Page 61 of Lucky Shot

I blow out a frustrated sigh as she walks away. Her laugh floats back to me. Pretty sure another beer—or ten—is in order.

I roll my shoulders and approach my teammates. It’s a rarity that we all get together and relax or shoot the shit after practice—God knows we’re with each other enough as it is—but with a bye week and our second half of the season bearing down on us, we figured now was a good enough time as ever to do this. Of course, there’s a Premier League game playing on the television on the far corner of the covered patio, and it makes me miss home more than ever.

America is definitely the land of opportunity. The lucrative bank balance proves that but what I wouldn’t give for a proper pint of Guinness, a gloomy sky, and the sound of my boots clicking on the concrete of the tunnel as I take the pitch with my mates.

“You’re getting it from all sides, aren’t you?” Xavi asks. “I heard the words Ari said.” A collective groan sounds off around us, which makes me feel so much better. “And then your agent. Next Rush’ll be up your ass, but he’ll do it with a smile, no doubt.”

“Something like that,” I say and smile.

“Everything okay?” Gallo asks.

“Yeah, just scheduling shit and trying to figure out how to fit everything in is all,” I explain.

“Poor fucking Hardy. He has to spend hours on end with that gorgeous fucking ball-buster,” Santiago says.

I twist my lips and nod subtly, not thrilled with how he’s talking about Whitney, even though she is just that—gorgeous and obstinate.

“She’s all right,” I finally say, my head jumbled with Lennox’s commentary.

“All right?” Noah barks and looks at me like I’m crazy. “How much have you had to drink, because I’m pretty sure it’s sent you to another reality? That woman—”

“Whitney,” I say.

“Whitney has the tightest little body. I’m typically one for the yoga type because who’s going to turn down a flexible woman?” He chuckles. “But she—Whitney—is damn hot.”

“So you haven’t fucked Orphan Annie yet?” Gallo asks, making my hand clench into a fist. “And if you’re not planning on it, can you invite me to your clinic and let me school her?”

“Orphan Annie?” I ask, shutting out everything else he just said. “What the fuck is that all about?”

They all laugh, but when I stare at them, Motta, our midfielder, scrolls through his phone and holds it out to me. “It’s all over the internet today. How are you of all people the last to know?”

I yank the phone from his hand, and it takes me a few seconds to scan the article. It’s all speculative, pieced together from various sources who’ve known her during her life, but it’s printed and out there, nonetheless.

The foster life. The frequent moves. The salvation she found in sports and Prestige Academy. And then the ACL tear that ripped her college scholarship away and left her with nothing. No parents. No education. No family except for that which she’d made on her own.

Fuck. That’s rough.

It’s not like I didn’t know some of that already. But I want to know more.

Is that normal? To want to yank the article from the internet so no one else knows and want to read all I can find so that I can know?

What the fuck, Hardy?

“So, have you? And if you haven’t, why the hell not?” Motta asks, nudging me. “One of us can take care of that for you instead.”

I step away from him, irritated with all of them.

That’s why you do this, isn’t it?

I was so far from the truth. She does it because she was one of those kids. She is those kids. She understands better than anybody.

“I’m gonna head out.” I lift my glass and set it back down.

My comment is met with a round of raucous boos. “We’re just teasing you,” Xavi says.

“C’mon. Have another pint. Relax. You know we’re just fucking with you,” Noah adds.

“I know.” I smile. “I just need to get some shut-eye. This shit’s wearing me out.”