CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hardy
“ W hy are you calling me?” I groan. “I have an evening off. Team bonding and shit.”
“So not really an evening off, then, is it?” Ari asks. She’s got me there. “And so this phone call is appropriately timed to go over the next steps of our PR plan.”
“There are no next steps,” I say as I lean against the retaining wall at the outdoor bar where we’ve all met up at.
It’s a lush paradise of palm trees, colorful flowers, and landscape lighting that accents the extravagant pool in its center.
We don’t get shit like this in England, and if we did, the sun rarely shines to allow us to enjoy it.
At least that’s what it feels like most days when the gloom hits day after day.
But Miami is a whole other planet with its sun, humidity, and its tropical everything.
Ari’s laugh should be a warning. “Ah, there are always next steps.”
“And I’ll just pile the new folder under my front seat with the rest of them.”
“Of course you will.” She sighs. “I have an event for you to attend. Movie premiere. Would be good for you to make yourself seen there.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait to fit that in my busy schedule.”
“I have it all taken care of for you.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“See you on the tarmac tomorrow at noon.”
“But I have camp.”
“Not tomorrow you don’t.”
She ends the call, and I’m left staring at my mobile wondering whether I’m happy about this development or not. A break from the chaos. Catch some sleep on the plane. No doubt I’m headed to Los Angeles or New York. Haven’t been to a premiere anywhere else.
But still . . . ugh.
“Problem?”
I look over to find Lennox, Rush’s better half and my agent, sitting down on the bench. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.” She smiles. Her hair’s swept up, and her eyes are bright behind a pair of rose-rimmed glasses.
“I didn’t even know I was going to be here.” I chuckle. “It seems I don’t know anywhere I’m going to be these days. And now apparently, I’m going to be at a premiere tomorrow.”
“Which I okayed. It’s a good look for you. Coaching kids. Movie premiere. The viral clip from last week is slowly fading so I was on board with it.”
“Thanks for running it by me,” I say sarcastically.
“No problem.” She pats my knee, unfazed by the comment. “Now tell me about the girl.”
“What girl?” I ask like an idiot.
“Ah, that means I’m right.” She takes a sip of her wine.
“Do I even need to be here for this conversation, or should I leave?” I tease.
She turns and looks at me, her eyebrows lifted and her expression dead serious. “It takes a lot to throw Alexander Hardy off his game, and by the way you’ve completely ignored that woman openly flirting with you over there, I’d say you’re off your game.”
“Maybe I’m tired from this ridiculous schedule. Maybe I’m trying to be present at our team get-together. Or—”
“Or maybe the woman at the academy has caught your eye.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Maybe, but I know you better than most.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. I’ve seen the videos online of you looking at her. Rush’s told me how you bet a whole freaking month to be there—”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding that you’re not fighting.”
“Kind of hard to fight when Major League Soccer and the Mayhem have me by the balls, isn’t it?”
“You only fight when you know I’m right. And if you wanted out of the obligation, all you’d have to say is that it’s making your game suffer. End of story. You know that. I know that. But no one hears you saying that.” She lifts her eyebrows and holds my stare. “She’s gorgeous. I’ll give you that.”
“And she doesn’t take shit from anyone.”
Her smile is a flash. I just fell into her trap. “It’s okay to like her, Hardy.”
I stare at my teammates spread across the patio, talking in pockets. And for some reason, I step into the conversation when I don’t expect to. “It’s easy to like her, Lennox. She’s a good person.”
Isn’t that what scared me about liking her? That she’s real and good? How dare I consider messing that up since I’m anything but that?
“So are you.”
I snort. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m being serious.”
“And I’ll be done with the camp in a month.”
“Your point? It’s not like you can’t still see her. There are such things as cars and freeways.”
“Cute. I just ... she doesn’t deserve to deal with everything that comes with me.”
“You mean everything she’s already dealing with? The spotlight? The press? That everything?”
“Yeah. It’s just a whole different level than anyone is used to.”
“Isn’t that for her to decide?”
“It’s not as black and white as that. It’s ...” What is it, Hardy? Is it because she’s gorgeous and doesn’t take your shit? Or is it because you’ve watched her stand beside the kids who are left behind? The ones who no one else fights for that makes you attracted to her? Or maybe it’s that she somewhat gets your world, your sport, and how much that just might mean to you?
“It’s confusing, isn’t it?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts...and my serious mommy issues.
“Nah. It’s nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” She rubs her lips together. Her eyes don’t reflect what her words say.
“She’s not exactly my biggest fan.”
Her smile is bittersweet. “And I wasn’t Rush’s when we first met and look how that ended up? Chemistry is chemistry. You can’t deny that and the videos circulating of the two of you on the field show there’s definite chemistry there.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me not to believe everything that’s online?”
Her smile is genuine, and she laughs. “You’ve got me there. I’m going to say this and then I’ll let you go back to your teammates. I’ve seen women come and go out of your life for the better part of seven years. You have no problem with commitment to any of them, but you commit to the wrong types—women who want the spotlight with you and who crave the attention you attract.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Gina French? Lilah Turney? Greta Halsey? I can keep going all day,” she says of the women I’ve dated in the past. I level her with a look. “What’s so wrong with seeing what it’s like with someone who is real and who has a life in a sport you love but in a different capacity? One who doesn’t care about the flashing lights around you?”
“It’s not that—”
She rises from her seat and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Then what is it? She doesn’t like you back?” She snorts. “With your charm? Everybody loves Alexander Hardy. If they don’t, you’re not trying hard enough.”
I blow out a frustrated sigh as she walks away. Her laugh floats back to me. Pretty sure another beer—or ten—is in order.
I roll my shoulders and approach my teammates. It’s a rarity that we all get together and relax or shoot the shit after practice—God knows we’re with each other enough as it is—but with a bye week and our second half of the season bearing down on us, we figured now was a good enough time as ever to do this. Of course, there’s a Premier League game playing on the television on the far corner of the covered patio, and it makes me miss home more than ever.
America is definitely the land of opportunity. The lucrative bank balance proves that but what I wouldn’t give for a proper pint of Guinness, a gloomy sky, and the sound of my boots clicking on the concrete of the tunnel as I take the pitch with my mates.
“You’re getting it from all sides, aren’t you?” Xavi asks. “I heard the words Ari said.” A collective groan sounds off around us, which makes me feel so much better. “And then your agent. Next Rush’ll be up your ass, but he’ll do it with a smile, no doubt.”
“Something like that,” I say and smile.
“Everything okay?” Gallo asks.
“Yeah, just scheduling shit and trying to figure out how to fit everything in is all,” I explain.
“Poor fucking Hardy. He has to spend hours on end with that gorgeous fucking ball-buster,” Santiago says.
I twist my lips and nod subtly, not thrilled with how he’s talking about Whitney, even though she is just that—gorgeous and obstinate.
“She’s all right,” I finally say, my head jumbled with Lennox’s commentary.
“ All right ?” Noah barks and looks at me like I’m crazy. “How much have you had to drink, because I’m pretty sure it’s sent you to another reality? That woman—”
“Whitney,” I say.
“Whitney has the tightest little body. I’m typically one for the yoga type because who’s going to turn down a flexible woman?” He chuckles. “But she— Whitney —is damn hot.”
“So you haven’t fucked Orphan Annie yet?” Gallo asks, making my hand clench into a fist. “And if you’re not planning on it, can you invite me to your clinic and let me school her?”
“Orphan Annie?” I ask, shutting out everything else he just said. “What the fuck is that all about?”
They all laugh, but when I stare at them, Motta, our midfielder, scrolls through his phone and holds it out to me. “It’s all over the internet today. How are you of all people the last to know?”
I yank the phone from his hand, and it takes me a few seconds to scan the article. It’s all speculative, pieced together from various sources who’ve known her during her life, but it’s printed and out there, nonetheless.
The foster life. The frequent moves. The salvation she found in sports and Prestige Academy. And then the ACL tear that ripped her college scholarship away and left her with nothing. No parents. No education. No family except for that which she’d made on her own.
Fuck. That’s rough .
It’s not like I didn’t know some of that already. But I want to know more.
Is that normal? To want to yank the article from the internet so no one else knows and want to read all I can find so that I can know?
What the fuck, Hardy?
“So, have you? And if you haven’t, why the hell not?” Motta asks, nudging me. “One of us can take care of that for you instead.”
I step away from him, irritated with all of them.
That’s why you do this, isn’t it?
I was so far from the truth. She does it because she was one of those kids. She is those kids. She understands better than anybody.
“I’m gonna head out.” I lift my glass and set it back down.
My comment is met with a round of raucous boos. “We’re just teasing you,” Xavi says.
“C’mon. Have another pint. Relax. You know we’re just fucking with you,” Noah adds.
“I know.” I smile. “I just need to get some shut-eye. This shit’s wearing me out.”
“I can think of better ways to wear yourself out,” Gallo says to a round of laughs.
I lift my hand in the air, my middle finger poised in the universal language of love as I do so, before I walk out of the patio to my car.
We’re just playing with you.
And they are. Were . And isn’t what they said something that easily could have come out of my mouth a hundred times before? Most definitely.
Then why does it irk me so bad this time?