Page 41 of Lucky Shot

“Are you scared?” he asks.

Grinning, I think of all the nights I spent here before I met Patrick. How I’d sneak in here with a moonless sky, the field bathed in darkness, and kick ball after ball at the nets when I could barely see them.

“Deal,” I state.

“Ballsy,” Hardy murmurs.

I lift my eyebrows and take the ball from him as Martin jogs over with a bandana from the office for a blindfold.

“Good luck,” he says as he fastens it over my eyes. “The kids are going to think you’re a hero when you win this.”

The spotlight is on me now. I can’t back out despite my waning bravado.

Everyone falls quiet. I try to ignore the fact that the blindfold is there and that I’m back to those nights twelve plus years ago when I was out here challenging myself and escaping life.

I set the ball down. I count my steps back. I take a deep breath, aware of the eyes on me and the pressure of the moment.

Miss and let Hardy off the hook?

Hit the back of the net and hold steadfast to the fact that I still have this? That all those hours and years of training didn’t fail me?

One.

Two.

Three.

My foot strikes the ball. It feels like minutes as the ball sails ahead of me.

But before I can rip the blindfold off, the kids roar in applause. I throw my arms up in victory as they come rushing toward and then swarm me. I give high fives and fist bumps as excitement overwhelms the crowd.

They get a month more with Hardy.

Serves him right. He lost the game and sealed his fate before I even took my first shot.

My adrenaline surges with tinges of equal parts gloom and elation. I saunter past him, well aware the news crew is still filming.

“Like I said, lucky shot,” he says.

I turn to him and shrug as a grin blankets my lips. “There was nothing lucky about it. That was fucking phenomenal and you know it.”

Yes. You were just hustled in the worst fucking way possible.

And it’s all your fault.

Ugh. Now I’m stuck with him—his firm thighs and knee-weakening smiles, his unexpected softness toward kids, a maddening attitude and a teeth-gritting arrogance—for a month.

And that? That’s my fault.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hardy

I just got played.

And not only did I just get played, I got fucking screwed on camera for the world to see, so now I can’t walk away from this shit, no matter how badly I want to.

The upside? I look like I enjoy taking on a charity case. Like I’m a good guy who’d never let a poor soccer academy down.