Page 5 of Lucky Shot

“Patrick? Sir?” It’s hard to even swallow. “You really mean all this?”

He smiles. “I do. You have to promise me one thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“If things change at your house—you start getting hurt or . . . you’re afraid other things might happen to you—you have to tell me.”

“That’s—”

“I don’t want you staying in a bad situation just so you can have this here.” He points around him. “And if it is, you need to tell me so I can help, okay?”

I nod, already afraid something I don’t have yet is going to be taken away.

“No. I need to hear it. I need you to promise me.”

It’s easy to talk a good game but harder to deliver it. Haven’t I learned that time and again with each house I’ve been moved to? Look at how wonderful we are only to pull back the curtain on daily life and see it’s all pretend?

But what does it hurt? Stay till I’m no longer welcome. Train till the offer fades.

“Yeah. Sure. I promise.”

“I’ll prove you otherwise.”

“Prove what?” This man talks in riddles.

“All those voices in your head, telling you this is too good to be true. I was just telling you I’ll prove it to you otherwise.”

I stand here jaw lax and eyes narrowing. Either he’s a mind reader or he really has been in my shoes.

Neither make me feel any more settled.

“When do I need to be here? For practice, I mean.”

“Morning practice here starts at seven thirty. I know it’s early but—”

“I’ll be here.” I smile and nod. “I’ll be here.”

“Okay.”

I start to walk off the field toward my bag, adrenaline rioting through my veins.

“Hey, Lucky Shot,” he calls after me.

I turn and face him. “Yeah?”

“You gotta a name?”

“Whitney. Whitney Barnes.” I smile. “But you can call me Lucky Shot . . . if you like.” Because I want something that’s just for me. Even if it’s for only a little while.

CHAPTER ONE

Hardy

I scrub a hand through my hair and sigh as I move about the room and over to the huge window where the practice facility for Miami Mayhem Football Club is laid out before me. I glance back to the desk where one of the club owners, Rush Mackenzie, sits, and raise my eyebrows. “C’mon. That’s shit. Total shit, mate.”

“Maybe so, but you pulling that stunt is just as shit.” He leans back in his chair and studies me, lifts his hands up before setting them back on the desk before him.

Tall and athletic, the man is a legend in more than just my own mind. The uber successful Premier Leaguer is still playing while being a part-time owner of this new Major League Soccer club here in the States.