CHAPTER THIRTY
Whitney
“ W hat seems to be the problem, then?” Suri asks in her steadfast tone I’ve come to depend on over the last decade.
She’s both my voice of reason and the sense that often needs to get knocked into me, depending on the situation.
But this time around, her question stumps me.
“Apparently, I’m the problem.” I chuckle and shake my head. While I told her I drove here on impulse—I told myself the same thing—neither of us are buying it. “It’s complicated.”
She barks out a laugh. “When have you not been complicated, Whit?”
“True.” I look around the empty parking lot. Light towers dot the massive space, casting a pattern over the parking spaces.
“How do you even know he’s there?”
Because I watched from afar as the team bus pulled into the lot, bringing them back from the airport and their flight home from Dallas. Then, one by one, the cars in the lot started and left until there was all but one—the one I’ve since parked beside—a sexy, red sports car.
I look up to the glow the stadium lights cast all around and smile.
“Hardy’s known for putting time in on the field after a game. The lights are on and his is the only car in the lot left.”
“Didn’t you say they won, though?”
I nod even though she can’t see it. “Yes.” And he played well from my vantage point on the couch watching the game. One goal and two assists on the day is incredible. A great game indeed, but not good enough for Alexander Hardy. “But apparently, that never stops him. It’s always talked about on every sports show.”
“Uh-huh,” she says and then pauses. “So you watched his game, then drove to the stadium knowing he was going to be there, but now you’re hesitating?”
“Pretty much.”
I can pretend that I don’t know why my hands kept steering here while my head kept saying I was crazy, but I do.
I want the man, and I’m sick of fighting it.
If you saw me on my own turf, you’d see that.
I want the man who says he wants me, who kisses me senseless but then says he’ll wait. The man who’s Alexander fucking Hardy and should be as off-limits as off-limits can be.
Him alone in a stadium should be the easiest reminder of that there is and yet ... it makes me want him even more.
“But why?” she asks
“Because ... the first was impulse. The second is insecure reasoning at best?” I chuckle, realizing how stupid this must sound. “I don’t know, Suri. It’s like everything with him and about him just adds confusion to the situation.”
“I can see why you think that, why you feel that—especially with what you’ve been through in your life—but it’s okay to like someone.”
“Obviously.” I try to play it off.
“No. I mean, it’s okay to like someone beyond the sex aspect.”
“Oh.” She means the flutter . “I know. I mean—”
“But do you really? In the past, you’ve gone out. You’ve had fun. But you never stick around long enough to let whoever it is in. Once that happens, you’re gone with a list of reasons why.”
“That’s not fair.”
“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” I fall quiet and let her words settle. “Because of the circumstances—his presence at the academy, the media digging into your history, seeing him every day—Hardy probably knows more about you than you’ve ever divulged before. That has to be terrifying to you.”
And this is the detriment of having a friend who is as close and knows me as well as she does. You can’t hide from your own bullshit.
“It’s intimidating wanting him,” I whisper.
“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about him seeing you naked, right? You already got that part out of the way, and he seemed extremely happy with what he saw...so those nerves can be gone,” she teases. She knows I need that levity right now.
I run when shit gets too real. Ironic, considering that’s what I’m terrified of someone else doing to me.
“True.” I lean my head back onto the seat and sigh. “I don’t know why I’m so hesitant when it comes to him. The man can have anyone he wants.”
“And yet he’s set his sights on you,” she says evenly. “And not just set his sights on you, but he’s set out to impress you.”
“Impress me?”
“You’re the one who said the man can have anyone he wants, right? So let’s explore that. If that’s the case, why is he working so hard to win you over? A fancy date to New York where you were pampered and treated like a celebrity. A sexy-time session where you put up boundaries, and he didn’t cross them.”
“Hmm.” Visions fill my head of him standing with his cock in his hand, and my whole body sparks to life.
“I guarantee whatever you’re thinking, it was probably ten times harder for him to keep his control than it was for you. Then the man comes to pick you up at the airport when you ghosted him. Pick you up . The man showed up for you when he could have snapped his fingers for all those willing participants you mention.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“And then he apologizes for kissing you and for pushing you when you weren’t ready. Not to mention he says he wants to earn your trust and will wait for you to make the next move. I mean, I wasn’t the hugest fan of him at the start, but I have to admit, the way he’s respecting you makes me like the hell out of him for you.”
“You make it sound way too easy when you say stuff like that.”
“It is easy. Again. You’re overthinking it.”
“But he’ll be gone in a few months’ time.” Is that my holdup or is that my excuse? Because I’m beginning to think that’s my excuse.
“Perfect.”
“Perfect? What do you mean by perfect?”
“Well, if you follow your normal behavior, you’ll be done with him before that and have moved on. And if you haven’t, well, you’re heading into whatever this is with your eyes open. It’s hard to get attached to someone or get too serious about someone when you know he’s leaving. Sounds like the best of both worlds, if you ask me.”
But that’s it, isn’t it? Because I already have feelings I don’t want to admit to. I’m already afraid I’ll fall for him when I can’t.
Because he is going to leave.
It’s just a kiss, Whitney. Not a lifelong commitment.
“I know. I’m making this out to be a bigger deal than it really is.”
“It is a big deal. A huge one. He’s been patient, he left the door open for you, and you’re finally ready to walk right through. The question you have to ask yourself is why ?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about his kiss.
Because he knows who I am, my past and my present, and he cares while at the same time not really seeming to care.
Because I love that fluttery feeling I get every time he looks at me.
Because he respects me.
Because I deserve it.
“I like him. I’m here. That has to be enough for now.”
“It is, and I’m so proud of you for it.” She makes a noncommittal sound. “So ... what are you still doing talking to me?”
After I end the call, I take a deep breath and get out of my car before I lose courage. If I keep moving, then I can’t back out. Right?
I know the way into the stadium. Years of practice of sneaking in has me maneuvering my way through the maze of turns on the stadium’s darkened perimeter like an old pro.
And then I’m entering through the maintenance tunnel and see him there. Good God, the man is sexy.
Hardy is in the center of the pitch. He has cones set up for drills much like he does at the academy, but on a much grander and complex scale. It’s just him, shirtless, giving every single run through the cones and subsequent kick to finish the drill off, one hundred twenty percent.
The man played ninety-plus minutes earlier today. He was full foot on the gas the entire game, never letting up, and yet here he is a few hours later, practicing diligently and clearly not cutting any corners.
I watch him. It’s unavoidable. He’s mesmerizing—his skill, his speed, his ability to turn on a dime and strike the ball with such pace that the net groans every time the ball hits the back of it.
And the ball hits the back of it on every single shot he takes.
If I ever wondered if he shanked the ball on purpose during the contest, watching him now would leave no question.
He pushes himself with each drill, running full speed, never letting up or going half-assed like most players would.
Then again, he’s not most players .
I don’t know how long I sit and watch him execute drill after drill. He doesn’t have an assistant coach there helping him shag balls or reset each drill, either. He does it himself like an amateur instead of the superstar he is. He shouts in frustration when he screws up and talks to himself when he does something right.
Watching him is a masterclass in dedication, and I feel privileged to have these few stolen moments without him knowing I’m there.
It’s evident his training session is over when he collapses on the field and lies back with his arms out at his sides and his chest heaving.
I give him some time to just be before I start clapping.
“I should probably be scared at whoever is there because you either broke in here or have keys, and I’m supposed to be the only person in here,” he says in panted breaths, “but I’m too damn tired to care.”
“Well, I don’t have keys,” I say and love watching the jolt of awareness hit his body as he realizes it’s me.
He chuckles and pushes himself up to a seated position and looks in the direction of my voice. “How’d you get in here?”
“You said you wanted me to see you on your turf.” I shrug and hop over the wall so that I’m now on the grass with him. “So here I am— on your turf .”
“I didn’t mean literally.” He laughs.
“I couldn’t take you up on the ticket offer to watch the game since it was an away game, so I thought the next best thing would be to welcome you home.”
His eyebrows lift, and I love watching the surprise flicker across his face. “The ticket offer is at every game—not just home ones.”
“Oh.” It’s my turn to be surprised—and flattered by the admission. “I didn’t know.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but it is. It’s a huge deal and I struggle with acknowledging it.
It’s just a game, Whitney. Not a lifelong commitment.
“Any tips on what I’m doing wrong out here?” he asks as he picks up his shirt and scrubs it over his face.
“I’m pretty sure you have it under control.” I take a few steps toward him, still struggling with the intensity of how much I want him.
“That’s the thing about coaches though. They always see things the player doesn’t. What is it you see, Coach?”
A man who looks at me like he wants to devour me in bed and put me on a pedestal simultaneously.
“A man who kicked ass today on the field.”
“You’re being soft on me.”
I smile. “I think you beat yourself up enough, demand perfection of yourself. My job as a coach is to recognize that and not add to it.”
“True.” He nods and holds his hands out to the stadium around us. “Maybe someday you’ll be coaching the women’s team here yourself.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why is it? I know people who can get your foot in the door—”
“Drop it,” I snap at him. I buried that dream so long ago. I don’t need promises made that won’t be kept.
“I’m serious. I—”
“Do you want to know what I see still?”
He studies me and I’m grateful that he’s astute enough to know it’s a sore spot for me and decides to let it go. To play along. “Yes. Always.”
“I see a man who’s misunderstood in many ways. One who’s so naturally gifted that he doesn’t have to practice for hours after he just won a game but does so anyway because he respects this game that saved him.” He goes to speak and I hold up a hand. “And yes, I know it saved you somehow, but what that how is, isn’t my business. I know because it’s saved all of us in one way or another.”
He nods in response and gestures for me to continue.
“I also see a man who the world sees as selfish and arrogant yet who I’ve watched be caring and attentive over the past week to kids who idolize him. You make them feel like they matter when very few people do.”
“I didn’t at first though. Don’t make me out to be some kind of—”
“But you came back. You made up for it. That’s something.” I could say a million things although none of them would capture what I see when I look at him. The contradictions that I’ve been lucky enough to see beyond. “And I see a man who showed up for me after I ran, and I’m not one hundred percent sure how to feel about that.”
“Honesty is good.”
“Honesty makes me itchy.”
He barks out a laugh. “I thought you were the queen of scratching your itches.”
“A girl says one thing, and it’s never forgotten,” I tease.
“What are you doing still standing all the way over there? Come here,” he demands as my stomach flips.
As it flutters.
I make my way toward him, never more aware that his eyes are on my every step. I stop before him so that he’s looking up at me from his seated position. There’s a boyish grin on his face and a curiosity in his gaze as he lifts his eyebrows. “Hello, Whitney.”
“Hello, Hardy,” I mimic.
“You are aware it’s illegal to break and enter, right?”
“I didn’t break anything to enter,” I say coyly, drawing a laugh from him, and I shrug. “I left everything intact and may have taken advantage of some lapses in the facility’s security.”
“I’ll be sure to let ... someone know.” He angles his head to the side and studies me.
I glance around. “I may have snuck in here a time or twenty when I was younger to watch a game.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. This game—your football, my soccer—was what kept me sane. It made me feel connected. I came here every chance that I could.”
“You weren’t afraid of getting in trouble?”
“It’s not like anyone in my world cared about what I was doing. Besides, I could bat my lashes and talk my way out of anything.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he murmurs. “Where’s the access? The back gate by the parking lot? The—”
“It’s a secret.” I hold my hand out to help him up. He takes it, and I swear a current jolts through me at the connection.
He stands but keeps his hand clasped in mine, our bodies inches apart. “Your secrets are safe with me, Lucky Shot.”
I snort, the quip on the tip of my tongue but it dies a quick death as we stare at each other. “I wanted to take you up on your offer.”
“Offer?” His brows narrow.
“To see you on your turf? I was out for a drive and ...”
“And now, you’re here,” he says softly.
“Right. And now I’m here.” And suddenly very nervous.
“Kind of like how I went out for a jog and just ended up on your couch.”
I didn’t think of it that way but the comparison eases my nerves slightly. “Kind of.”
“It seems we keep drifting toward each other. At some point, something has to give here.”
“Depends on what the give is,” I murmur.
We continue staring at each other, the tension snapping between us, his smile pulling up one side of his mouth more than the other.
“If I had known you were coming, I would’ve planned something.” He holds his hands out. “Instead, you get this.”
“I’m okay with this .” I want this. Especially when he looks like this—hair mussed, shirtless, mouthwateringly attractive, and with a deeper tenor to his voice than normal—and the taste of his kiss and the groan of his climax burned into my mind.
He quirks his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
My eyes scrape over him before landing back to his. “It was unplanned, me coming here.”
“No, it wasn’t. You knew where you were headed all along.”
I laugh. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
“Maybe I wanted to come here to see you practice,” I lie and then smile to sell it.
“Practice is foreplay for you?”
I bark out a nervous laugh. Am I that transparent? “No. Of course not. I mean—”
“I’m just teasing you.” His stoic expression breaks, and he chuckles.
You had the brilliant idea to come here, Whit, but didn’t think much past that, did you? Not the how this might happen. The where it might happen. The forwardness of it all.
“Why does this seem so awkward?” I ask.
He gives a soft chuckle that feels like a whisper over my skin. “Sometimes taking what you want is,” he says and glances at his watch.
“And what is it that I want?” I ask coyly, teeth biting my bottom lip.
As if by some stroke of perfect timing, Hardy tugs on my hand so that I land firmly against his chest at the exact same time the lights of the entire stadium fall dark.
“Me,” he says a beat before his lips find mine, swallowing my chuckle with his kiss.