CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hardy
T he kids here are... cute ? I guess. Everywhere I fucking turn? Definitely.
I’m not exactly a kid guy. They’re good from afar but close up, they make me itchy. At least this lot is an enthusiastic group. Sure the younger ones make all kinds of weird noises and fidget like they have ants in their pants, but the older ones make up for it. They tilt their heads and try to understand what I’m saying. They raise their hands and wait their turn to ask questions. Those are the kids I’m putting on this show for.
Who knows if they have talent? I doubt it if they’re in this program that doesn’t have a single bona fide coach with professional playing experience on its staff. If they did, it would be all over their fucking website, and when I looked at it yesterday, the site is about as dire as this fucking location.
But I’m here.
I’m putting in the time—wasting it really as my own training is way more important in winning a championship than my presence here is.
The only bonus out of this whole fucking situation is the woman talking to reporters a dozen feet away. She’s a challenge to say the least. Intriguing. Beautiful. Athletic. Aloof.
And as if she’s played perfectly into my hands, she utterly despises me.
It’s more than evident in the distance she keeps from me, and in the roll of her eyes and the grit of her teeth every time she has to interact with me.
And interaction is something I just may be forcing her hand in every chance I get.
Doesn’t hurt that I find a certain joy in pissing her off and making those emerald eyes of hers glint.
Besides, it’s a perfect fucking scenario for me. Show up, fulfill my obligation to Rush, make some positive press for the club overall, all the while pissing her off just enough that she doesn’t want me back here tomorrow. That she asks Ari to have me not return.
That’s all I’ve got when it comes to trying to make everyone happy—my teammates since I’ve screwed their schedules up, the MLS and my team owners, the kids here, the media reporting, and myself and my sanity.
As it is, I’ve tried to include Whitney in every aspect. I’ve volunteered her to help me demonstrate drills. I’ve asked her to run to the shops for me to get my favorite flavor sports drink that I made up on the spot. I’ve even made some diva moves—change the way the goal faces. How I’ll only use yellow cones—not orange ones. That any football I kick must be filled to a certain pressure. Demanding that she’s the only one capable of demonstrating drills with me. That was a surprise—she knows how to play the game. I’d hope that since she is the manager of this school, but it is America after all. Who really knows what their football standards are? At least she could hold her own.
So yeah, I’ve done more than enough to make anyone rightfully annoyed. Enough to make them be done with me.
But in doing all those things, I might have fucked myself over.
Whitney Barnes.
There’s not much on the website that I don’t already know about her. She runs this place. She has no professional experience. She’s fucking gorgeous.
And I can’t get her out of my goddamn head.
Plain. Simple. Reality.
Now I’m just torturing myself every additional second I spend here.
Did I think she’d tell me off? Fuck yes. Did she bite her tongue and take hit after hit from me for the sake of her players? Again, yes.
And I don’t know how that makes me feel. When has anyone ever done that for me? Never.
So I toyed with her. As a means to test her. As a way to wear my welcome thin.
But now all I can think about is that the game is on me. Her arse nestled perfectly against my cock during the drill. The warmth of her skin as she pressed back into me. The scent of her shampoo as her ponytail swung in my face.
You got what you wanted, Hardy.
But now the teasing has become intrigue and the intrigue more of a need to know more. And that need is now owning my mind as I try and string sentences together for this fucking reporter.
Who is this woman, and why isn’t she bending to my will?
When I want a woman, it’s the old cliché of simply needing to snap my fingers. A lone look, a lift of the chin, a wave of the hand. All three have gotten me laid in the past. It never matters how I act or if I even talk—I can do no wrong and still get laid.
Yet sure as shit, I’m standing here staring at the one fucking woman in this place who doesn’t give two shits about me and wondering how I do just that.
You’re failing at your objective, Hardy. Big shocker there. Try harder at getting out of this fucking week-long torture.
I glance around at the hundred or so pairs of eyes taking in my every movement and smile when I look back at the reporter. Might as well sell this shit because no doubt the powers that be with MLS will be watching it somehow—either on social media or through very pointed questions at Ari about how I participated here.
“So you’ll be here for the rest of the week?” the reporter asks as all the kids push forward.
My smile slips ever so slightly as I force a swallow and nod. The slip and the swallow more for show to Whitney than anything. “That’s what I’m being told, yes.”
“And you couldn’t be happier, I assume?” she asks.
“Unfortunately, Hardy is only able to stay with us for today,” Whitney says as she walks up on camera to steal the spotlight from me.
And steal she just did.
I attempt to temper my expression, but no doubt it falters momentarily. Inside I’m secretly fist pumping. But I’m also thinking fuck .
Rush is going to see this. He’s going to know I purposely did something to fuck this up. My plan isn’t as foolproof as I first thought. Motherfucker.
“We’ve had a great time with him and have felt so fortunate that he took the time to spend with us today, but he has other obligations for the rest of the week that he can’t break,” Whitney tells the reporter.
On live television.
Double motherfucker.
I mean, yes, mission accomplished, but I didn’t expect her to say that on live TV and screw me over with that excuse.
“Other obligations? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” I flash a smile at the camera and hope to sell the lie.
“We have to go to a quick commercial break,” the reporter says, “but stay tuned, everyone, as we’ll settle this matter when we return. Will Alexander Hardy be at the Prestige Soccer Academy for the rest of the week, where you can come out and watch the soccer star practice and instruct for free? On the other side of the break we’ll find out.”
The cameraman holds up his fingers and counts backward from three to one before the camera cuts away and the reporter drops her microphone and steps to the side to talk to her producer.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull?” Whitney grits out as she turns to face me so her back is to our audience. “We don’t want you here. Can’t you just go?”
My ego wars against necessity. They do want me here and no, I can’t go.
“I can’t. No.”
“Ah, so this was a redemption tour for you. You’re stuck here, and you’re miserable.”
“No shit. You think I’d be here of my own free will?”
“Wow. You are an asshole.”
“And yet you still want me.”
“You can take your purple Gatorade and your orange cones and shove them up your—”
“And we’re back in three, two, one,” the cameraman says as he pans the crowd of waving kids before landing back on the reporter.
My phone in my pocket vibrates. Shit. I lift it out and look at the screen. Rush’s five words fill the screen. “ Yes. I’m watching. Fix this .”
“At the break we were talking about whether or not Hardy will remain serving our community as a guest coach the rest of the week.”
My mind races. Fix this ? Fuck.
“A contest,” I blurt out without thinking through the ramifications. Both the reporter and Whitney turn to face me with curious expressions.
“A contest?” Whitney asks.
“Yes. Uh...” I fumble. How do I get out of this while making myself look good while on camera? “You put your best coach here up against me.”
Whitney snorts, eyes wide, and those pink lips formed in a perfect pout that has me thinking of all the things I could do to them. “To do what?”
“I don’t know.” I grin. “You put me on the spot, so I’m thinking on the fly here. Um, how about a game of Around the World.”
“Against me?” She laughs as the reporter sticks out the microphone to capture every single sound between us.
“Yes. Sure. Against you. Are you the best the owner has to throw at me? Do you need to ask him first?”