Page 54 of Lucky Shot

“Yes, it is what you thought. You’re definitely not the first and won’t be the last.” I hold my free hand up. “No grudges held. It might be the world’s game, but I’m not naïve in thinking it isn’t male dominated.”

“How’d you come to own it?” He takes the cones from me and sets them on the team bench on the sidelines.

“I was a player here, and the owner and I were close. He looked out for me and was a true mentor. When he got sick . . . he left it to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.

“It was some time ago. Shocked the hell out of me really, but that’s Patrick. Always doing something nice, never breaking a promise, and forever looking out for me like I was his own.”

“Sounds like an incredible guy.”

“He was.” My smile is bittersweet. Lucky Shot. The same thing the man before me said to me last night. A weird coincidence but one that stays with me. “This place wasn’t always like this. It was better in all aspects—financially, esthetically, talent-wise. It was more lucrative for a time because people could pay the dues. Then the aerodynamics factory closed down, drugs became a buffer for those who hit hard times, and this place suffered because of it. Yet, at the same time, it benefited from it with some great kids. Patrick did his best, but he was a proud man, and when he handed the club over to me, it was drowning financially. I’ve made some inroads, but it’s never enough. That’s why . . . your donation was so appreciated. It helped make some dents, so thank you. Again.”

“I don’t want a thank you. I screwed up and tried to donate my way out of it. Doesn’t make me a good person in the least.” He sighs. “Question. When people can’t pay for their kids to play, what do you do?”

I falter for a moment. “I eat the cost.” I tighten my ponytail. “Much like Patrick did for me that first summer I came here.”

“That’s a horrible business model.”

I stiffen. His words feel like an insult. I open my mouth to defend myself, and he stops me.

“It’s not a bad thing. That wasn’t a cut. Just a statement and . . . a compliment.”

“I’m not used to you saying nice things to me,” I murmur.

“Then maybe you need to listen differently.”

My eyes flash up to his, and our gazes hold. It’s a beat of time but enough for him to purse his lips, to nod, to tell me without words that he feels this place too.

“That’s why you do this, isn’t it?” His voice holds unexpected compassion.

“Do what?”

“Stay here. Fight for these kids. Put up with an asshole like me to do it.”

I do a double take. Who is this man and where did he put the jerk who allowed me to keep him at arm’s length? Where’s the asshole whose only real words had been taunts of sexual innuendo? “Um . . . ” I look over my shoulder as if to see where the real Hardy went. “Change of heart much?”

He chuckles and shrugs as he takes a few steps toward me, but the sincerity in his eyes surprises me. “Not a change of heart just . . . this place gets to you.”

And it’s all he says.

All he has to say.

Because he’s right.

It does.

“That and . . . I don’t break my promises.” He angles his head to the side and offers me a lopsided smile that has my stomach flipping. “Look at that. We just had a conversation without arguing.”

My grin is fast and furious. “Don’t get used to it.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah. I guess I should have figured as much.”

I watch him walk away, the smile still on my lips. I don’t break my promises. For the first time since I met Hardy, I actually believe him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Whitney