Lucky Shot

PROLOGUE

Whitney

T he field is empty, but the moon is full and bright, so the pitch is bathed in its light. This is no place for a thirteen-year-old girl, but it’s the only place I want to be. The only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged.

The dim light. The absolute silence. The crunch of the grass beneath my shoes when I walk. The ability to create my own destiny.

All of this is so much better than the bright lights, the nonstop noise, and the constant crying babies back at the Ramsey’s house. Or is it the Ramsel’s? There’ve been so many families over the years that they all now run together.

This right here is the best part about my new foster placement with the Rams-whatevers. A soccer pitch I can sneak onto through a hole in the chain-link fence. The grass is decent and it feels safer. Sort of .

But does it really matter? Does anything anymore? I’ll only be there just long enough to get settled before they realize having a teenager is harder than they thought and way more expensive than the monthly stipend they receive. Then I’ll be sent to the next family in a long line of families.

Might as well take advantage of this pitch while I can.

I set the ball down on the penalty kick spot to take a few more shots in my game of Around the World. A stupid contest I play with myself where I pretend I’m the star in a game that’s on the line. In my version, I call out a location for my shot and then aim to hit that spot. If I make it, I win. If I don’t, then I move on to the next location.

Silly and juvenile—I am a teenager after all—but satisfying nonetheless.

Plus, it allows me to be the hero in the story. Who doesn’t like that?

“Upper right corner,” I say to myself as I look up at the goal twelve yards away and then close my eyes to build the scenario in my head.

“It’s the ninety-fourth minute of match play,” the imaginary announcer says in my head. “We’re in stoppage time. The game is tied at one a piece and Whitney Barnes steps up to the line. Can she move the team ahead on this penalty kick?”

I draw in a deep fortifying breath and open my eyes to look straight ahead and not give my kick location away to my pretend goalie.

“Barnes steps to the line. She takes a deep breath and then starts her run. And the kick is off to the upper right-hand corner. Gooooaaaaal. Gooooooaaaaal . She scores and wins the game for her team.”

I throw my arms up as the crowd roars all around me. They begin to chant my name as my teammates lift me on their shoulders to celebrate. In the moment, I become something so much more than poor, little, foster girl Whitney.

I’m good at pretending. Great, actually.

Isn’t that how I’ve lived my life thus far? Pretend to love the family I’m placed with. Make sure that I’m easy and not troublesome so I’m not removed and re-fostered again. Pretend that none of this—the not being wanted or loved—hurts me. That none of it affects me.

The scenario in my mind dies, and reality begins to sink in. I’m standing all alone on this pitch. Chills chase over my skin, and I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched.

Maybe I’m not camping out here tonight after all.

I shrug the feeling off but jog toward the goal to collect my ball, suddenly a little spooked.

“Lucky shot.”

“Argh!” I jump out of my skin at the man’s voice across the field. My heart pounds so hard in my chest that it leaps into my throat as I turn to face him, trying to put the goalpost between him and me.

Like that’s going to help if he’s an axe murderer.

He holds his hands up as he moves slowly toward me. He’s tall, athletic looking in his soccer shorts and moisture-wicking shirt. His blond hair is wavy, and it’s obvious even in the dark he spends a lot of time in the sun, but I can’t quite tell how old he is. I watch every single step he takes, eyeing escape routes as he does.

You’re so stupid, Whitney. Why’d you put yourself in this position ?

But he stops a good thirty feet away from me in what I can assume is an attempt to show me he’s not going to hurt me.

“There wasn’t anything lucky about that shot,” I say with my chin jutted out. “I meant to make it there.”

“Fair.” He purses his lips as we size each other up. “I would have turned the lights on so I wouldn’t scare you, but it takes a while for those old things to warm up and fire, plus the cost to do so is ridiculous.” He looks around and then back at me with a half-smile. “I’m Patrick. I own this school.”

“School?”

“Soccer academy.”

“Huh.” I put my hands on my hips and glance around. My expression must say something because he chuckles.

“It doesn’t look like much, but it is one,” he explains.

I look down and drag my toe over the grass. “The pitch isn’t half bad. The nets don’t have holes in them.” I shrug. “I’ll give you that much.”

He laughs. It’s a rumbling sound that makes me smile, but this time, when he takes a step closer, I don’t retreat. “I’ll accept that criticism.” He nods and folds his arms over his chest. “We don’t have much, but we have enough for the community. Practices before school. Then again after. Clinics on the weekends. Games too. I’d rather have kids here than out there getting in trouble.”

Man. What I’d give . . .

“Do they pay for it?” I ask.

He gives a measured nod and guts my hopes before angling his head to the side and studying me. “Is there a reason you’re out here all by yourself at this time of night?”

“Just kicking the ball around.”

He gives me that look that all adults have. The one that says no matter how well you think you’ve lied—they know you have. “Hmm. I’m thinking someone might be looking for you. Is there someone we can call to tell them that you’re okay?”

I snort. “Nah. No one ever looks for me.” At least not for the last nine years anyway.

He takes a few steps and then surprises me when he lowers himself to sit on the grass. Criss-cross applesauce . I eye him like he’s crazy. “I’m thinking they do. I’m thinking you might be a tad full of shit, while at the same time, a tad right. And I’m thinking that bag packed over there stowed in the corner is yours.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Plan on going somewhere?” He leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky.

“What do you mean?” I take a step closer. If he’s sitting, I have the advantage and can run fast to get away if need be.

“Like running away?”

I shrug again and look up at the sky like he is. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s nothing really, but nothing good comes from a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old being out here at this time of night or one who’s planning on running away.”

“Says who?” I ask but am more than impressed he guessed close enough to my age—and that he thinks I’m older.

“Says a guy who knows about that trouble.”

My yawn comes out of nowhere, and I stifle it as best as I can. “Here comes the lecture.” I roll my eyes.

“What’s wrong with the family?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I look at the pitch he’s sitting on with envy because all of a sudden, my legs are tired and I want to sit too.

“Adopted? Foster? What?”

The way I whip my head toward his gives him enough of an answer. Even if I lied, he’d know. “Foster,” I admit.

“How many?”

“How many foster families have I had?” I sit down about twenty feet away from him. Funny. The pitch looks nice but now that I’m seated, I can see the crabgrass trying to break through the Bermuda. I pick at it absently. “I don’t know. Nine? Ten?” Twelve. It’s been twelve . “Nobody wants an older kid. They think teenagers are trouble because if they weren’t they’d already be adopted. Families want babies. Babies are cute. They don’t have a history to fuck them up.” He bristles at the curse word, but I don’t care.

He sits up and runs his hand over the grass, almost like from his location he can smooth over the mini-divots I’m creating with my grass plucking. “What’s wrong with the family you have this time?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Says the girl who one could deduce is running away.”

I sigh and twist my lips. “It’s just...they’re fine and all that, but I don’t belong there. I’m thirteen and they have two of their own babies. They don’t want me there. I’m just another mouth to feed and another person to have to drive somewhere. They just want the check that comes with me.”

“I can see why you’d think that—especially if you’re on house ten or eleven or whatever, but clearly they wanted you, or else they wouldn’t have taken you in.”

I snort. I’ve thought the same thing. I’ve overthought it. I’ve considered everything about the situation and can’t figure out why they’d even agree to take on a foster like me when they’re clearly frazzled with the toddler and baby they already have.

“Are they mean to you?” he asks. “Do they feed you? Do they—”

“They’re not mean. More... indifferent .” I sniff to hide that I care. “That’s almost worse.”

He nods. “I get it. How long have you been with this family?”

“Two months.”

“Two months?”

“That’s what I said,” I say sarcastically.

“And you hate them already?” He lifts a lone eyebrow.

“Hate is a strong word. Indifferent. I already told you that.” Typical adult. He doesn’t listen.

“No. You said they were indifferent. I was asking how you felt.”

Maybe he does listen. “I’m . . . I guess I’m the same.”

“Afraid to get attached because you’re not staying long?”

“No.” Yes .

But the look on his face tells me he doesn’t buy my answer one bit. He glances around. “How many times you break in here and kick the ball around?”

“Look, I don’t break in anywhere. You have a hole in the fence over there you need to fix.”

He chuckles. “Again, fair assessment. I’ll rephrase. How many times have you come and done this? Practice? Escape? Whatever you want to call it?”

“Since I found it a few weeks ago? As often as I can.”

He motions to the edge of the goalpost where I have a small duffle bag. It has everything I hold important to me inside of it. “Do you pack a bag with you each time you come here or did something happen today to make you want to run away?”

It’s my mom’s birthday.

“Nah.”

Not like she’d even know. She’s probably high on whatever her drug of choice is today. Or crashing. Or dead. Whatever . If she can’t remember to take care of her own daughter, she definitely can’t remember her own birthday.

“So just a tough day in general?” he asks.

“Something like that.” I swallow down the tears that threaten. The ones I refuse to shed for a life all the kids at school have that I don’t. That I wish for. That I’d give anything for.

“You a striker or an attacking mid?” he asks regarding what position I play in soccer.

I smile for the first time. “I can play both.”

He makes an approving sound. “She’s confident.”

“I’m not good at much, but I’m good at this.”

“I’m sure you’re great at a lot of things,” he says softly and then clears his throat. “You made that shot with ease. I’ve watched you mess around out here a few other times. Good footwork. Good read on the ball. You being good at playing—I don’t doubt it. What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Fair enough.” He shrugs subtly. “The family you’re with and the house you’re in—you’re safe there? No one, uh—does anything to you that makes you uncomfortable?”

I study him and his kind eyes. I process the point he’s making and the question he’s asking. “They’re all right,” I mutter. “What’s it to you?”

“Because I want to make a deal with you.”

“Nah, mister. I’m not making any deals to give you anything.” Creep. Just when I thought maybe I’d made a friend. I stand up and start to step away.

“No. God, no. Not—that’s not what I mean.” He laughs nervously, his eyes wide and head shaking back and forth.

I eye him cautiously. “Then what exactly do you mean when you say a deal ?”

“If you go back to your house—so long as it’s safe there—then I’ll give you a scholarship to play here.”

I fight the excitement that bubbles up at the mere thought of it. Doesn’t he know his offer is like candy to a baby?

Nothing’s ever free, Whitney.

If there’s one lesson my mom taught me in the short time I remember being with her, that one was it.

“Nah. It’s okay. Thanks though.” I try as hard as I can to keep the disappointment from my voice.

“No? You sure about that?” He angles his head to the side, and his stare unnerves me but only because he knows I’m lying. “Some time away from your house doing something you love. Access to the field whenever you want. Some coaching to go with it. I’m not understanding why you’d say no to that.”

“Just because.”

“Okay. I mean, no skin off my back.” He starts to rise. “Then I’m going to have to ask you to head out. I can’t have non-members playing here for insurance purposes.”

Panic tickles up the back of my neck. I can’t come here then? “What’s in it for you?” I blurt out.

He laughs, but it quiets slowly. I don’t know whether he sees the trepidation in my eyes or just assumes I’m cautious.

“My problem is I have trouble keeping assistant coaches around for the little ones. I was thinking that you get to train with the academy teams we have, and in turn, you help me with the little kids—after your homework, of course.”

“You’re serious.” It’s more of a statement than a question and reflects how confused I feel. “I don’t understand why you’d ask me.”

“There’s no hidden agenda. Clearly you have talent and could benefit from some better training. I am out of pee-wee coaches and could use some help. An even trade. That’s all there is to it.”

An even trade? Not hardly. I’d get ten times more out of it than he would.

“I get that—but why me?” I dare to hope he’s really offering me what it sounds like he’s offering me. Solace .

“Because I was once in your shoes, Lucky Shot . And I would have given anything for this—a place to go to escape, to play, to forget everything that came before stepping on the pitch. To have something of my own.”

Tears burn in my eyes. I don’t cry. Ever. Years of new beginnings and crushed endings have done that to me. Have made me numb. But right now, my ears are buzzing with something I can’t remember feeling in forever— hope .

“If you agree, that means this field is here any time you might need it. Morning. Night. Even if it’s just because you don’t want to hear a baby crying anymore or you need a break from the chaos. In turn though, you need to stay put at your house. No packed bags and thoughts of running away. You need to go to school. You need to try hard to make it work.”

“But why—”

“Stability is important. Belonging even more so. They can give you the first. This here?” He points to the fields around us and the small sets of bleachers lining them. “This will give you the second.”

Belonging. Something to call my own.

My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. As much as I want to say yes, I’m hesitant. No one ever does anything nice for me.

“I also know you’re going to tell me, no, you don’t want this, because it’s easier being a loner. Less attachments means it’s easier when you move on to the next family.” He pauses and that pause is so loud it’s deafening. “But I’m not going to let you say no. No one is alone here at Prestige Soccer Academy.”

“Patrick? Sir?” It’s hard to even swallow. “You really mean all this?”

He smiles. “I do. You have to promise me one thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“If things change at your house—you start getting hurt or...you’re afraid other things might happen to you—you have to tell me.”

“That’s—”

“I don’t want you staying in a bad situation just so you can have this here.” He points around him. “And if it is, you need to tell me so I can help, okay?”

I nod, already afraid something I don’t have yet is going to be taken away.

“No. I need to hear it. I need you to promise me.”

It’s easy to talk a good game but harder to deliver it. Haven’t I learned that time and again with each house I’ve been moved to? Look at how wonderful we are only to pull back the curtain on daily life and see it’s all pretend?

But what does it hurt? Stay till I’m no longer welcome. Train till the offer fades.

“Yeah. Sure. I promise.”

“I’ll prove you otherwise.”

“Prove what?” This man talks in riddles.

“All those voices in your head, telling you this is too good to be true. I was just telling you I’ll prove it to you otherwise.”

I stand here jaw lax and eyes narrowing. Either he’s a mind reader or he really has been in my shoes.

Neither make me feel any more settled.

“When do I need to be here? For practice, I mean.”

“Morning practice here starts at seven thirty. I know it’s early but—”

“I’ll be here.” I smile and nod. “I’ll be here.”

“Okay.”

I start to walk off the field toward my bag, adrenaline rioting through my veins.

“Hey, Lucky Shot,” he calls after me.

I turn and face him. “Yeah?”

“You gotta a name?”

“Whitney. Whitney Barnes.” I smile. “But you can call me Lucky Shot ... if you like.” Because I want something that’s just for me. Even if it’s for only a little while .