CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Whitney
I wake with a start in a darkened room.
But it doesn’t take me long to orient myself or to realize where I am this time. I push myself up to seated, feeling slightly better. When I look to my right to see my cell phone, a bottle of water, and more pain pills on the nightstand, I’m feeling grateful.
It’s been some time since I looked at my phone. When I power it on, my inbox is what I expect—full. And my phone messages and texts are from who I expect in my small world—Martin, Suri, and Hardy.
Martin’s texts tell me to feel better, that the academy is under control, and not to worry about anything.
Hardy’s numerous texts say he’s at practice—right down the block—and to eat the dinner he left in the kitchen for me.
And then Suri’s demand I call her when I’m alone and can talk.
She answers on the first ring.
“Well, look who’s back in the land of the living,” she says in greeting.
“Barely. But I’m better. I feel ...” I wrap the comforter around me. “Better.”
“No doubt that ‘better’ is being helped along by one very smitten soccer god.”
You make it so frustratingly hard for someone to love you. It’s fucking maddening.
Those words. Whew . I’ve taken a bit of time to digest them and then to discount them as a figure of speech.
There’s no way the man has fallen for me. He couldn’t have . Not when the mere thought has me panicking, out of habit, while trying to settle into the idea... without freaking out all at the same time.
And yet ... there’s something I can’t place. An intangible feeling that disguises itself as comfort and wanting. It doesn’t feel so bad to feel this way. It’s not as scary as I thought.
“Whit? You there?”
“Yes. Sorry. I was just busy overthinking something.”
“Wow. Cracking jokes at your own expense? You’re definitely feeling better.”
“Only until the pain meds wear off,” I joke.
“Understatement of the year, no doubt.” The silence that follows tells me she wants to say more but is figuring out how to tiptoe around it.
“Just say it or ask it or whatever it is you’re not saying,” I tell her as I rise from the bed and give myself a few seconds to let the lightheadedness dissipate before I head out to the kitchen.
“He saved your life, Whitney.”
“I’m aware.” It’s still hard to grasp the concept that I was that sick and that he was that worried.
“Not only did he save your life, but the few times he came into the hospital, despite how visibly hard it was for him to be there, he took command with you. Your well-being was the only priority.”
“I’ve thanked him. I need to do the same to you. Thank you for being there for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m always here for you, no questions asked.” She pauses. “You know he sent the entire nursing staff and your team of doctors thank-you gifts on your behalf after you left?”
“He did?”
“He did. He ... I like the guy, Whitney . I think he’s a good fit for you.”
“There is no fit for me. There is—”
“This is where I call you on your bullshit and tell you that you see it too. That if you didn’t feel a hint of anything, you’d have found your way out of that penthouse in the sky and gone home regardless of whether you were in pain or not. But you haven’t and that is what is speaking volumes.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper because she’s right. I can talk a good game, but that’s all it is, talk. I’m still here.
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m not trying to win any prizes by making you uncomfortable, but if you could’ve seen the worry on his face and how he set up camp outside of the hospital just in case you needed him. He has shown up time and again for you. That should go for a lot of somethings in your book.”
“It does. It’s ...” I move down the hallway toward the open-concept family room, kitchen, and sitting room all in one. “Overwhelming and new. I’m fighting every urge I have to push him away to protect myself. I’m failing sometimes but—”
“But you haven’t run,” she says softly, putting a voice to my thoughts. “You haven’t run and you’re trying to figure out why you haven’t when there’s one thing you’re not realizing.”
“What’s that?”
“There is no rhyme or reason on how it’s supposed to go or feel when you start to want more than just the physical with someone. It’s scary and euphoric, and you feel like an idiot for wanting to see that person more and more simply because seeing them makes you feel good inside.” My silence eats up the line as her words settle all around me. “He may be Alexander Hardy to the world and to the press, but it’s clearly apparent he’s simply Hardy to you. A guy who has flaws—like we all do—but who has been patient with you, who wants to take care of you, and who’s obviously trying to put his best foot forward.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m not talking you into anything. Rather, I’d be doing you a disservice as your best friend if I didn’t point out to you that Hardy is a really good guy and good guys are worth the chaos, the questioning, the doubting, and the wanting.”
“I think I’m beginning to see that.”
And that sticks with me as I look around. There’s one light on above the stove, but other than that, the place is dark, lit only by the light beyond the wall of windows that frame the room.
The place is spectacular and being in it makes me feel like I’m in a movie. I knew places like this existed but never knew they felt like this.
Because it does have a feel to it. A lush richness to it despite its sleek, monochromatic furniture and décor. The only thing missing is personal touches—pictures, mementos, real things that say a life is lived. I move through the space mesmerized, taking in everything I was too out of it to notice before, but curiosity has me moving toward the windows to see what’s lighting up the space from the outside.
“At least you’re being cared for in what I can only assume is comfort. Give me the scoop. What’s his place like? You do know how hard I fought to bring you home to my house but the man was most definitely not having it. So details. Is it nice? Luxurious? Or a gross bachelor pad? Is there a pea under the mattress that keeps you up all night so you’re forced to go sleep with him in his bed?”
“A pea under the mattress?”
She huffs. “ The Princess and the Pea ? Do you not know that story?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Brain fog from meds.” I chuckle. “The bed is ... the softest thing I’ve ever slept in in my life. Like clouds and cotton candy.”
“And the rest of the place? I’m nosy. I want to know what a man taking a two hundred-million-dollar contract for a year lives like.”
The thought of that kind of money is absurd and honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m standing in this penthouse, I might not believe it. “The penthouse is ridiculous in all sense of the word.” I chuckle. “It’s ... oh my God.”
It’s all I can think to say as I step up to the window and look out to see the soccer stadium beyond. The tall light trees are lit up and there is the team hard at work at a practice. But even from this distance, I can spot Hardy easily. To be an American soccer player you have to be skilled. I’m not taking anything away from them. But to be a player in the Premier League is a whole different level of skill that is apparent to the trained eye as I watch the team perform below.
“Hello? Whit ? Did I lose you?”
“No, it’s just ... there’s a soccer stadium outside his window.” It feels as stupid as it sounds saying it but ... wow. “I mean, I know he told me his place looked down on it, but this is insanity.”
“Are you talking to me or to yourself?”
“I don’t know.” I stand there dumbfounded and in awe. “This is all just too much.”
“What is? The part where you didn’t go to the doctor when your side was killing you? The part where Hardy broke the door down to save your life or the other part where he whisked you away to his castle in the clouds to take care of you? Because I’m beginning to think this is a fairy tale, and the only person who isn’t believing it is you.”
“A fairy tale? Come on. No one is ever going to think that about my life.” But another look around at my surroundings has me wondering how I can argue with her.
“You don’t know, do you?” she asks cryptically.
“I don’t know what?” Her chuckle in response should be my first clue. “Suri?”
“Look at the internet. Type in Prestige Soccer Academy. Someone’s been mighty busy for the six days you’ve been incapacitated.”
“What are you talking about—”
“Oh look. I have to go. You can thank me for it later.” Her laugh fills the line and is still echoing in my ears as I type in my company.
There is article.
After article.
After article.
They all talk about how Miami Mayhem Football Club has taken over Prestige Soccer Academy. How phenom Alexander Hardy recruited some of the top names in the sport here in the United States to run clinics and drills with him in an effort to help out while its owner has fallen ill and been hospitalized.
If Mayhem wanted a human-interest, community-service story by having Hardy come to the club that first time, they now have one in spades.
A real one.
A non-manufactured one.
One that has tears springing to my eyes as I scroll through picture after picture and post after post about how awesome it is they’re helping out. The comments section is filled with people asking for more information about the academy so they can help too.
I’m stunned. Overwhelmed. Grateful.
And I sit in the dim light of an over-the-top penthouse, watching an elite athlete in the sport, but marvel at one of the greatest acts of generosity anyone has ever given me.
And I begin to wonder, I begin to hope for more, and it’s all because of that man down there.
If someone shows you who they are, then believe them.
I do believe Alexander Hardy just did.