CHAPTER FOUR
Whitney
W hy does everyone around me keep glancing at each other?
A news reporter from one station to a reporter from a rival station.
Then Mayhem’s Ari to her assistant every couple of seconds.
Her assistant and the frequent texts on her phone.
And then there’s me glancing around at all the kids, wondering how much longer I’m going to be able to keep them from getting antsy and acting out. The older kids are fine, gossiping and chatting the time away, but the younger kids are here to get out energy, not sit idle.
Patience only lasts so long in both kids and adults, and I’m definitely proof of that.
I roll my shoulders, the ache deep from the ridiculous amount of work I put in over the past few days—painting, pulling weeds, turf repair, net repair, gear clean up—to make the academy look as nice as possible. Being rundown is one thing, but looking like the club owner doesn’t care enough to make it presentable offers little confidence to someone debating whether or not to make a donation.
And I sure as heck plan on pushing the fact that our needs outweigh our budget if I get a chance with the media.
Another glance around tells me that Hardy hasn’t arrived, and by the puzzled looks on their faces, no one quite knows where he is.
Awesome.
And here I stand with my newly trimmed hair, a full face of make-up applied for the first time in forever, and disappointment like a slow drip from a leaky faucet.
I’ve since watched the videos—every angle, every clip—and I hate that right now, his disappearing act with the academy is making him look exactly like the viral video made him look like. And while every angle tells a different side of the story, the one thing they all agree on is that Hardy looks brash, reckless, and reactive. A hothead who can’t control his temper.
Not a good look for the superstar and particularly as the face of this sport.
I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum as if it’ll lessen the bitterness I taste on my tongue. I wanted him to be that guy I built up in my head, that superstar I wanted to adore, and yet as I stand here and look at my waiting kids and the media, who is clearly getting bored, I have to concede he just might be the man those videos paint him out to be.
No one likes knowing the person they look up to, that they admire, that they have a crush on, isn’t worthy of their affection or time at all.
Too bad I still need him—good, bad, or asshole-y—to help my academy.
Then again, he has to show up for me to use him.
I take a stroll over to the fence to straighten a banner I had made—my credit card loved that one—and catch sight of a ridiculously expensive car parked across the street. I’m not one to know the make and model of a car, especially ones that aren’t sitting at the used car lot down the street, but I sure as shit know extravagance when I see it.
My first thought? Gorgeous car.
My second? What the hell is someone doing in this part of town with that? They better not leave it there or if they do, they better expect to come back and have something missing from it.
My last? Who’s checking up on Hardy to make sure he shows up? Or is that Hardy himself in that sexy car, and if so, why the hell is he not getting out?
I stare for a few seconds longer. Hell, I have nothing else to do.
“Coach?”
I turn to find Rodrigo behind me. The kid is one of our twelve-year-old phenoms. His natural ability is off the charts and advanced years beyond his age. My greatest hope is that we can help keep him on the straight and narrow and away from the drugs his dad likes to sell long enough to use the game to get him away from here. High school. College. Beyond. But for now I have to settle with just today, just this week. Because here in Glendale, that’s how kids have to look at life.
“What’s up?” I ask, my smile present despite my irritation at the situation.
“He’s not going to show, is he?”
I study him in his idol’s jersey. H-A-R-D-Y is spelled across its back. I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad that one of the media accidentally let it slip who was supposed to show up today. I almost wish they hadn’t so I could protect Rodrigo’s belief in a man he idolizes.
I offer a reticent smile. “He’s supposed to. That’s what this whole thing is for, right? So the only reason why he wouldn’t be here is because of some kind of emergency.” Or he’s the prick I’m resigned to thinking he is.
“C’mon, Coach. We’re charity cases.” He holds his hand up to stop me from correcting him. “No one comes to visit clubs like ours unless they’re trying to look better or they came from something like this themselves. And Hardy did not come from shit like this. He was a silver-spoon, boarding-school kid with more chances and opportunities than this entire club combined will ever have.”
Well, I can’t say that Rodrigo doesn’t know how to research things with that rebuke.
“We don’t know that’s why he’s not here yet.” I’m crushed for him, for the rest of the kids, and selfishly, for me.
He snorts. “I know you have to be positive. That it’s your job to be, but when you live here, when you get old enough to notice, people outside this area look at you differently. They watch everything you do. If you’re in a store, they think you’re going to steal. When you reach in your pockets, they assume you’re going to pull out drugs. I mean...that’s just how it is.”
“I know.” I nod because I do. Because I grew up with that same stigma coating my skin and tainting my outlook. “ I know .”
“Thinking he was coming here was just too good to be true.”
“Miss Whitney?” Bella asks. She’s eight and has the cutest freckles and pigtails that bob with every movement of her head.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I’m bored. Can we play tag while we wait?”
A glance at my watch says Hardy is almost ninety minutes late. Such bullshit. “Of course. In fact”—I put my arm around both of their shoulders and steer them toward the rest of the students waiting impatiently—“why don’t we break into our groups and start our day? We have goals to accomplish before the end of summer, and we best get started on those.”
“So we’re not waiting?” Rodrigo asks.
“When Hardy gets here, he can wait for us to finish what we’re doing. You guys are more important than him anyway.”
Rodrigo side-eyes me, lifts his eyebrows, and draws the word out, “ Right .”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “Help me get the cones set up for the drills?”
“Only if I get a piece of that candy on your desk.”
“Deal,” I say, but the second he jogs off, my shoulders sag.
He’s not coming.
And it infuriates me that the kids know how others in this world see them. But I know firsthand, don’t I?
I know and probably would have believed every bullshit comment and the clutching of the purse tighter to someone’s chest if it weren’t for Patrick and the confidence he instilled in me.
Fuck Alexander Hardy, his uppity name, and his lack of consideration. The thought hurts me more than I ever could have imagined. I wanted to believe in him too. I did.
Now, I don’t.
These kids matter. More than he ever will.
That thought fuels me through the next hour. One of the media crews packs up and heads to another, more exciting story since ours never materialized. The other films a few of our drills and interviews me on the off chance there’s a slow news day and they need a human-interest story. There’s no guarantee it will ever air. When they finally decide to leave, they tell us to call them when and if Hardy decides to show up.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter under mine as I turn to see Ari in her no-nonsense business suit, standing there with an apologetic smile on her lips and a placating expression on her face.
Seen that look way too many times in my life.
“Did you need me?” I ask with raised brows and no doubt impatience emanating off every fiber of my being.
“Yes. Sorry.” Ari looks over my shoulder at the kids beyond. “Can I talk to you in private for a second?”
“Of course.” I motion to one of my other coaches that I’ll be right back.
“It seems that Hardy fell ill this morning—a bad case of the stomach flu, I believe. He woke up and then fell back asleep—feverish and...you know.”
Yes. I know .
“Oh. How horrible.” God forgive me for not sounding sincere.
“He feels absolutely terrible about not being able to make it. He hopes you understand.”
“Hmm.” I nod subtly and force a smile on my lips that I’m certain doesn’t carry through to my eyes. Being stood up will do that to you. “Of course, we do.”
“And as a consolation, he’s donated ten thousand dollars to your organization.”
My thought process skips several beats. “Oh.” It’s all I can manage because ten thousand is an ungodly amount of money for us—like wow—and yet, he let down my kids. He let me down.
And not just let them down but gave them a rude reminder of their place in life—important enough to prop him up if needed but not important enough to actually show up.
“That’s very generous of him, but...” I can’t accept it . That’s my first thought. That I don’t want to take it out of principle and yet how can I deny the kids and this club the things it desperately needs because of my obstinance?
Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
True. I get it. But what happens when the gift horse pisses you off and makes you feel less than?
“But?” Ari asks, surprise woven in that single syllable.
My pride tastes so damn bitter as I swallow it down. “But nothing.”
“Great. I had a staff member run this here from our offices for us so we can take a few photos for social media,” she says, motioning to one of those oversized fake checks they use on game shows.
How convenient. Was he ever going to even show up in the first place or was this the plan all along? Build us up to let us down?
“Wow. Aren’t you efficient?”
Her brows narrow momentarily by my muted snark, but I smile to overshadow my tone.
“Always prepared for the unexpected. It’s a lesson I’ve learned—especially when athletes are involved.” She holds out the phony check to me that promises a ten-thousand-dollar donation from Miami Mayhem, on their logo, but is “signed” by Alexander Hardy. “Let’s get the kids around, shall we? A big group picture of you all accepting this gracious donation from one of our superstars.”
“Of course.”
And I go about doing just that—gathering the kids up, standing and smiling for the camera while holding the ridiculous check, listening to the kids ooh and aah over how awesome he is—and grow more and more upset over being stood up.
Call it me being pissy and sore from all the hard work I put in for his visit. Call it PMS. Call it my bullshit radar. All three are probably accurate, but by the time the Miami Mayhem entourage packs up and leaves, I’m in downright bitch mode.
The kids are running drills outside with the other coaches while I stand in my office with my arms crossed over my chest, scowling at the oversized check propped up on the filing cabinet.
“What do you care where the money is coming from so long as it’s coming?” I mutter to myself, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
All that work. All that wasted money I don’t have spent on signage and banners that went to waste. And for what? To be reminded just who we are and what we don’t have? Not to mention my own personal loss I feel over looking up to someone who just let me down.
Then again, maybe that’s too deep for Alexander Hardy. Maybe he’s just simply the type of man who thinks money can buy anything—grace, stature, reputation, absolution.
These kids deserve to know they matter.
That they have hope and opportunities and futures.
And I’ll do my darndest to deliver on that. No matter what it takes .