Page 51 of Lucky Shot

“Patrick. Coach. I . . .” I was going to community college. That’s free. I can’t afford to go to college. I can’t . . . I fight against the tidal wave of hope that soon gets smothered by dejection.

Daring to dream in my life has only brought me heartache. Lesson learned.

And yet . . . college? He thinks I’m good enough for college? My chest bursts with a pride I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.

“I’m trying to get you a soccer scholarship. I’ve been working for the past few months on it. A few coaches have come out to watch you as a favor to me.”

“Coaches have been here? Have watched me?” I sit up and stare at him with bewilderment.

And then another wave of panic. I haven’t played my best soccer lately. I’ve been in a funk, got stripped of the ball, I—

“Coaches want superstars, but they also want team players. They want someone who’ll look out for the team’s best interest, not just their own. You could have one hundred goals to your credit, but if your team has lost every game, it makes you look like a selfish ass.”

“Was one here today?”

“Not sure. I was busy coaching you . . . when you tuned me out.”

“I could see the shot. I could—”

“Of course you could, but I could see more than you from the sidelines. I was coaching you and you shut me out.”

I huff out in exasperation, knowing he’s right but not wanting to admit it.

“If you always look out for those around you, you’ll become an even stronger superstar than you already are.”

“Those are just words you have to say because you’re my coach.”

“No. Those are words I want to say to make you a better person, a better teammate, and an ideal college recruit.”

He sits up and meets my eyes. “You had a phenomenal game today right up until you chose yourself over your team. You have to be selfish to be a striker. I know that. You know that. They know that. But you also have to walk that fine line of humility to see the greater good for the team. It’s not always about taking the shot but about the combined effort, the teamwork, which got you—or another player—there.”

“Is this one of those life lessons, Coach?”

He chuckles and leans back on his elbows. “Something like that.”

“Lesson noted. I’ll work on it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Whitney

I may be a tad tired.

Correction. I’m fucking exhausted.

I spent all night in disbelief, staring at social media and the buzz yesterday’s contest created. And it’s not so little. It’s massive. Why did I think it was a bad idea to have him stay for the whole month?

But then my mind filled with images of sculpted abs, firm thighs, and him in his underwear while hearing his sexy accent on repeat, and I was repeatedly reminded why I didn’t want him here.

Then I’d watch more news stories about us. I caught a few snippets of his expression and the way he’d look at me when I didn’t know, and I’d pretend I didn’t see it. But then I’d watch the clip again and wonder why the look? Why the expression?

Even better? I’d hear the distinctive alert from our fundraising app telling me another donation was made, that someone, somewhere, donated five dollars because they wanted to help, and I was overwhelmed all over again.

Sleep? I was way too amped to chase it easily.

The plus side? Today is a late start for camp so if I want to accidentally fall asleep in my office chair for thirty minutes, then so be it. In a preemptive move as I lock my car and head into the facility, I set alarms on my phone just in case I do doze off. That way the kids don’t walk in and find me sleeping on the job.

But I’m distracted from my alarm setting when I hear noises on the pitch. The thwack of a foot hitting a soccer ball. The grunt of exertion. The sound of hard work.