CHAPTER TWO
Whitney
B ills. Bills. Everywhere.
I mentally sing the tune even though there isn’t a single thing singsong-y about the ridiculous volume of them cluttered on my desk or the meager amount in my bank account to pay them all.
And yes, the word desk is a generous description for the aged thing I’m sitting at with one of its legs zip-tied in place and a drawer so broken I can’t remember the last time I could yank it open.
But it serves its purpose so I can’t complain, and there are way more important things to spend money on than a better equipped desk. Besides, I’ve been looking, and what I’ve found at garage sales are no better than this one.
And way less memorable.
I reach out and run my fingers over my initials engraved into its side. I can still hear the scratching sound of the scissors blade as we sat on the floor and each etched our initials into it. Each one of us on the championship winning team has a place there. Trophies would get packed away or break, but our names scarred in wood felt much more lasting.
Ridiculous, but true.
“Back to bills, Whitney,” I say aloud as a means to redirect my thoughts and my waning motivation.
When my phone rings, I welcome the distraction from the unknown number.
“Prestige Soccer Academy.”
“Hi. Yes, I’m looking for a Whitney Barnes.”
Shit. Bill collector. I debate hanging up. “This is she. Can I help you?”
“Yes. This is Ari Winters with Miami Mayhem Football Club.” Wait. What ? “I’m calling to follow up on the letter we received from you. It was in regard to whether we’d like to donate some equipment to your club.”
“Someone actually opened it and didn’t throw it away?” Crap. Did I say that out loud ?
Her chuckle tells me I did. “Nope. Not thrown away.” She pauses. “Can you tell me a bit about your club and how you came to be there?”
“Sure. Yes.” Why does my tongue feel so thick in my mouth right now ? “I became a player here when I was in my early teens. At the time, Patrick Dunn owned the academy. He took me under his wing and allowed me to play here in exchange for volunteering ... but he would’ve let me play here even if I hadn’t. That’s just the type of person he was.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Having a place to belong to such as this saved me from trouble just like it’s done for so many others who played here.”
“Trouble?” she asks as I glance outside the window to where my second-in-command, Martin, is running drills with one of his teams.
“Unemployment. Drugs. Gangs. This is Glendale after all. In the past five years, the area has gone through one economic struggle after another—a large manufacturing plant shut down, inflation rose, and the opioid epidemic. The community has struggled to recover.”
“But they have you,” she says compassionately.
“They do. Always. We’re here for all of the neighborhood kids whether they can pay or not, which is why I’ve contacted other clubs for donations. Every little bit helps us keep the doors open and this place a safe haven for them from whatever else is going on in their lives.”
“And Patrick left this to you, his legacy, when he passed away?”
“Yes.” Blessing or a curse ? Being handed a business that saved you is incredible in and of itself. Inheriting said business that was failing miserably because Patrick had too much pride to ask for financial help when he fell ill is a whole other story I refuse to tell.
It’s now my burden to bear, but I can’t let him down. I’ll figure out a way to revive this academy and bring it back to its heyday like it was when we won championships.
I run my fingers over the side of the desk and those etched initials of that championship team.
“That was three years ago?” she asks and has me sitting a little taller.
“You already know this, don’t you?” I ask.
Her laugh is stilted. “I did my research, yes. It’s important that the Mayhem and MLS support youth clubs and owners who truly deserve it.”
I roll my shoulders, not exactly thrilled knowing someone has been poking their nose in my business, but then again ... she’s on the phone and is offering donations. “I completely understand that. Thank you for considering us.”
“We’re more than thrilled to have gotten your letter. In fact, we were wondering if you’d be willing to let us do a bit more than donate new jerseys for your teams.”
New jerseys? That’s huge considering a majority of our players can’t afford to buy them . Here I was just hoping for some used soccer balls or cones or something.
I cough over a laugh of disbelief. “Sure. Anything.”
“We’d like to have one of our players come out as part of a new community outreach program we’re working on.”
“Are you sure you have the right phone number?” I joke.
“Definitely have the right number.” The sincerity in her voice causes me to pause.
“But I don’t understand,” I say more to myself than to her.
“Just like how it sounds. We’re trying to get involved in the community with more than just donations. One of the ways we’re doing that is by having one of the Mayhem players come out and spend some time there with the kids. We were thinking he does a demonstration and runs a small number of players through a drill. Then after, have him sign some merch and take pictures. That type of thing.”
Like ... an actual player ? The kids will lose their minds—even if it’s a second or third string player.
“Okay.” I draw the word out. What am I missing ?
“I’d like to have some media on hand if you don’t object. Maybe a few news stations in addition to our own crew. Just a little press to help raise awareness for the academy and maybe garner some more philanthropy for it as well.”
“Um . . .”
“We’d need releases signed to use the images since they’d include minors, but I’ll have legal arrange all of that for you,” she says like it’s any other day when in reality, she is giving more than I could ever ask for. Attention for the kids. Awareness of the program and an avenue to do it that I can’t reach on my own. Donation of supplies we can’t afford.
“Sure. Fine.”
“It’s important that we have media there.” Her pause catches my attention. “For your benefit, of course.”
“So you’re staging a photo op.” The minute the words are out, I realize what I’ve said and try to fix it. “Not that I mind or anything. I was—was just trying to get a feel for what’s going on so I can make sure you have what you need to have and it looks like it needs to look.” Stop rambling. “Obviously, we’re up for anything.”
My always best friend and sometime helper, Suri, walks into the box of an office and narrows her eyebrows at me. Her pale hair is pulled up in a haphazard ponytail with strands falling out, but she still looks like a freaking model: long-legged, tanned skin, flawless complexion. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her. She points to the phone at my ear, and I hold my finger up.
“Good. That’s great to hear because I thought you and your academy would be the best choice for this opportunity. And of course, we’ll try to make sure you get the most out of it as well. I’ll need a list of contacts and ways people can donate or volunteer to include in the press release.”
“Okay.” Is this for real ?
“I was thinking we do this on Friday.”
“Friday, as in this Friday?” I think of all the things I need to do to polish this place up a bit if it’s going to be on camera.
Then again, do I want it to look polished? Would I rather it looks weathered as it does on the daily to try and garner sympathy from whoever watches these press pieces and maybe gain more support?
I’m not beneath that if it nets more for the kids here. They deserve everything.
“Yes, as in this Friday the fifth,” Ari says. “Will that work for you?”
“Yes. Sure. Of course.” I feel like a broken, optimistic record. I think I’m still in shock.
Suri takes a seat in front of me as she tries to figure out what’s going on. I haven’t taken any notes—as I’m prone to do during calls—and I know that and my squeaky tone of voice is definitely throwing her off.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to include in the press release?”
It’s my turn to pause and think. There are a million things I could say, but I know I need to keep it succinct. “Just that we welcome and accept any and all kids who want to participate, working on a pay-what-you-can model. It’s not the best of business practices because it lends itself to this—me writing letters to ask for donations—but our focus is the community and what’s best for the kids, and right now, that’s what is needed.” I rise from my seat and move past Suri to the doorway. I look out at the pitch that I know saved me all those years ago and the place I’ve called home longer than any other place in my life.
“It’s honorable,” she says but I think more of a prompt to get me to talk so she can move on with her day.
“Soccer comes first here but only as a means to show them there is something in their life—the sport, the team, a coach—that they can turn to.”
“That’s really beautiful.”
“And totally cheesy.” I laugh, hating that I’m suddenly nervous. “But it’s true. This place...” Saved me . “Has helped a lot of kids over the years.”
“It’s a touching story that will gain a lot of good press.” I can practically hear her figuratively clapping her hands together like she just found a media gold mine so she can make her player or the club look even more charitable.
I’ll be their pawn in this game. Not a problem. It’s all about the kids, so whatever benefits them, I’m here for it.
“Just a few more questions, if you will?” she asks.
I spend the next few minutes giving her a rundown of our program—age ranges, number of teams we field, approximate count of total academy size, the time our normal summer camp starts—so that she can make sure her staff has sufficient giveaways for everyone.
“That’s perfect. Thank you so much for your time. I think that’s everything I need at the moment, but I’ll definitely be in touch over the next few days. In the meantime, plan on a crew arriving at around ten in the morning, which will include a few staff members as well as our marketing team. They’ll need some time to scout the location to find the ideal place to film. Once everything is ready to go, our team ambassador will arrive close to eleven to begin his one-on-one with the kids.”
His photo op.
“That works. Um...obviously, the guest is supposed to be a big surprise for my players, but am I allowed to know who will be showing up from the team?”
She chuckles. “Oh, did I neglect to say that part?”
“Yes.” I chew the inside of my cheek.
“The player will be Alexander Hardy.”
My eyes shock open and my body startles. Oh. My. God .
Is she serious?
Her silence says she is.
She can’t be serious. Alexander Hardy. God on the field, a superstar off it, and a sex symbol every day in between.
Holy shit.
“He’s my hall pass ,” I blurt the words out without thinking and then die a slow death of embarrassment as the silence hangs on the line.
“He is for many of us,” she finally murmurs and puts me out of my mortified misery.
“I’m sorry. That was unprofessional of me. I shouldn’t have—”
“And yet honest,” she states matter of fact.
I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath. When I look up, Suri is angling her head and studying me even closer.
“Can we start the last part of this conversation over?” I ask Ari and chuckle.
“Yes, but I rather like how candid you are.” She pauses. “Shall we try it again?”
“Please. For my dignity.”
Ari clears her throat, and when she speaks, she’s back with a totally professional tone. “The player we’re having come meet your academy is none other than Alexander Hardy.”
“You’re not playing around,” I say.
Ari bursts out laughing. “No, Whitney. We’re not playing around.”
“Right.” My heart races. “Okay.” Alexander fucking Hardy. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. “Thank you, Ari. I’m ... so grateful and overwhelmed by this opportunity,” I say.
“It’s our pleasure. Feel free to call if you have any other questions. I’m at your disposal to answer them,” she says. “Is there anything else I can answer for you at this time?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Of course. And Miss Barnes?”
“Hmm?”
“I still like your original reaction better,” she says and then ends the call.
When I set my phone down, Suri is staring at me expectantly with curiosity etched in every damn line of her face.
“There is no way that just happened,” I say, shell-shocked.
“I’d love to commiserate or confirm or anything , but I can’t because I have no freaking clue what just happened.” She throws her hands up in dramatic fashion like only she can.
“Alexander Hardy,” I say.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
I throw my head back and laugh. Suri might be my best friend and have to listen to me talk about soccer more times than she could ever care to count over the past ten years, but a die-hard fan she is not. “Alexander Hardy. The huge, ginormous soccer superstar. Hardy is—”
“Oh. Him . The super-hot, fashion-forward guy whose face has been freaking everywhere over the past few years?”
Leave it to her to notice looks and fashion. “Yes, him . My celebrity crush. My sports idol. My—”
“Your hall pass,” she deadpans, eyes wide and look searching. “Did you really just say that to her?” Her eyes widen before she throws her head back and giggles.
Heat creeps up my cheeks again, but I don’t care. It’s Suri, and if there is anyone I can be myself with, it’s her. “Yes. Yes, I did.” I shove up out of my chair and pace the small confines of my office as excitement owns every part of me. “Alexander freaking Hardy is coming here. To the academy. In the flesh. Like ohmygod !” It’s the first time I’ve let myself squeal like the school girl I suddenly feel like.
“I’m sensing some excitement,” she says sarcastically, but her grin says she knows how important this is for me and the club.
“Duh. Beyond the looks and the—”
“Sex appeal.”
“He’s one of the top-ranked players in the world on loan to the Mayhem in an attempt to upgrade the game here in the States and get fans more involved.”
“Oh. Yeah. I remember you rambling on and on over something about him. I was too busy admiring his drop dead gorgeousness to pay much attention to anything else you said about him,” she says like I just told her the sky is blue. “Such irony that he plays for a team called Mayhem.”
“What does that—”
“I had no clue his first name was Alexander.”
“The world knows him as Hardy. But—”
“Hardy,” she repeats. “So that was him? He called to tell you he was sending you and your bestie a bazillion dollars and a trip to Tahiti?”
“I wish. Way to make my news sound way less exciting,” I tease. “No, that wasn’t him, but it was his team’s ... person? Publicist? I don’t know who she was, but apparently, they got my letter and are having him come here— to the academy— on Friday .” I all but jump up and down as I say it.
Her eyebrows narrow. “Here? Hardy is coming here ?”
“Yes! Can you believe it? The club is going to sponsor new jerseys for the kids, and apparently, he’s going to come out, run some drills with the players, take some photos, and sign some stuff for them.”
“Wow. Impressive. And all because of that letter you sent?” I ignore the skepticism in her voice. Nothing’s going to ruin my good mood.
“Yep. All that hard work writing letters and trying to find the right people to get them might pay off.” I grin. “They even said they’re going to have their own camera crew come as well as call the local media to show up.”
“Hardy being here will bring press all right,” she murmurs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I pause from the million thoughts of what I need to do before Friday—including how I’ll ever find time to get a trim—and scrutinize her.
“It’s an apology tour. A way to recoup his image and their brand.” When I look at her with a blank face, she continues. “The club the other night? The ‘altercation’ that everybody has an opinion on?” She states each comment like a question I’m supposed to know the answer to.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But didn’t I hear a few of the kids talking about this the other day? Whatever this is.
She levels me with a look but then realizes I’m not pretending. “You’re obsessed with soccer but don’t have a clue about what he did? Have you been living under a rock? It’s all over social media.”
“It’s the start of summer camp. The only place I’m living is here—what feels like twenty-four-seven—and when I’m not living here, I’m driving kids home or collapsing into exhaustion after doing everything that’s needed to keep this place afloat. So not a rock, although it feels like one, just ... overwhelmed.” The minute the rambled rant is out, I hang my head and wince. “I’m sorry. I just unloaded on you for no reason at all. In short, no, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about when I normally would. Fill me in?”
“Last week? A few days ago?” She flickers her fingers as if it doesn’t matter. “Hardy assaulted some photographer outside of a club.”
“Assaulted?”
“Threw a punch. Anyway, his date was allegedly hit in the process. No clue what started it or who’s at fault but there are videos of it everywhere and everyone is giving their two cents about it.”
“I’m confused. Hardy hit his own date? In public? On accident?”
“Yes. No. It depends on the angle of the camera that took the video. And if he did, you’re right, it wasn’t intentional. But then again, why is he throwing a punch at anyone, right?“
“Being reckless is one thing people expect from him, but reputation suicide? He loves this game too much to do something to jeopardize playing it.”
“Yeah, but then there’s the control your temper crowd and all that. It’s ... just a shit show all around, and people are taking sides on it, saying he should be suspended from playing.” She grimaces. “I seem to think the people yelling the loudest about it might be fans of other teams. But what the heck do I know?”
“Okay.” I draw the word out, trying to see both sides while knowing how bright the light has shone on him since arriving here in the States and how relentless the paparazzi is with him. “So, what? You’re thinking Miami Mayhem is having him come here to play with the kids, get some photos to try and counteract the story?” I ask like I wasn’t already making that assumption without knowing the reason behind it.
“Your guess is as good as mine, but yes.”
“Great. Awesome.” I laugh. “The guy could be the biggest prick on the face of the earth for all I care so long as he comes here, and we get the press. If the kids and the club benefit from it, then that’s all that matters.”
“Wow. Unscrupulous.”
“Did you expect any less from me?” I don’t wait for her answer because my dear, logical friend, who’s studying for her bar exam, will gladly play devil’s advocate for any and everyone. I’m just not in the mood for it today. Not when days are numbered, I have a chance of raising a shit ton of money, and I get to meet Alexander Hardy. Not only meet him but actually get to interact with him and show off my academy and my kids to him.
“You’re silently freaking out in your head, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How can I not be? I’ve followed him forever. His days at the academies. His meteoric rise in the Premier League and during World Cup play. His stratospheric jump into mainstream culture. I mean ...”
“Whitney Barnes, I’ve never seen you starstruck before.”
“Well, I am now. I won’t be when I come face to face with him. Now, I need to get focused. I only have a few days to make the most of this.”
“And here she goes into work mode,” she murmurs.
“I’m thinking we need banners made. Ones with the academy logo, website, and donation links.” I point to the fence around the field, picturing in my head where we’ll have Hardy do this little dog and pony show. If I place the signs behind him, then I could hopefully get some good coverage. “There and there. Bright in color—”
“And where are you going to get the money for that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
I always do.