Page 47 of Lucky Shot

“Touché,” I mutter, his words a direct hit.

“Look, mate. That was . . . a low hit.”

“But honest.” I nod. “You’re right, and I’m paying the price for it. Worst-case scenario, I’m one tired motherfucker trying to balance it all. Best case, we finish strong, win the championship and use this . . . whatever this experience is to elevate football’s appeal here in America as desired. You look good. I look good. Contract fulfilled.”

“Those public relations classes are showing,” he says, referring to the mandatory training my club makes all its players take on how to respond to the media.

“At least they were good for something.” I chuckle, but it fades off when I see the little boy standing at the edge of the fence. “Hey, Rush? I’ll figure it all out. It’s not the best-case scenario, no doubt, but I’ll figure it out.”

He snorts. “Maybe overbooking your diary was a surefire way to keep yourself out of trouble.”

I bark out a laugh. “Clearly, you don’t know me well enough then.”

I end the call and smile at the kid. He’s—who the fuck knows how old he is because that’s far from my forte—small? About ten? Eight? Maybe . . . who knows? He seems too little to be here alone.

“Hi.” I glance around for a parent, but none is to be found other than a few of the older players milling about at the far end of the pitch. I can see their phones angled my way, so pictures are being taken, and social media is being updated. I’m fine with that, but I’m not good with this little guy being all alone. “You okay, bud?”

He stares at me with huge brown eyes. He has a row of freckles across the top of his nose, and his hair is a little too long and in need of a haircut. His lips are lax and he keeps blinking his eyes as he nods rapidly almost as if he thinks I’m about to disappear.

I’ve seen this look before on fans, so it doesn’t scare me, but there is something about this freckly, gawky boy that holds my attention.

“So you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” It comes out in a broken croak, and he immediately blushes with embarrassment. “I just . . . I . . . you’re my idol.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, but I’m far from anyone’s idol.”

“No,” he says emphatically. “You are.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do. I promise. It means I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

If he only knew the real me, he wouldn’t be saying that.

“What about your mom or dad? Why aren’t they your idols?” But the minute the words are out of my mouth his expression falls, and I wish I could take the words back.

Tears well in his eyes and he shakes his head so subtly I don’t know how to respond. “I don’t want to be like them.”

“Oh.” Oh. “Okay. Um.” I’m so far out of my league here. “Is everything okay?”

He bites his bottom lip and without warning, reaches out and wraps his arms around me. I freeze, maybe even say something in response, but all I know is I’m at a loss for what to do. All I can come up with is to pat his head and ruffle his hair. It’s touching without touching, and the last thing I want to do is be accused of shit as I stand here with this little boy.

With each sniff of his nose, he squeezes me a little tighter. “It’s okay.” His voice is muffled. “I just want to be like you, and not like them.”

I nod although he can’t see it and struggle with what else to say or how much I can ask. “What’s your name?”

“Joey.” He looks up at me as he steps back but leaves his hand on the side of my waist as if I’m going to disappear.

“Joey. That’s a good name. Do you play soccer here?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Very cool. Do you want to take a picture or something?”

He twists his lips and pulls his phone from his pocket. The damn thing is shattered in a million pieces. The screen, the camera lens, everything. It’s clear he’s embarrassed by it by the way he tries to use his hands to hide the cracks.

He can’t.