CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Whitney
I may be a tad tired.
Correction. I’m fucking exhausted.
I spent all night in disbelief, staring at social media and the buzz yesterday’s contest created. And it’s not so little. It’s massive. Why did I think it was a bad idea to have him stay for the whole month?
But then my mind filled with images of sculpted abs, firm thighs, and him in his underwear while hearing his sexy accent on repeat, and I was repeatedly reminded why I didn’t want him here.
Then I’d watch more news stories about us. I caught a few snippets of his expression and the way he’d look at me when I didn’t know, and I’d pretend I didn’t see it. But then I’d watch the clip again and wonder why the look? Why the expression?
Even better? I’d hear the distinctive alert from our fundraising app telling me another donation was made, that someone, somewhere, donated five dollars because they wanted to help, and I was overwhelmed all over again.
Sleep ? I was way too amped to chase it easily.
The plus side? Today is a late start for camp so if I want to accidentally fall asleep in my office chair for thirty minutes, then so be it. In a preemptive move as I lock my car and head into the facility, I set alarms on my phone just in case I do doze off. That way the kids don’t walk in and find me sleeping on the job.
But I’m distracted from my alarm setting when I hear noises on the pitch. The thwack of a foot hitting a soccer ball. The grunt of exertion. The sound of hard work.
I clear the corner to find Hardy going through a set of elaborate drills on the pitch, and for a brief second, I allow myself a sigh of relief.
I’m not sure why I thought he might not show today. Well, let’s be real. I know why. The man is selfish and combative. Then there’s the fact that I told him not to come back.
But he’s here and I hate that I feel a little more settled for reasons that are beyond the club just making more money.
Maybe I liked seeing how he looked at me. Maybe I want to see if that was a fluke. And then there’s just plain old admiration to be able to stand here and watch someone who has been touted as one of the greatest of our generation work.
I step back so that I’m peeking from behind the corner, and I give myself the grace to do just that—watch Alexander Hardy run drills with an ease I’ve never seen in person before. He’s quick and nimble, graceful yet commanding, and when his foot connects with the ball, the force behind it is almost palpable.
He’s mesmerizing to watch. A pure specimen in all facets of the word, physically and visually. I think the man is attractive, sure, but watching him run and re-run drills so that he can perfect an angle change by a mere inch is impressive. It also calls to my perfectionist-loving heart.
I know I should let him be, that I should move quietly to my office and let him work, but when in my life have I ever been given the chance to watch the best of the best? Never. And so I let myself be in awe of the man before me.
Kick after kick.
Drill after drill.
Sprint after sprint.
Desire stirs to life. It’s simply because he’s an athlete doing something I admire. But even I don’t believe the lie.
I lose track of time as I fight the urge to watch and the need for my own sanity to step away.
“Good morning, Whitney.”
“How did you know I was here?” I chuckle. “I didn’t make a sound.”
“When you grow up in a boarding school full of boys, you learn to have eyes in the back of your head. You wouldn’t believe the number of pranks that happen from someone sneaking up on you.” There’s something about the way he says it that holds a sadness to it, but when he flashes a grin my way, I’m pretty sure I’m wrong about that.
He bends over to start collecting his cones like he’s picking up.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say, but hope he does, in fact, stop or this woman is going to get nothing done other than admiring him.
“Nah. I’m done. I just needed to put some work in. I’m struggling with a few mechanics and wanted to work on them.”
“On a couple of shots you weren’t squaring your hips enough, and on a few others you were leaning back a smidge too much when striking the ball. That’s why you feel off.” The critique is out of my mouth without thought. An occupational habit to watch and assess.
He stops what he’s doing and turns to stare at me, eyebrows raised and expression surprised. “Really?” Surprise peppers his voice but he nods slowly.
“Really.”
He folds his arms over his chest and studies me. “That’s a good catch and exactly what my coach told me to correct.”
Is it stupid that I stand a bit taller from his praise? That I almost feel validated by it. “Thanks.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I know it’s not reputable advice and all ...”
He levels me with a dubious look and holds his hands up. “Touché. Point made.” Then he pats his hand over his heart. “Apology offered.”
Wow. Okay. “Apology accepted.” I take a step back. “I’ll uh—I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Whitney?”
“Hmm?” I turn to look at him and his softened expression.
“How’d you know that?” There’s a sincerity in his question when I’d expect someone of his caliber to mock me.
“About your mechanics?”
“Yeah.” He takes a few steps toward me.
“It’s how I coped when I was injured, I guess. I consumed everything I could—books, videos, classes. I watched countless hours of the greats—Beckham, Zidane, Messi, Ronaldo, Modric, Neymar. Anything I could to lose myself in the game I could no longer play. It gave me a new path to obsess over, a new dream to achieve since the one I’d lived for was gone.”
“What path was that?”
“Coach.” I shrug. “At the higher levels. A women’s national team? Women’s premier league? Collegiate? I don’t know. It’s a pipe dream though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You said it yourself. If you don’t play professionally or at a high collegiate level, no one is going to find you reputable or learned enough to think you have the experience to handle it.” I point to the field around me. “But here, my knowledge is welcome and helps kids who truly need it. It is far removed from the dream I once had, but it’s more than enough for me.”
He chews his bottom lip and there is something about the way he looks at me that heats up my skin. It’s as though he’s finally seeing me for the first time.
“Dreams change, Whitney. Dreams shift. It’s okay to find new dreams to hold on to.”
My throat feels like it closes up on me, and I’m grateful for the sunglasses shading my eyes, because they blur with tears I refuse to shed.
“Dreams can shift and change as we mature and grow, Lucky. They’re not always rigid if you don’t let ‘em be.”
I clear my throat and swallow a small bit of my pride. It’s moments like these, where Patrick’s words come back to me, that I miss him the most. “Look. I apologize for yesterday. For the bet and then telling you I was going to let you win it. For forcing your hand when you’re in the midst of a championship run. I let my competitiveness get in the way.” Among other things.
He nods deliberately, almost as if he understands how hard that admission was for me. I expect him to gloat, and when he doesn’t, I’m surprised. “Yeah, well, it appears I did that all to myself with the bet in the first place. Can’t fault you for taking a killer shot. The time commitment thing with everything MLS and Mayhem expect of me is a big learning curve.”
Guilt hits me squarely in the solar plexus, but he’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions. This one didn’t pan out too well for him. “I warned you not to come back,” I say in consolation, but we both know he can’t back out now. Not with the crazy media attention.
And as if on cue, a news van with the satellite extension on top pulls up to the parking lot.
“I’m here. I’ll be here. It’s way too far gone to reel any of that back now,” he says and lifts his head toward the van. “But that means I’ll also need to put some time in here working out in the mornings. I hope you don’t mind.”
“ Mind ? ” I cough the word out. Watching that body and those skills in motion? Jesus . “No. I don’t mind.”
He shrugs. “At least I know I have another coach here who can spot things I’m doing wrong.” He winks in the most unpatronizing way ever.
“Funny.”
“I’m serious.” He collects another set of cones and stands in front of me. “And I’ll take all the help I can get considering I’m here first and foremost to play football. I need to make sure I keep up to speed on my own stuff. I’ll do drills and cardio here in the morning, the kids during the day, then I’ll have to head to my team training in the evening.”
“It’s only been two days, you can’t have fallen that far behind.”
“Two days not training is two days my opponent has on me who has.”
I stare at him and nod, admiring his competitive spirit and marveling it all at the same time. “Understood,” I murmur as I move forward and help him pick up his cones.
“You don’t have—”
“It’s ingrained in my blood,” I tease.
“’Kay. Thanks.” We move in silence, each collecting and stacking the small course cones on top of one another. “Whitney?”
“Hmm?”
I look over and he’s studying me again in that way he has. “Why didn’t you tell me you owned the place?” he asks.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t think I had to.”
“And I didn’t think you’d assume I wasn’t simply because I was a female.”
His head whips my way. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is what you thought. You’re definitely not the first and won’t be the last.” I hold my free hand up. “No grudges held. It might be the world’s game, but I’m not na?ve in thinking it isn’t male dominated.”
“How’d you come to own it?” He takes the cones from me and sets them on the team bench on the sidelines.
“I was a player here, and the owner and I were close. He looked out for me and was a true mentor. When he got sick ... he left it to me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.
“It was some time ago. Shocked the hell out of me really, but that’s Patrick. Always doing something nice, never breaking a promise, and forever looking out for me like I was his own.”
“Sounds like an incredible guy.”
“He was.” My smile is bittersweet. Lucky Shot . The same thing the man before me said to me last night. A weird coincidence but one that stays with me. “This place wasn’t always like this. It was better in all aspects—financially, esthetically, talent-wise. It was more lucrative for a time because people could pay the dues. Then the aerodynamics factory closed down, drugs became a buffer for those who hit hard times, and this place suffered because of it. Yet, at the same time, it benefited from it with some great kids. Patrick did his best, but he was a proud man, and when he handed the club over to me, it was drowning financially. I’ve made some inroads, but it’s never enough. That’s why ... your donation was so appreciated. It helped make some dents, so thank you. Again.”
“I don’t want a thank you. I screwed up and tried to donate my way out of it. Doesn’t make me a good person in the least.” He sighs. “Question. When people can’t pay for their kids to play, what do you do?”
I falter for a moment. “I eat the cost.” I tighten my ponytail. “Much like Patrick did for me that first summer I came here.”
“That’s a horrible business model.”
I stiffen. His words feel like an insult. I open my mouth to defend myself, and he stops me.
“It’s not a bad thing. That wasn’t a cut. Just a statement and ... a compliment.”
“I’m not used to you saying nice things to me,” I murmur.
“Then maybe you need to listen differently.”
My eyes flash up to his, and our gazes hold. It’s a beat of time but enough for him to purse his lips, to nod, to tell me without words that he feels this place too.
“That’s why you do this, isn’t it?” His voice holds unexpected compassion.
“Do what?”
“Stay here. Fight for these kids. Put up with an asshole like me to do it.”
I do a double take. Who is this man and where did he put the jerk who allowed me to keep him at arm’s length? Where’s the asshole whose only real words had been taunts of sexual innuendo? “Um ... ” I look over my shoulder as if to see where the real Hardy went. “Change of heart much?”
He chuckles and shrugs as he takes a few steps toward me, but the sincerity in his eyes surprises me. “Not a change of heart just ... this place gets to you.”
And it’s all he says.
All he has to say.
Because he’s right.
It does.
“That and ... I don’t break my promises.” He angles his head to the side and offers me a lopsided smile that has my stomach flipping. “Look at that. We just had a conversation without arguing.”
My grin is fast and furious. “Don’t get used to it.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah. I guess I should have figured as much.”
I watch him walk away, the smile still on my lips. I don’t break my promises . For the first time since I met Hardy, I actually believe him.