Page 9 of Lucky Shot

“Apology accepted, but when my phone rings and it’s someone from the league or my co-owners, a simple apology isn’t enough anymore,” Rush says.

“And flooding social media with smiling pictures of you with kids and families isn’t cutting it. You fucked up. The only one who can fix this is you,” she says. “And this soccer academy is just that.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait.” Sarcasm drips from every word.

“I’m ironing out the details as we speak—coming up with a plan for how to maximize the situation for our benefit and make you look like Prince fucking Charming to the public,” Ari says.

I emit an even louder groan in response. No one will ever compare me to a prince. I’ll put money on that.

“Perfect,” she says when I don’t respond and picks up her laptop and hugs it to her chest. “I’ll get to work and get back with you on the plan and how we proceed but be prepared that it’ll be within the next day or two.” She turns to Rush and gives a slight bow of the head. “We’ll talk soon.”

“Thanks, Ari,” he says while I grumble something similar before she bounces out of the office like a satisfied woman. More like a ball-buster.

“So . . .” Rush says, leaning back and steepling his fingers over his mouth as he eyes me.

“I’m getting the feeling that this isn’t negotiable.”

“A great football player and a quick learner.” He whistles. “I knew I liked that about you.”

Fuck.

CHAPTER TWO

Whitney

Bills. Bills. Everywhere.

I mentally sing the tune even though there isn’t a single thing singsong-y about the ridiculous volume of them cluttered on my desk or the meager amount in my bank account to pay them all.

And yes, the word desk is a generous description for the aged thing I’m sitting at with one of its legs zip-tied in place and a drawer so broken I can’t remember the last time I could yank it open.

But it serves its purpose so I can’t complain, and there are way more important things to spend money on than a better equipped desk. Besides, I’ve been looking, and what I’ve found at garage sales are no better than this one.

And way less memorable.

I reach out and run my fingers over my initials engraved into its side. I can still hear the scratching sound of the scissors blade as we sat on the floor and each etched our initials into it. Each one of us on the championship winning team has a place there. Trophies would get packed away or break, but our names scarred in wood felt much more lasting.

Ridiculous, but true.

“Back to bills, Whitney,” I say aloud as a means to redirect my thoughts and my waning motivation.

When my phone rings, I welcome the distraction from the unknown number.

“Prestige Soccer Academy.”

“Hi. Yes, I’m looking for a Whitney Barnes.”

Shit. Bill collector. I debate hanging up. “This is she. Can I help you?”

“Yes. This is Ari Winters with Miami Mayhem Football Club.” Wait. What? “I’m calling to follow up on the letter we received from you. It was in regard to whether we’d like to donate some equipment to your club.”

“Someone actually opened it and didn’t throw it away?” Crap. Did I say that out loud?

Her chuckle tells me I did. “Nope. Not thrown away.” She pauses. “Can you tell me a bit about your club and how you came to be there?”

“Sure. Yes.” Why does my tongue feel so thick in my mouth right now? “I became a player here when I was in my early teens. At the time, Patrick Dunn owned the academy. He took me under his wing and allowed me to play here in exchange for volunteering . . . but he would’ve let me play here even if I hadn’t. That’s just the type of person he was.”

“That’s wonderful.”