Page 8 of Lucky Shot

She shakes her head. “Where was that guy, the one who has clearly been media trained, two nights ago when he punched a cameraman and possibly his girlfriend?”

“I didn’t—”

“Save it.” She holds her hands up. “I’m sure Rush has told you these same words: it doesn’t matter what happened. It’s what’s being perceived that’s the problem here.”

“Then fix it. Isn’t that your job?” I ask, my patience gone.

“Probably the wrong thing to say about now,” Rush says as he takes a seat back behind his desk.

“Definitely the wrong thing to say,” she parrots. “Part of your agreement with MLS is to help serve our community.”

“And I have. How many times did I go to whatever that place is?” I snap my fingers, the name of the shelter escaping me. “I did my part. I showed up. I took pictures. I signed autographs. I’m supposed to go back whenever the fuck it is—”

“Thursday.”

“Yes. Thursday. That’s why I have a PA to remind me of this shit,” I joke.

“Tell him or her to un-remind you. They don’t want you back.”

Perfect. “Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s a battered women’s shelter, Hardy. The last thing they want is a man who possibly hit a woman to be their kids’ hero.”

“But I didn’t hit her.” My voice escalates in pitch.

“And like I said, it doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t. It matters what other people think. And they don’t want you back.”

“This is such bullshit.”

“Perhaps, but we have a problem on our hands when the man sent here to electrify our league isn’t even wanted by kids.”

“Okay. Fine. Guilt session activated. Hardy’s a dick. Hardy screwed up. Hardy apologizes. Can’t that just be enough?” I ask, hands up. “Every time you walk in a room, Ari, I’m asked to do yet something else I don’t want to do and so—”

“So we’ve pivoted,” she continues as if I never spoke. “There’s a local soccer academy here.”

“I’m sure there are lots of them. What’s your point?” Penance? Kissing their arse? A photo op? All three have me rolling my shoulders.

“It’s in a low-income area, pay only what you can, type of place,” she continues.

“And that has to do what with me? It needs some money to help out? Fine. Tell me who to write the check to. Done.”

“Throwing money at it isn’t going to fix public perception.” Her smile is tight as her eyes level me with a glare.

I snort. The irony. Isn’t that what my mum and Monty used to do to me? “Money helps everything.”

“Pretty sure this time around it needs you, Hardy. I mean, your money is fine, you can throw that in there if you wish, but your presence there is what I’m looking for,” she says.

“And no doubt what the club and the MLS is looking for. A way to further the game with the youth of tomorrow,” Rush says.

I point to him while talking to her. “Now that’s a man who’s had media training.”

“No. This is a man who’s learned from his mistakes,” Rush says.

“Well, I assure you that standing there with a fake smile in front of a group of kids saying some insincere words isn’t going to do shit for anyone.”

“It will and those words better be perfectly sincere,” Ari says.

I step up to the window and look out at the field beyond. A few of my teammates are down on the pitch running drills on their own time, but not me . . . like I should be. Like I’d rather be. Nope, I’m up here being treated like a two-year-old. My sigh fills the quiet. “Look. I apologize. I’ll keep my head down and out of the press moving forward. Last thing I want to do is make the organization look bad.” I add the last part for good measure. At least I sound contrite.