Page 81 of Lucky Shot

I stand there startled at yet another apology I never expected. At his praise that for some reason holds weight when it shouldn’t.

“Thank you.” The words are barely a whisper.

“And yet you’re still mad at me.”

“Words are just that. Words.”

“Well then, here are some actions for you.” He lifts his hat, his squinting eyes meeting mine briefly before he lowers the bill back down. “I went to a club last night.”

“Congrats. Good for you. Glad getting drunk superseded your obligation to us here.”

“It was because of you.”

“Me?” Whatever. I roll my eyes and wave a hand his way. He wants to blame me for getting drunk?

“Yeah. I was thinking that I should find someone else to erase your taste from my lips.”

“Oh.” I was right to disregard his words, to not put any faith in them. But God, that stings.

“Where you might have a tendency to freak out, I have a tendency to act out.” He shrugs. It’s almost as if the hat still covering his face gives me the courage to stare and admire a little more.

My heart pounds in my ears. This is why I was afraid to want. Because I’d allow myself to settle into the idea of it—slowly, deliberately—and something like this would happen.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I fight the pitch of my stomach and turn to look squarely at him. “Well, did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Get the taste of me out of your mouth?”

His groan is audible as he sits up, takes his hat off, and throws it on the couch beside him before resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up and meets my eyes for the first time. “Couldn’t tell you.”

I hate that I feel relief, a sliver of hope. “Why’s that?”

“Because every woman that tempted me wasn’t fucking you. And it wasn’t for lack of trying to.”

I bark out a laugh, thinking he’s playing along, but the expression on his face is dead serious. Oh. He means it.

“No. Not funny at all. Because that meant I drank way too much to overcompensate, and now I have a pounding head to prove it.”

“Hardy. Can I get you some ibuprofen? Some—”

“Already had an IV from the team doctor. Then I jogged here. I’m getting there. Have to because I have practice tonight.”

“An IV? You jogged?” What the hell?

“I needed to clear what’s in here.” He taps the sides of his head, closes his eyes briefly before opening them, and smiling sheepishly. “Nope. Still there.”

“Hardy . . . why did you come here? Why did you tell me all this?” Why did you assure me we’d fuck when I was good and ready and then turn around the next day and try to find someone else?

He angles his head to the side. “Because I needed you to know you’re not the only one struggling with this—with wanting someone and trying to understand how to justify it.” He rises to his feet and stands beside the foosball table as if he just belongs here when he clearly doesn’t. “That and I needed to . . . I wanted to apologize for the kiss at the airport the other day.”

“Oh.” The kiss I can’t seem to get out of my head, and apparently, he can’t either. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because you think the only reason I came here is to get laid. It appears I’m proving you right. Maybe I want you to think better of me.”

He looks up at me from beneath his lashes and his expression is that of a little boy asking to be liked. I’ve seen that look on many of the kids here before, but never on Hardy. It tugs on my heartstrings, and messes with my head a bit more too.