Page 52 of Lucky Shot

I clear the corner to find Hardy going through a set of elaborate drills on the pitch, and for a brief second, I allow myself a sigh of relief.

I’m not sure why I thought he might not show today. Well, let’s be real. I know why. The man is selfish and combative. Then there’s the fact that I told him not to come back.

But he’s here and I hate that I feel a little more settled for reasons that are beyond the club just making more money.

Maybe I liked seeing how he looked at me. Maybe I want to see if that was a fluke. And then there’s just plain old admiration to be able to stand here and watch someone who has been touted as one of the greatest of our generation work.

I step back so that I’m peeking from behind the corner, and I give myself the grace to do just that—watch Alexander Hardy run drills with an ease I’ve never seen in person before. He’s quick and nimble, graceful yet commanding, and when his foot connects with the ball, the force behind it is almost palpable.

He’s mesmerizing to watch. A pure specimen in all facets of the word, physically and visually. I think the man is attractive, sure, but watching him run and re-run drills so that he can perfect an angle change by a mere inch is impressive. It also calls to my perfectionist-loving heart.

I know I should let him be, that I should move quietly to my office and let him work, but when in my life have I ever been given the chance to watch the best of the best? Never. And so I let myself be in awe of the man before me.

Kick after kick.

Drill after drill.

Sprint after sprint.

Desire stirs to life. It’s simply because he’s an athlete doing something I admire. But even I don’t believe the lie.

I lose track of time as I fight the urge to watch and the need for my own sanity to step away.

“Good morning, Whitney.”

“How did you know I was here?” I chuckle. “I didn’t make a sound.”

“When you grow up in a boarding school full of boys, you learn to have eyes in the back of your head. You wouldn’t believe the number of pranks that happen from someone sneaking up on you.” There’s something about the way he says it that holds a sadness to it, but when he flashes a grin my way, I’m pretty sure I’m wrong about that.

He bends over to start collecting his cones like he’s picking up.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say, but hope he does, in fact, stop or this woman is going to get nothing done other than admiring him.

“Nah. I’m done. I just needed to put some work in. I’m struggling with a few mechanics and wanted to work on them.”

“On a couple of shots you weren’t squaring your hips enough, and on a few others you were leaning back a smidge too much when striking the ball. That’s why you feel off.” The critique is out of my mouth without thought. An occupational habit to watch and assess.

He stops what he’s doing and turns to stare at me, eyebrows raised and expression surprised. “Really?” Surprise peppers his voice but he nods slowly.

“Really.”

He folds his arms over his chest and studies me. “That’s a good catch and exactly what my coach told me to correct.”

Is it stupid that I stand a bit taller from his praise? That I almost feel validated by it. “Thanks.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I know it’s not reputable advice and all . . .”

He levels me with a dubious look and holds his hands up. “Touché. Point made.” Then he pats his hand over his heart. “Apology offered.”

Wow. Okay. “Apology accepted.” I take a step back. “I’ll uh—I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Whitney?”

“Hmm?” I turn to look at him and his softened expression.

“How’d you know that?” There’s a sincerity in his question when I’d expect someone of his caliber to mock me.

“About your mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He takes a few steps toward me.