucky shot.

Déjà vu hits. Another time, same place, different person, but it still hits and brings me back. Not now. Focus, Whit.

He just possibly lost the contest for himself by shanking the first shot out of pity.

And yes, I want him out of my hair and the chaos that comes with him out of my life . . . but in the same breath, I suddenly feel the need to prove myself. To not let this giant superstar think he’s the only one capable of deserving the limelight here. I’ve had to give up enough in my life when it comes to soccer. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly digging my heels in on this.

Besides, does he really need a pass on this? On being a jerk simply because I get flustered around him and find him attractive when I don’t want to be attracted to him?

I mean . . . talk about petty and selfish. It’s the kids who’ll lose out on time with him.

I turn to face him, grin big and eyes taunting. “Oops. Guess I made that one.”

He shakes his head and snorts. “No doubt you’ll miss one of the others.” He sets his next ball down and shrugs. “I’m not worried in the least.”

But he should be.

Because while he might make all the rest of his shots.

So. Will. I.

This is my game. The one I used to play to escape my disappointing, day-to-day reality. The one that let me be the hero of my own story. And the one that brought me right here—to this place and time. My injury might have made me miss out on so many dreams, but it also put me here, in a position to show Hardy that I don’t have to have played at the collegiate level to be good. To be reputable.

I step back and hold my hands out toward him. “Your turn. Pick your corner. Nil to one.”

His smile is smug as he sets the ball down. The kids shift where they stand, and a collective of hushes is heard through the crowd. “Lower left.”

He executes flawlessly. The ball has a ridiculous pace on it as well as a spin that makes the ball look like it’s going to miss wide before curving in seconds before it reaches the goalpost.

The kids cheer and chatter as I walk up to the penalty kick line once again before spinning the ball and then placing it down so it settles. I turn and smile at him, aware of my own hubris and not getting caught in it. I take a few counted steps back, stutter step, and then run to the ball and then boot it. It hits squarely into the net with the most satisfying thud.

“Impressive,” he says followed by a slow whistle.

“Worried yet?” I taunt.

“Not in the least.”

“You should be. One to two, Hardy. Your turn.”

He turns, his body close to mine and his eyes full of mischief. “You’ve got a foot. I’ll give you that.”

I gloat at the compliment. At the annoyed flicker of a smile on his lips. At the way I force myself to step back when all I want to do is step into him.

“Bottom right,” he says, and we both go through our kicks. We both make them.

“I’m beginning to think I’ve been hustled,” he teases.

“I could do this with my eyes closed,” I provoke.

“Fine. Then prove it.” The kids gasp, and a collective murmur makes its way through them. “All or nothing.”

I chuckle and say under my breath just so he can hear, “You’re realizing you screwed up, aren’t you? Trying to figure out how to salvage your ego.”