CHAPTER TWELVE
Whitney
“ D o I need to ask him first?” I snort. The man truly doesn’t know anything about this club, does he? “No. I don’t need to ask him first. I’m authorized to make decisions for the owner .”
“Good. Perfect.” He glances around. “What are the terms of this contest?”
“I don’t know. You win, you walk away. Time served. I win, you stay for...I don’t know—”
“A month,” Rodrigo calls out from the crowd that has now started chanting the word month.
“What?” he mutters under his breath. “An entire month?”
“A month?” the reporter says with wide eyes and a huge grin, thrilled she’s going to get first dibs on reporting this with her midday timeslot.
“Yes. A month,” I say.
“And that’s what you want? For me to be here for a month?”
Our eyes lock, and I can see the subtle lift of his eyebrow, almost as if reminding me what a pain in the ass he’s been today.
“Yes. Most definitely.” I glance toward the crowd around us and then look back at him. “What? You don’t think you can beat me?”
“No. I know I can. I just...I ran defensive drills with you earlier. I know your skill level. I’m surprised you’d set yourself up for failure like this.” He stares at me, trying to figure out whatever angle I’m playing, because I am in fact playing an angle here. “I’m not getting how this benefits you, Whitney.”
“Let’s go get set up. Four balls each,” I say, grabbing a bag of them and moving to the penalty kick spot.
He jogs after me, his own set of four in his hands. “What are you getting at here?”
I glance over to him. The man really is too good-looking for his own good, but he’s more trouble than he’s worth at this point. Is it so much to want the benefits of his presence but him gone all at the same time? “You’ll kick my ass. You’ll clear your name. I’ll get you out of my hair and still look like a hero to my kids for even trying.”
“So you want to lose?” He narrows his eyes at me like he can’t even grasp that concept.
“No. I want you to beat me.” There’s a difference there. A huge one.
“Losing is losing, and I have zero problem beating you. Not a problem there.”
We spend the next few minutes setting up before I turn to my crowd of onlookers to explain the rules of the game. “We each get one shot at a time. Each shot will be the same for each of us. We’ll start with the upper left corner.”
“Whew. Starting us off with the hardest of all of them,” Hardy says.
“Depends on your perspective,” I say, knowing he’s playing up to the audience.
He looks at me. “Ladies first.”
I shake my head. “Not here. Guests always take the first shot.”
He eyes me and nods. “Fine. Okay. Guess in a fine, reputable academy such as this, I’ll accept that.”
Reputable, my ass.
Good riddance, Alexander Hardy. Take you and your firm thighs and great looks and charming but beguiling smile elsewhere and away from my kids.
“Still don’t see any premier leaguer here,” he mutters.
“Guess that includes you too.”
He laughs, lines up his shot, and then sails the ball just wide of the goalpost about a foot. There’s an audible gasp from the students—me included. He turns to me and smirks as he passes by me. “That’s so you can save a little face. I’d hate for it to be four-nil in my favor and embarrass you in front of your academy.”
I stare at him and feel the condescension ooze out of each word. Anger fires anew, and my every gracious thought that got us to this point on the pitch vanishes.
Fuck this.
He wants to act that way? Like I’m less than? Like there’s no way I can own this club or be reputable without playing in college? Then I’ll act like it.
“I don’t need to save face,” I say as I set the ball down, glance over my shoulder at him, smile, and murmur just loud enough for him to hear. “I’m a good fucking shot.”
And when I take the shot, when my foot strikes the ball perfectly, and it punches into the top left corner of the net, the crowd whoops itself into a frenzy.
I throw my hands up in the air and shout with them.
“Lucky shot,” he says behind me, but there’s also resignation in his voice, an oh, shit quality to it.
Lucky shot.
Déjà vu hits. Another time, same place, different person, but it still hits and brings me back. Not now. Focus, Whit.
He just possibly lost the contest for himself by shanking the first shot out of pity.
And yes, I want him out of my hair and the chaos that comes with him out of my life ... but in the same breath, I suddenly feel the need to prove myself. To not let this giant superstar think he’s the only one capable of deserving the limelight here. I’ve had to give up enough in my life when it comes to soccer. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly digging my heels in on this.
Besides, does he really need a pass on this? On being a jerk simply because I get flustered around him and find him attractive when I don’t want to be attracted to him?
I mean ... talk about petty and selfish. It’s the kids who’ll lose out on time with him.
I turn to face him, grin big and eyes taunting. “Oops. Guess I made that one.”
He shakes his head and snorts. “No doubt you’ll miss one of the others.” He sets his next ball down and shrugs. “I’m not worried in the least.”
But he should be.
Because while he might make all the rest of his shots.
So. Will. I.
This is my game. The one I used to play to escape my disappointing, day-to-day reality. The one that let me be the hero of my own story. And the one that brought me right here—to this place and time. My injury might have made me miss out on so many dreams, but it also put me here, in a position to show Hardy that I don’t have to have played at the collegiate level to be good. To be reputable.
I step back and hold my hands out toward him. “Your turn. Pick your corner. Nil to one.”
His smile is smug as he sets the ball down. The kids shift where they stand, and a collective of hushes is heard through the crowd. “Lower left.”
He executes flawlessly. The ball has a ridiculous pace on it as well as a spin that makes the ball look like it’s going to miss wide before curving in seconds before it reaches the goalpost.
The kids cheer and chatter as I walk up to the penalty kick line once again before spinning the ball and then placing it down so it settles. I turn and smile at him, aware of my own hubris and not getting caught in it. I take a few counted steps back, stutter step, and then run to the ball and then boot it. It hits squarely into the net with the most satisfying thud.
“Impressive,” he says followed by a slow whistle.
“Worried yet?” I taunt.
“Not in the least.”
“You should be. One to two, Hardy. Your turn.”
He turns, his body close to mine and his eyes full of mischief. “You’ve got a foot. I’ll give you that.”
I gloat at the compliment. At the annoyed flicker of a smile on his lips. At the way I force myself to step back when all I want to do is step into him.
“Bottom right,” he says, and we both go through our kicks. We both make them.
“I’m beginning to think I’ve been hustled,” he teases.
“I could do this with my eyes closed,” I provoke.
“Fine. Then prove it.” The kids gasp, and a collective murmur makes its way through them. “All or nothing.”
I chuckle and say under my breath just so he can hear, “You’re realizing you screwed up, aren’t you? Trying to figure out how to salvage your ego.”
“Are you scared?” he asks.
Grinning, I think of all the nights I spent here before I met Patrick. How I’d sneak in here with a moonless sky, the field bathed in darkness, and kick ball after ball at the nets when I could barely see them.
“Deal,” I state.
“Ballsy,” Hardy murmurs.
I lift my eyebrows and take the ball from him as Martin jogs over with a bandana from the office for a blindfold.
“Good luck,” he says as he fastens it over my eyes. “The kids are going to think you’re a hero when you win this.”
The spotlight is on me now. I can’t back out despite my waning bravado.
Everyone falls quiet. I try to ignore the fact that the blindfold is there and that I’m back to those nights twelve plus years ago when I was out here challenging myself and escaping life.
I set the ball down. I count my steps back. I take a deep breath, aware of the eyes on me and the pressure of the moment.
Miss and let Hardy off the hook?
Hit the back of the net and hold steadfast to the fact that I still have this? That all those hours and years of training didn’t fail me?
One.
Two.
Three.
My foot strikes the ball. It feels like minutes as the ball sails ahead of me.
But before I can rip the blindfold off, the kids roar in applause. I throw my arms up in victory as they come rushing toward and then swarm me. I give high fives and fist bumps as excitement overwhelms the crowd.
They get a month more with Hardy.
Serves him right. He lost the game and sealed his fate before I even took my first shot.
My adrenaline surges with tinges of equal parts gloom and elation. I saunter past him, well aware the news crew is still filming.
“Like I said, lucky shot,” he says.
I turn to him and shrug as a grin blankets my lips. “There was nothing lucky about it. That was fucking phenomenal and you know it.”
Yes. You were just hustled in the worst fucking way possible.
And it’s all your fault.
Ugh. Now I’m stuck with him—his firm thighs and knee-weakening smiles, his unexpected softness toward kids, a maddening attitude and a teeth-gritting arrogance—for a month.
And that? That’s my fault.