Page 46 of Lucky Shot

I look over my shoulder at the picture being painted of him—his striking beauty against the stark, peeling cinderblock walls.

Keep walking, Whitney.

Lust isn’t something you can afford to give into when it comes to him.

“See, what?” I ask.

He flashes a brighter-than-the-sunshine grin. “You do want me.”

“Oh, please.”

But I storm off with an exasperated smile on my lips and the nickname Lucky Shot repeating in my head.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hardy

The day has been long. Eventful. And . . . altering. At least to my schedule and plans for the next four weeks.

As I run from my car back onto the academy grounds to grab my sweatshirt I left . . . somewhere, I’m not exactly surprised when my phone rings.

“Rush. Mate. Keeping tabs on me, I see,” I tease by way of greeting.

“Not hard when you’re all over the bloody internet. Christ, Hardy. I asked you to go for a week to make amends for your no-show, and now you tie yourself up for a whole goddamn month?”

I cough out a laugh. “Can’t say when I commit, I don’t commit fully, now can you? The league should be happy.”

“They will be, but your teammates may throttle you. Night practices aren’t exactly loved and now you’ve just strapped them with a month of them.”

“Good thing we have two bye weeks in a row then,” I say, referring to our Mayhem schedule.

“How are you going to manage this?” he asks like he didn’t put me in this situation to begin with.

“The same way you would. Train any way I can before, after, and in between what I’m now roped into here.” The idea is daunting. The sudden urge to blow off all of it and become even more of a villain is enticing.

“You’re the one who made the bet so don’t even think about going back on your word.”

The irony. She made the terms and went back on hers. But Rush doesn’t fucking care about Whitney Barnes or her lies. He only cares about what protects his investment.

And I’d like to think he cares about me as well.

“I’m not going back on shit,” I lie as I continue to try and figure a way to negate this whole obligation. It’s all I’ve thought about over the past few hours.

Wasn’t my goal in coming here to avoid pissing Rush off and to possibly get laid?

Failed on both of those.

Rush isn’t exactly pissed, but he isn’t exactly happy either. Does that count?

And I can fucking get laid by the snap of my fingers, so why did I even consider pursuing Whitney?

Because that’s just it. Easy doesn’t always equal satisfying. She’s not batting her lashes at me, trying to win me over. When’s the last time I had to work to get pussy?

I snort and roll my eyes. I’m not used to being frustrated at shit like this.

“I’ve got it handled, Rush. I’ll figure it out. You know me. I live and breathe this damn sport so I won’t let you or the club or the league down. I promise you that,” I say as I spot my sweatshirt hanging on a fence at the opposite end of the pitch.

“So you say but if that’s the case, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.”