CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Whitney
I stifle a yawn.
It was a long weekend with so little recovery time.
The flight out to see Hardy. His hard-fought game. Flying back. Another long night of lying in his arms, of talking, of making love.
Of making love.
The term puts a smile on my lips—I don’t think I’ve ever really made love before—but the smile doesn’t exactly bode well for my concentration in being a hard-ass right now.
“Again. Your cuts aren’t crisp enough,” I tell the high school-aged kids on the pitch. “It’s clear as day which ones of you have been working on your footwork and who hasn’t.” I blow the whistle. “Again.” I move down the line. The sound of cleats hitting the turf and then tapping on the top of the ball is a music all its own. “If you want those scholarships, the boring stuff, the fundamentals, are what get you seen. They mean you put the work in when no one is watching.”
“Coach,” someone whines but I ignore.
“You should already be conditioned. If toe taps are making you tired, there’s no way you’re lasting a whole ninety minutes in a game.” I blow the whistle. “Again.”
“Coach Barnes? Do you have a moment?”
I turn to face the man who’s been standing on the periphery of the pitch for the last hour or so. I’ve noticed him, but ever since Hardy set up his rotating schedule with teammates, we’ve had looky-loos here all the time. They’re hoping for a chance to see their favorite player ... I assume.
So I didn’t pay half a mind to the older gentleman on the outskirts of the pitch with the baseball cap and sunglasses. It’s Miami, after all. Everyone wears hats and sunglasses.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Simon Garrett with the London Lions Football Club.” He reaches out to shake my hand, but I hesitate and try to figure out what he’s doing here. London Lions FC. A Premier League women’s team?
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I am, but I go where there’s talent.”
Talent . I glance over my shoulders at the thirty or so sixteen- and seventeen-year-old kids. These kids are the best of the best here, but none of them are ready to play at the professional level.
“And you came here?” Skepticism peppers my tone.
“I did.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Why?”
A slow smile crawls over his weathered face. “I was warned you were a tough nut to crack.”
Warned?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrett, but I’m in the middle of a training session. I don’t mean to be rude, but is there a point here?”
“Yes. A substantial one. I’m here to gauge your interest in a coaching position with my organization.”
I think I must blink fifty times as I process what he’s saying.
“Um, take a water break,” I say to the players before turning back to him. “I think you have the wrong person.”
His smile is as bright as the white tufts of hair sticking out beneath his cap. “Nope. I don’t. I’ve watched film on you and done my research. I know exactly who I’m looking at, and I was hoping you’d allow me some time to discuss my findings and my proposal.”
“Right now?”
“I’m on your turf, Miss Barnes. Literally. You tell me when you’re available to talk, and I’ll be there.”