CHAPTER FIVE
Whitney
“ D rink up,” Suri encourages as I toy with the straw in my fingers. “It’s the least you can do.”
“The least I can do?” I cough out the words and then glance down my body. “The least I could do is this, getting dressed up to go out with you because your date bailed.”
“You do look fabulous in that dress.” She motions to the dark blue, low-cut number I borrowed from her closet. “Your hair and makeup were already done from Operation Egotistical Asshole today, so the drinks are deserved. Besides, my date getting sick was not bailing. It’s simply him getting sick.”
“Apparently it’s going around,” I say wryly and roll my eyes, still furious and disappointed in Hardy and the events of earlier today. Money doesn’t fix everything.
My bitterness toward him is proof of that.
“Well, it got you out of the house and at a comedy show you never would have seen otherwise.” She takes a sip and then leans forward. “And it probably even got you to shave places that haven’t been shaved in a while.”
I level a look her way. “I shaved those places when I went on a date with . . . uh . . . shit .”
“It was so long ago you forgot his name, didn’t you?”
“No. It was Darren. Or Derrick.” I think .
“Dean.” She laughs. “His name was Dean.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” I shrug and take a long sip of my drink. I may have already shaved those places though, simply because I thought I was going to meet a very sexy soccer player today. One who I may have played out ridiculous fantasies in my head about how he was going to take one look at me and fall madly in love.
Ridiculous and childish but still the truth.
That’s why I said yes to Suri tonight. To maybe gain a little bit of my bearings back from the silly realm it had been in.
Besides, the comedy show at the club down the street provided the lighthearted entertainment I wasn’t aware I needed. The bar around us doesn’t hurt either. It’s kitschy and very Coyote Ugly-ish but in all the best ways. It’s crowded and loud with just enough people you can get lost in their camouflage and remain unnoticed—exactly how I prefer to be.
Plus, Suri and all of the above got me to venture to this side of town—the new downtown district—that I normally never go near.
“Dean seemed nice but he was no match for the hurricane of Whitney Barnes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much.” I chuckle and tap my nearly empty wine glass against hers.
Suri Johnson. My best friend and a force to be reckoned with ever since we met during our sophomore year of high school. She was the quiet but outspoken goth who preferred to read in the library during lunch, and I was the awkward, teased kid who had learned being invisible made life much easier in a school full of teenagers.
We bonded over everything—the contents of her lunch she always shared with me, the fantasy book she was reading, how annoying the popular kids were, and how neither of us ever wanted to go home. And when I look at her and smile, I’m extremely grateful that our bond has continued to this day. She always seems to know just what I need, even if I don’t appreciate it in the moment.
“Thank you for twisting my arm and forcing me to go with you. I did, in fact, have fun,” I say.
“Ha. See? I knew you would. Wasn’t that way better than being home stewing about that asshole Hardy?”
“The asshole Hardy?” the waitress asks absently as she slides fresh drinks in front of us. “You mean that Hardy over there?” She lifts her chin toward the opposite corner of the bar where a crowd is hovering around a table.
“He’s here?” I whip my head in his direction and scowl the minute I see him.
“I don’t know if he’s an asshole, but I’ll tell you one thing—that man is everything a woman wants. Looks. Sex appeal. British accent. Athletic. Wealthy.”
“And a prick,” I mutter, getting to my feet without thinking.
“Whitney?” Suri calls at my back just above the fray of noise but it doesn’t stop me. She knows better.
Especially when I see him like a king holding court as he sits among a table of his peers and obvious fans.
Exactly how and where I would have been if today hadn’t transpired.
I detest that I’m staggered by the pure beauty of the man—dark hair with a wave to it, light eyes that look like a lingering cloud deciding whether it’s going to pass over or storm, tanned skin, and defined features that make me think (oddly enough) of a Disney prince.
And most definitely not when he looks up to see me bearing down on the table and flashes a dazzling smile like he’s ready to charm the panties off yet another female who can’t resist him.
“You,” I say as I push my way through the crowd to his table. I have my finger out and am pointing at him.
There’s the slightest stutter in his demeanor, almost as if he is trying to place me from somewhere. Not like it matters because when he turns on the charisma, it’s dazzling.
“Yeah,” he says with a crooked smile and I’ll-fuck-you eyes. “ Me .” He bites his bottom lip as his graze scrapes over me. “Can I help you with something?”
The immediacy with which I dislike him is shocking. And not just because of earlier today but more because of his smugness and my body’s visceral reaction to him.
“Yes. Most definitely.” I glance around at the men seated at the table and for the first time, realize exactly who I’m standing amid—six of the starting eleven for the Mayhem. Jesus. I work a swallow down my throat and force myself to find my footing. The last thing I want is to look like the rest of the women standing in a circle around the table, simply staring at them in the hopes that one of them takes notice. “I thought you were sick.”
He chuckles and looks around to everyone at the table like I’m an idiot. “Do I look sick to you?”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“Do we know each other? Did I piss you off in another life? Are you mistaking me for some poor bloke who you knew when or something?”
“Was there somewhere you were supposed to be today, Hardy? Some kids you were supposed to see and make feel like they mattered?” I can see the light dawn in his eyes, but he rolls them to play it off given the audience listening. “That’s what I thought.”
“I was sick. Earlier. Mid-morning,” he tries to explain, but his own teammates glance at one another, brows furrowed. “But then again, I don’t have to explain that to anyone.”
“You’re right. Just like I don’t have to accept the money you threw at us to ease your guilty conscience over blowing us off.”
“I didn’t—”
“Save it. I don’t want to hear it from a two-bit soccer god who set more of an example to my players today of who not to be than you’ll ever teach them otherwise.”
“Whoa. Down, girl.” Hardy holds his hands up in surrender as he smirks like this is funny.
It’s not.
“And to think you actually made the trek across town to be there, but you were so disgusted by something about us—the peeling paint, the faded signs—or was it just lower-class kids in general you can’t stand? You afraid they might rub some of their grime and desperation off on you, huh?” I shake my head, disgusted with him and all of the reasons I’ve made up in my own head to justify— or not —his actions.
“You’re being completely ridiculous.”
“But you were there, right?”
“No. I wasn’t anywhere. I told you I was home. Sick .”
I nod and glance around before meeting the eyes of the other players seated with him. “Sexy, red sports car. Tinted windows. Scissor doors. That’s not you?” But the minute the words are out of my mouth, I can see the reaction of his teammates. The widened eyes and bobbing Adam’s apples. Yeah. The red sports car was him. “Huh. Must have been someone else afraid we’ll wear off on them.”
“Babe—”
“Whitney,” I correct. I’m not his babe . Not in the least. The fantasy I shaved for earlier already died a quick death.
“Whitney. How . . . lovely .” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Is this the part of the program where you cut me down so you look bigger?” I shrug. “Gotta save face with your teammates somehow, right?”
“I think you’re misunderstood. I’d like to make things right, yeah?” He shifts to stand and moves toward me. “Who are you to the academy?”
“Meaning?”
The man is even more gorgeous up close. How is that possible? And why am I even noticing?
“Meaning usually coaches of any reputable academy are ex-Premier League players. College coaches. These accolades elevate a program and bring it some notoriety. Make parents think they aren’t wasting their money sending their kid there,” he says quietly, trying to keep this conversation between the two of us.
But his words pack a punch he couldn’t have any idea he was throwing. I shrug them off. The few drinks I have under my belt don’t hurt either.
“Clearly you didn’t get out of your car or you would have seen differently.”
“Which part?” He narrows his eyes, and a ghost of a smirk plays at the corners of his lips. “The Premier League player hiding behind the goal net? The college coach who volunteers his time and tries to get the older kids on the scholarship or college ID camp route? Or what?”
Prick.
“Guess we’re not reputable.” I cross my arms over my chest and question why I’m still standing here. Why I’m arguing with a man who clearly does what he wants.
“So what is it that you do there, then?”
“You’re so learned on the topic, why don’t you tell me?” I lift my brows.
“Play in college?” he asks.
“Nope. Did you?”
“Nah. I had other, more pressing plans,” he says. Everyone knows he was a phenom and played on the grandest stage in his late teens.
His grin is full force, and I hate how I melt a little under its brightness despite despising the man. Smart-ass .
“See? Now that we know a little more about each other, can we get back to doing what it is we came here to do?”
Our eyes hold and I can see the storm brewing in his irises despite the calm demeanor in his voice.
“Sure. Fine.” I pause, knowing this is exactly the reason I’m still standing here. To say this and put him in his place. “I’d apologize for embarrassing you in front of your mates, but truth be told, I’m not in the least bit sorry. You know why? Because while you were busy being a prima donna today, I had to face over two hundred kids and teens and explain to them why they weren’t good enough for Alexander fucking Hardy to show up.”
“But you got the money.”
I nod. “Thanks for just proving my fucking point.” I take a step back. “It seems making an ass out of yourself and not caring about anything other than you is a common trait of yours.”
“Seems to have worked out so far for me in life.” He shrugs.
I’m dumbfounded by his arrogance. By his lack of humility in confessing what he did. But then again, should I expect any less? I glance around at everyone, see some camera phones up filming, and shake my head. “There’s responsibility that comes with fame like you have. A moral compass that requires you to inspire others and motivate them. I guess you lost that right along with your decency when you skipped university. I hope you have a shitty rest of the season, Hardy. Like can’t find the ball in the back of the net ever kind of season.”
He chuckles, and it’s anything but nice. “I’ll keep that in mind, but that doesn’t seem to be the case so far, huh?”
“Go to hell,” I mutter.
“Been told worse by better.”
“I’m sure you have.” I take a few steps back. “But then again, I’m just a lowly soccer assistant without any experience. What do I know?”
“Exactly.”
Asshole.
“They say never meet your idol. Now, I know why.”
Satisfied with completing my mission, and without another word, I move back toward my table, toward the fresh round of drinks just served, and know I’ll be leaving as soon as I can pay my tab.
And well before the mob of Hardy fans decide to burn me at the stake for criticizing their hero. Because no doubt there is one at this bar.
“You good?” Suri asks, eyeing me cautiously.
I nod. “Best I’ve felt all day.”