CHAPTER NINE
Whitney
“ I ’m here like I said I would be, and you and your players are nowhere to be found. I was true to my word. I’m here. You’re not. Guess that’s one way to safeguard yourself from how attracted you are to me.” He chuckles, and it reverberates through my body despite the roll of my eyes. “Shame. I was rather looking forward to pushing your buttons today. Now I guess I’ll have to do it on Monday instead.”
I listen to the voicemail for a second, or maybe fifth time, letting his sexy accent and gravelly growl sound like a lullaby I could easily fall asleep to.
And then I shake my head to knock some sense into me.
The man is an arrogant ass. Plain. Simple. For real.
But he did show.
I close my eyes and yawn. It’s been a very long day of games and the chaos that comes with getting all my players to the field on the upper east side of town. Players whose parents can’t all get them there due to their work schedule, general absenteeism, drug usage, you name it.
But sitting here in my little office at eight o’clock at night, it was all worth it. Every minute of coordinating, coaching, praising, yelling, and celebrating was worth it for the smiles and wins that came along with them.
And not wins just in victories but in how Hazel got her first goal ever. How Jermain saved two penalty kicks in his game. The list goes on and on.
My smile is automatic as I relive the greatest hits of the day. My bed calls to me but that would mean effort to walk to my car and drive there. Pathetic but true.
It’s just the week catching up to me. Just the hard work cleaning up the facility for the media junket that never happened, the late night with Suri at the bar, and the long day coaching in the sun.
“You good if I head out, Whit?” Martin asks, sticking his head in the office door.
“Yes. Thanks for all your help today.”
“It was a good day.” His smile lights up his dark features.
“It was.” I lean back in my chair. “A very good one. Have a great night.”
“You too.”
I stare at the empty doorway when he leaves, grateful for his steady presence at my side over the last two years. Walking in off the street and asking me for a job was a godsend.
I jump when my phone rings. I know the number on the screen, as it’s the same damn number as the one attached to the voicemail I’ve been listening to on repeat. How did he get my number ? Through Ari, no doubt.
Don’t answer it, Whit.
Don’t let the man think he’s charming or welcome or anything in between.
When I connect the call, I’m met with a blast of sound and then silence like someone just walked outside from a noisy location. For some reason, I’m irked immediately.
“Prestige Soccer Academy,” I say in greeting as if I don’t know who’s calling.
“You could have told me no one was going to be there today,” Hardy says, his voice an even timbre with a bit of a slur to it.
Hardy’s drinking. At a club no doubt, if the opening sounds on this call are to be believed. Then again, it is a Saturday night and most young, single people my age are out and about.
“Whitney? Are you there?”
I debate responding but isn’t that option long past, considering I already answered the phone to begin with?
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
He chuckles, and it’s the sexiest sound, which I don’t want to hear. “Unfortunate that you’re there or unfortunate that you answered my call?”
“Perhaps a bit of both.”
“There’s my girl,” he says, amusement woven into the sluggishness of his response. “Irritated at life in general.”
“Did you need something?” I ask as if I care. My girl ? What the heck is that?
“No. Just to let you know I was there and you weren’t.”
“I told you not to show up,” I state.
“Because you didn’t want me there.” He says something I can’t discern to someone there with him. “Not because you weren’t going to be there.”
“Semantics,” I say nonchalantly.
“Huh. Cheeky.”
“Is there something you needed, Hardy?”
“Why are you still there? Why aren’t you out and about and living your life like you should be?” he asks.
I open my mouth and close it. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. “Long day.” It’s all I say, and it’s greeted with an unnerving silence. “Are we done here?”
“Sure. Why not. But I’ll be there Monday.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Monday through Friday, so I’ve been told.”
“Ah, an extended punishment then for not showing the first time. That sullied reputation isn’t going to clean itself up, huh?”
The quick agreement I expect doesn’t come. “Something like that.” There’s a voice in the background. It’s soft and sultry and is followed by a giggle. Here I thought he was pausing because he was embarrassed about my punishment comment, but rather it’s because he has some woman no doubt rubbing up against him.
“Sounds like you’re busy. I’ll let you go.”
“Not busy. No.”
“Well, I am,” I lie. “Good night, Hardy.”
“See you on Monday, Whitney.”
But when the call ends, I stare at the cell in my hand.
It’s a Saturday night. He’s out with friends, and yet he felt the need to step outside whatever club he’s in and away from the women most likely falling all over him to talk to me.
It shouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t know why the thought makes me sink down in my chair, wrap my arms around myself, and smile, but it does.