Page 44 of Lucky Shot

There’s no way he could.

“Just quit? No.”

“But you didn’t go to college? You didn’t rehab and go through the paces so you could play? You just gave—”

“Drop it, Hardy.”

“By what I saw today, clearly, you’re a competitor. I don’t understand why you just walked away when you had so much potential.”

Just walked away? I think those words hurt more than the failed recovery. “What about you, huh? Who the hell are you?”

“Trick question because . . .” He smirks and holds up his sweaty jersey in his hands so that H-A-R-D-Y is emblazoned across the back. “Pretty sure this says who I am to anyone who pays attention.”

“Is everything a joke to you, or do you just go through your life from one self-serving, reputation-saving measure to the next?”

He hisses. “Is this your attempt to get mad at me to justify why you have to work at hating me?”

“I assure you, I don’t have to work at it.” It’s so much easier to be mad at him than to face that the reason he’s still standing here, the reason he’ll be standing here for the next thirtyish days, is one hundred percent on me and that competitiveness. Shit.

“And yet you’re in here trying to manufacture an argument because you couldn’t bring yourself to lose over one little comment I made.”

Great. I’m that transparent that even he sees it too.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Dodge and deflect.

“Pretty sure I did.”

“I’m serious. Who are you other than a fuck-off who has gifted feet and too much talent for one’s own good?” He’s unfazed by the brashness of my comment, and I’m not sure if I should heed that as a warning or assume he has tougher skin than mine that is battle tested. Maybe a bit of both.

“Yep. That’s exactly who I am. Nailed that one on the head and you only knew me a few days. That might be a world record.” There’s sarcasm in his voice but there’s also something else. Hurt? Offended? I can’t quite tell.

And now of course, I feel bad and have to try to fix it. My defense mechanism is to turn the tables and go after him. Then I feel like a jerk when I do.

Why is being a woman so hard sometimes? What I’d give to be able to say what I want like he does and it doesn’t affect him at all.

“What I meant was . . . you’re obviously great with the kids, but I’ve heard you mutter on more than one occasion that kids aren’t your thing. You say you’re here to get laid—”

He snorts. “I never said that.”

I purse my lips and eye him. “No? I believe you thought you could come here and in doing so win me over and onto my back.”

“I mean . . . could you blame me?” He shrugs and smiles.

“So why treat me like your personal assistant all day? Why make ridiculous demands where you’re a jerk of epic proportions one minute and then try and flirt with me the next? I didn’t ask for you to come here. In fact, I told you not to. And I sure as shit didn’t offer up a contest like you did. Make no mistake. While I couldn’t bring myself to lose to you, it’s not because I want you here. Not in the least.”

“C’mon, Whit. You don’t want me here because either you’re afraid of what you feel like when you’re around me or because you’re afraid I’ll upset the kids somehow.”

“Leave it to you to think my every reason is because of you.”

“It is.” He shrugs, and his pecs bounce with the movement.

“Case in point.”

“Fine. I’ll flip the script. I could say the same of you.” He takes a step closer. Close enough that I can see every line of definition on his torso that I’m definitely not looking at. “It’s about a club owner who runs an academy but clearly doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. It’s about a woman with come fuck me eyes who wants me so bad she was willing to make her students do without my instruction because she can’t fight the damn feeling and refuses to give in to what she wants. Me.” He points emphatically at himself and his biceps jump at the motion.

Of course, they do.

“Even in that statement, you managed to turn it around so that it’s about you.” I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”