Page 7 of Lucky Shot

“The sleeping with Bradford Hughes’s girlfriend—”

“Christ, Rush. Now you’re going to monitor who I fuck?”

“He was the star of the movie whose premier you were attending. In the green room, no less.”

I don’t fight the smile on this one. “She came onto me. I mean, are you going to fault me for being spontaneous?” Christ. That woman might have been putting notches in her bedpost, but I was a willing participant. Any man would have been.

The muscle in Rush’s jaw tics. “You’re neglecting to see the big picture here.”

“Which is?”

“Every single one of these incidents reflects poorly on not only the team but the league and sport you came here to elevate.”

“Look, I screwed up last night. My temper got the best of me. It’ll blow over in a few days.”

“You’re missing the point, Hardy.”

“I’m well aware of the point. And I know you’re looking at this as a player, as an owner, and as an agent because, no doubt, Lennox is in your ear telling you all the things I’m doing wrong,” I say, mentioning his wife and my sports management agent.

“She has a soft spot for you,” he concedes.

“Everybody does.” I flash a grin that obviously falls flat given his dubious expression.

“This isn’t going to blow over,” he says sternly. “People we’re trying to make fans aren’t going to pay five hundred dollars a ticket to watch a spoiled prima donna play who thinks he’s bigger than the sport they still don’t one hundred percent understand.”

“Wow. Don’t hold back, mate.”

“I won’t. My investment in this team isn’t just as a figurehead. I want this to work. That’s half of the reason I convinced—er, that all of us co-owners worked so hard to get you here for the year. But . . .” He picks up a pen and taps it on the desk. He stares at it for a beat before lifting his eyes up to meet mine. “I received a call from the league.”

The league. Major League Soccer. The governing body of the sport here in the United States.

Fuck.

“What did you tell them? That I’ll do better next time, but that if someone disrespects my date, I can’t guarantee I won’t act the same way again? Let’s face it. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I don’t stand up for her, I’m the arsehole who doesn’t respect my date, and if I do defend her, I’m acting against the governing body’s wishes.” I throw my hands up. “How would you react if it were Lennox?”

Fury flashes through his eyes. His answer is clear in that lone reaction.

“You’re turning fans off.”

I snort. “No, I’m not. I’m busy being exactly who they paid for—me.”

Rush gets up out of his chair and moves toward the window I was previously looking out of. I know he can see the lush green field of the pitch, the bright blue and black logo of Miami Mayhem FC adorning the stadium walls and center of the field. He stands there—a man I admire more than I’d ever admit—with his hands on his hips and takes in a small piece of the whole he’s helping build in between his out time on the Premier League pitch.

“Yes, but the spotlight of your misdeeds is outshining the luster of your star power.”

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

We both turn at the sound of heels clicking on the floor. When I see all five foot nothing of Ari Winters striding into Rush’s office, I groan audibly.

Rush isn’t fucking around if the Queen of Public Relations is here.

“Gentlemen. Great to see the both of you again,” Ari says in her perpetually cheerful tone, which at times makes me want to bury my head in the sand. “And we do need to stop meeting like this, Hardy, or I’m going to begin to think you have a thing for me.” She turns to Rush and smirks. “Should I let him down gently?” Then turns to me. “I’ll let you down gently. My wife and I are very happy, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’m here, it’s only because you’ve fucked up once again.”

“I like to say it’s more of a misunderstanding and bad camera angle, but—”

“But it doesn’t matter what you think, only what the masses think. Well, and the Mayhem and the MLS, apparently, since I’m here.” She sets her laptop down with a dramatic thud and turns to me with her arms crossed and an all-business posture. “What the hell are we going to do with you, Alexander Hardy? Huh?”

“Nothing.” I flash a grin. “Let me go back to training since that’s going to be the best way to win over the hearts and minds of Americans.”