Page 43 of Lucky Shot

Right now, not so much.

And by the way he’s staring at me with gritted teeth and a storm brewing in his eyes, he’s feeling much the same way.

Good. He deserves it.

But I’ve just stirred the hornet’s nest, and now I’m going to have to stand in it and survive whatever comes next.

Hopefully good things with a side of a temper tantrum-ing, professional footballer, and not the other way around. Because it doesn’t seem like he’s going to wiggle his way out of this commitment—at least, not according to the texts I’m getting from the footage circulating on social media.

Unbeknownst to any of us, the entire contest was broadcast live over the airways rather than packaged for an obscure spot on the midday or late-night news like I expected.

In the short time since it aired, some low-level soccer academy coach beating Alexander Hardy has gained traction.

“Clearly you have experience playing,” he accuses with a lift of his brows. His arrogance is still being worn like a suit of armor.

“I do own a soccer academy. I hope I know how to play.”

“What do you mean you own it?” He tosses whatever is in his hand in his bag.

“That owner you were insulting? The man I was supposed to go ask if it were okay that I make a bet with you?” I raise my hand and wiggle my fingers. “That would be me.”

He nods slowly as if it’s hitting him that there will be no good ol’ boys club routine he can play with the owner over how he can get out of the repercussions of the bet. “So you’re pissed off I assumed you were a man?”

“No. I’m pissed off because you assumed I couldn’t play.”

“Fine. We’ll go there. Where did you play, then?” he asks with the same snark that got us in this position.

“Here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Where else?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere?” He laughs. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I was one of the top college prospects until I wasn’t.” I shrug as if the pain isn’t still raw and real and relevant.

It shouldn’t be—I love my life—and yet, it is.

“Care to elaborate?”

No. It’s my immediate response, but it never passes off my tongue. Why do I care that he thinks highly of me? Why do I need him to when I typically don’t care what anyone thinks?

It’s weird to want to swallow your pride and assert it at the same time.

“My knee.” I point down to it. “I blew it out. Total tear of the ACL. Rupture of the meniscus. Fun times.”

His pained expression is genuine, and at least there’s that. Any athlete knows the fear of being injured, but until it happened to me, I had no clue how devastating it would be to have what you love taken away from you.

My mom being taken away was . . . brutal.

But having the thing that helped me cope with that loss, the thing that gave me purpose and helped define me yanked away when I got injured? Now, that? That was tenfold.

“I’m sorry,” he says. There’s a nod and a narrowing of his eyes that suggests I might not like what he’s going to say next. “And then what? You just quit after that?”

I open my mouth to say something and then shut it, taken aback by the anger that fires within.

Does he know what it’s like to earn a full-ride soccer scholarship, a chance of a lifetime to lift me out of Glendale, and then suffer a catastrophic injury a week into my senior year of high school? The heartache? The anguish? Having the college’s team of doctors inform you that your surgery failed and then the college rescinded your scholarship offer? Feeling your dreams shatter and slip through your fingers like sand?