Page 87 of Lucky Shot

“Drop it,” I snap at him. I buried that dream so long ago. I don’t need promises made that won’t be kept.

“I’m serious. I—”

“Do you want to know what I see still?”

He studies me and I’m grateful that he’s astute enough to know it’s a sore spot for me and decides to let it go. To play along. “Yes. Always.”

“I see a man who’s misunderstood in many ways. One who’s so naturally gifted that he doesn’t have to practice for hours after he just won a game but does so anyway because he respects this game that saved him.” He goes to speak and I hold up a hand. “And yes, I know it saved you somehow, but what that how is, isn’t my business. I know because it’s saved all of us in one way or another.”

He nods in response and gestures for me to continue.

“I also see a man who the world sees as selfish and arrogant yet who I’ve watched be caring and attentive over the past week to kids who idolize him. You make them feel like they matter when very few people do.”

“I didn’t at first though. Don’t make me out to be some kind of—”

“But you came back. You made up for it. That’s something.” I could say a million things although none of them would capture what I see when I look at him. The contradictions that I’ve been lucky enough to see beyond. “And I see a man who showed up for me after I ran, and I’m not one hundred percent sure how to feel about that.”

“Honesty is good.”

“Honesty makes me itchy.”

He barks out a laugh. “I thought you were the queen of scratching your itches.”

“A girl says one thing, and it’s never forgotten,” I tease.

“What are you doing still standing all the way over there? Come here,” he demands as my stomach flips.

As it flutters.

I make my way toward him, never more aware that his eyes are on my every step. I stop before him so that he’s looking up at me from his seated position. There’s a boyish grin on his face and a curiosity in his gaze as he lifts his eyebrows. “Hello, Whitney.”

“Hello, Hardy,” I mimic.

“You are aware it’s illegal to break and enter, right?”

“I didn’t break anything to enter,” I say coyly, drawing a laugh from him, and I shrug. “I left everything intact and may have taken advantage of some lapses in the facility’s security.”

“I’ll be sure to let . . . someone know.” He angles his head to the side and studies me.

I glance around. “I may have snuck in here a time or twenty when I was younger to watch a game.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. This game—your football, my soccer—was what kept me sane. It made me feel connected. I came here every chance that I could.”

“You weren’t afraid of getting in trouble?”

“It’s not like anyone in my world cared about what I was doing. Besides, I could bat my lashes and talk my way out of anything.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he murmurs. “Where’s the access? The back gate by the parking lot? The—”

“It’s a secret.” I hold my hand out to help him up. He takes it, and I swear a current jolts through me at the connection.

He stands but keeps his hand clasped in mine, our bodies inches apart. “Your secrets are safe with me, Lucky Shot.”

I snort, the quip on the tip of my tongue but it dies a quick death as we stare at each other. “I wanted to take you up on your offer.”

“Offer?” His brows narrow.