Page 53 of Lucky Shot

“It’s how I coped when I was injured, I guess. I consumed everything I could—books, videos, classes. I watched countless hours of the greats—Beckham, Zidane, Messi, Ronaldo, Modric, Neymar. Anything I could to lose myself in the game I could no longer play. It gave me a new path to obsess over, a new dream to achieve since the one I’d lived for was gone.”

“What path was that?”

“Coach.” I shrug. “At the higher levels. A women’s national team? Women’s premier league? Collegiate? I don’t know. It’s a pipe dream though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You said it yourself. If you don’t play professionally or at a high collegiate level, no one is going to find you reputable or learned enough to think you have the experience to handle it.” I point to the field around me. “But here, my knowledge is welcome and helps kids who truly need it. It is far removed from the dream I once had, but it’s more than enough for me.”

He chews his bottom lip and there is something about the way he looks at me that heats up my skin. It’s as though he’s finally seeing me for the first time.

“Dreams change, Whitney. Dreams shift. It’s okay to find new dreams to hold on to.”

My throat feels like it closes up on me, and I’m grateful for the sunglasses shading my eyes, because they blur with tears I refuse to shed.

“Dreams can shift and change as we mature and grow, Lucky. They’re not always rigid if you don’t let ‘em be.”

I clear my throat and swallow a small bit of my pride. It’s moments like these, where Patrick’s words come back to me, that I miss him the most. “Look. I apologize for yesterday. For the bet and then telling you I was going to let you win it. For forcing your hand when you’re in the midst of a championship run. I let my competitiveness get in the way.” Among other things.

He nods deliberately, almost as if he understands how hard that admission was for me. I expect him to gloat, and when he doesn’t, I’m surprised. “Yeah, well, it appears I did that all to myself with the bet in the first place. Can’t fault you for taking a killer shot. The time commitment thing with everything MLS and Mayhem expect of me is a big learning curve.”

Guilt hits me squarely in the solar plexus, but he’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions. This one didn’t pan out too well for him. “I warned you not to come back,” I say in consolation, but we both know he can’t back out now. Not with the crazy media attention.

And as if on cue, a news van with the satellite extension on top pulls up to the parking lot.

“I’m here. I’ll be here. It’s way too far gone to reel any of that back now,” he says and lifts his head toward the van. “But that means I’ll also need to put some time in here working out in the mornings. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I cough the word out. Watching that body and those skills in motion? Jesus. “No. I don’t mind.”

He shrugs. “At least I know I have another coach here who can spot things I’m doing wrong.” He winks in the most unpatronizing way ever.

“Funny.”

“I’m serious.” He collects another set of cones and stands in front of me. “And I’ll take all the help I can get considering I’m here first and foremost to play football. I need to make sure I keep up to speed on my own stuff. I’ll do drills and cardio here in the morning, the kids during the day, then I’ll have to head to my team training in the evening.”

“It’s only been two days, you can’t have fallen that far behind.”

“Two days not training is two days my opponent has on me who has.”

I stare at him and nod, admiring his competitive spirit and marveling it all at the same time. “Understood,” I murmur as I move forward and help him pick up his cones.

“You don’t have—”

“It’s ingrained in my blood,” I tease.

“’Kay. Thanks.” We move in silence, each collecting and stacking the small course cones on top of one another. “Whitney?”

“Hmm?”

I look over and he’s studying me again in that way he has. “Why didn’t you tell me you owned the place?” he asks.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t think I had to.”

“And I didn’t think you’d assume I wasn’t simply because I was a female.”

His head whips my way. “That’s not—”