Page 50 of Lucky Shot

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

“You’re an incredible player, Lucky Shot. Phenomenal. You know the field, can read opponents, have skill well beyond your years, and a finesse that’s rare—”

“But?”

“But you’re selfish and a ball hog.”

“Someone has to score and no one else was stepping up, so I did.”

He snorts. “True. But you don’t trust your teammates so you don’t recognize when they do step up.”

“I don’t trust anyone. I mean . . . other than you, of course.” And isn’t that the truth? I did what he asked. I stayed and didn’t run away. I stayed and have done so for the past two years, waking up every morning wondering if this is the day the Ramsel family will send me away. Hoping I haven’t eaten too much food this week, that I haven’t caused too much trouble today, and that I don’t interfere too much in their day-to-day. Because the easier I am, the less of a burden I am, I might get to stay longer.

They tell me they’re not going to send me back. They say it all the time. But I’ve heard that promise before.

I can’t trust them or those words. How can I when in my short life, I’ve had more promises broken than kept?

“You have to trust your teammates though. That’s what a team is. It’s building something together so that you can all achieve or fail together.”

I make a noncommittal noise in response.

“You’re out here crying—”

“I’m not crying. I don’t cry,” I assert despite my dampened hair and the salt tracks from my tears down my cheeks.

Patrick softens his voice. “It’s not a weakness, kiddo. It’s a strength. You love this game. You love competing.”

I love this place. Here. The academy and what it’s given me.

I love you like a father, Patrick. The only person I’ve ever trusted to do right by me.

And I love this game where I can get so lost that it quiets the noise in my head and the hurt in my heart of not being enough of anything to be wanted.

“So?”

He doesn’t respond. He falls silent, and I think of the fights we’ve had over the past two years. The life lessons he’s tried to teach me that I initially rebel against and only agree with in the silence of my bedroom. The hard truths he’s made me face about what I’m lacking—trust, confidence in others, my inability to let others in, and oddly enough, humility. How he’s praised me for the things I’ve done right—my accountability, my dedication, my love for the game. And how he’s forced me to use a sport to make me a more rounded person.

“I’ve made a few calls to some coaches for you.”

“What do you mean you’ve called coaches for me?”

“Just what I said. You’re upholding your end of the bargain, and it’s my turn to give you something in return.”

“But I’m not switching academies. You’re my coach. This is my home.” Panic hits at the thought of being asked to leave the only place I’ve ever felt I belonged.

“Lucky,” he says, the only name he calls me, “I’m talking about college coaches.”

My tongue thickens in my mouth, and I struggle with how to respond. Is he serious? He can’t be serious. “Why?” I croak. “I’m nowhere good enough to play in college.”

“I did not just hear you say that. You are good enough, in soccer and so many other things, kiddo.”

“There are thousands more girls out there who are better than me.”

“Says who?” Irritation peppers his voice. “I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again.”

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“And I don’t want your apologies either. What I want is to give you a chance at a different life. One away from here where you can get a good education and play under the big lights like you deserve.”