CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Whitney
I glance at my watch and then back at the crowd gathered.
Yep. They’re not going anywhere and apparently, Hardy decided not to show today.
And they’re all here—the kids, the press, the random people who drove however many miles to come watch the free show he puts on every day—and I don’t have anything for them because they sure as shit are not here for me.
But I refuse to make excuses for him. It seems that’s the normal in his life per the first go around with Ari after he stood her up.
I shake my head, uncertain what to make of his no-show and desperate not to overthink it.
There’s a shocker.
But I called him two nights ago against my better judgment. I called him because I had been in the wrong, and he’d deserved an apology. I called him because I was trying to be a better person and let someone in.
And selfishly, I kept thinking about the way he kissed me, the way he made me feel. Is it so horrible that when I took a step back, those two things were a bright spot that even my fear and doubts couldn’t dim?
Was it so bad that I dared to want to feel that again?
But in true Whitney Barnes fashion, I let my guard down, allowing him in to see parts of the real me, and just when I thought I could start to trust him, he ghosted me.
Can’t say I’m not used to it.
Can’t even say I’m surprised.
But the sting is there. The hurt even more so.
Neither stops me from looking toward the parking lot every few seconds to see if he’s shown up.
But he hasn’t.
Good riddance, Hardy.
I think the thought, but my heart hurts for the kids and for the disappointment still settling on their faces with only thirty minutes of camp left for the day.
But this is good.
This is needed.
A dose of reality and a reminder not to get sucked in by his charm. Thank God I didn’t sleep with him . Because despite what I said, it would be harder to accept his rejection, his one-and-done notch on the bedpost, had he been inside my body.
“When I fuck you... and I will fuck you, it’ll be because you’re goddamn good and ready—”
Nope, not going to entertain his proclamation. It was just another spiel, after all. His words, though exciting at the time, will be forgotten over time, alongside every other promise he made me.
It’s well after dark before I make my way back to my office. Maybe I went a little longer than scheduled as a means to make up for his absence. Maybe I just needed to occupy my mind and figure out where to go next.
Life without Hardy here is a real, tangible thing. Life will go on, as it always does. The hype, media, and donations will also decline, but hopefully, the added interest from local families will remain.
Be grateful . That’s all I can be despite my chaotic thoughts.
And the one right now, as I wrap up a long day and dream of having a luxurious bath that my studio doesn’t have, is frustration.
Expectations are a tricky thing. You want to have them of someone, but once you have them, then you open yourself up to disappointment.
And that’s pretty much where I’m at when I walk into the darkened clubhouse. I know its layout by heart, so I move through the space on autopilot and have my hand on the light switch when I become keenly aware that someone else is in here.
Mr. Macias’s words from the other night come back to me. The trepidation is fleeting though when “Hey” cuts through the silence.
I yelp but then sag in relief. I know that voice .
When I flick the switch on, Hardy is there. He’s lying on the couch, baseball hat tilted down low over his face, arms crossed over his chest, and legs crossed at the ankles.
I’m pissed at him—extremely pissed at him—and yet, like a dumb female, everything about him right now calls to every part of me.
“When I fuck you... and I will fuck you, it’ll be because you’re goddamn good and ready and have acknowledged that want. Until then, you can remember the taste of my kiss because I promise you, that’s just a hint of just how fucking great it’s going to be.”
Right now, any promise those words held just died a slow death. Especially when he thinks he can let my kids down, and it won’t let me down.
I glare at him even though he can’t see it. And then following suit, I study him there. From what the bill of his hat doesn’t cover, his jaw is unshaven, and he looks ... rough? Hungover? Something is up.
And while my mind might be thinking that, my lips are remembering what his felt like on mine. What his kiss tasted like. What his hands felt like.
“I didn’t show today,” he says.
“No shit. I hadn’t noticed. Neither did the two hundred-plus people who sat out there and waited for you.”
He lifts a hand. “That’s on me. My bad.”
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t on me, but you left me high and dry, which I’m beginning to think is your MO.”
He nods, his chest breathing evenly. “It is. You’re right.”
“Awesome. Now that we have that little mystery settled, why don’t you leave via whatever way you saw yourself in here without anyone noticing.”
“I’ve learned a trick or two in my time.”
“Apparently.” Irritation peppers my every word. “Look, I’m tired. I worked a full day filling in for you and all the extra kids that came for you, and I want to go home. So, you figured out a way to get in here—”
“The key is hanging on the inside wall of your office. Not very hard.”
“Then you can see yourself out.”
He says nothing in response, and I’m almost certain that he’s fallen asleep. He’s on his own. I’m done and am a foot from the door when he speaks.
“You do good work here, Lucky Shot.” He takes his time speaking, slow and deliberate. “Volunteering here may not be where I want to be right now, but I give credit when credit is due—your program is important. I never meant to demean it, you, or the people it helps.”
I stand there startled at yet another apology I never expected. At his praise that for some reason holds weight when it shouldn’t.
“Thank you.” The words are barely a whisper.
“And yet you’re still mad at me.”
“Words are just that. Words.”
“Well then, here are some actions for you.” He lifts his hat, his squinting eyes meeting mine briefly before he lowers the bill back down. “I went to a club last night.”
“Congrats. Good for you. Glad getting drunk superseded your obligation to us here.”
“It was because of you.”
“Me?” Whatever. I roll my eyes and wave a hand his way. He wants to blame me for getting drunk?
“Yeah. I was thinking that I should find someone else to erase your taste from my lips.”
“Oh.” I was right to disregard his words, to not put any faith in them . But God, that stings.
“Where you might have a tendency to freak out, I have a tendency to act out.” He shrugs. It’s almost as if the hat still covering his face gives me the courage to stare and admire a little more.
My heart pounds in my ears. This is why I was afraid to want. Because I’d allow myself to settle into the idea of it—slowly, deliberately—and something like this would happen.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
I fight the pitch of my stomach and turn to look squarely at him. “Well, did she ?”
“Did she what?”
“Get the taste of me out of your mouth?”
His groan is audible as he sits up, takes his hat off, and throws it on the couch beside him before resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up and meets my eyes for the first time. “Couldn’t tell you.”
I hate that I feel relief, a sliver of hope. “Why’s that?”
“Because every woman that tempted me wasn’t fucking you. And it wasn’t for lack of trying to.”
I bark out a laugh, thinking he’s playing along, but the expression on his face is dead serious. Oh . He means it.
“No. Not funny at all. Because that meant I drank way too much to overcompensate, and now I have a pounding head to prove it.”
“Hardy. Can I get you some ibuprofen? Some—”
“Already had an IV from the team doctor. Then I jogged here. I’m getting there. Have to because I have practice tonight.”
“An IV? You jogged?” What the hell?
“I needed to clear what’s in here.” He taps the sides of his head, closes his eyes briefly before opening them, and smiling sheepishly. “Nope. Still there.”
“Hardy ... why did you come here? Why did you tell me all this?” Why did you assure me we’d fuck when I was good and ready and then turn around the next day and try to find someone else?
He angles his head to the side. “Because I needed you to know you’re not the only one struggling with this—with wanting someone and trying to understand how to justify it.” He rises to his feet and stands beside the foosball table as if he just belongs here when he clearly doesn’t. “That and I needed to ... I wanted to apologize for the kiss at the airport the other day.”
“ Oh .” The kiss I can’t seem to get out of my head, and apparently, he can’t either. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because you think the only reason I came here is to get laid. It appears I’m proving you right. Maybe I want you to think better of me.”
He looks up at me from beneath his lashes and his expression is that of a little boy asking to be liked. I’ve seen that look on many of the kids here before, but never on Hardy. It tugs on my heartstrings, and messes with my head a bit more too.
I take a step toward him, fingers twisting together, and teeth dug into my bottom lip. “Well, I mean, it was a good kiss.”
“It was. I drank enough alcohol last night to prove it.”
“Apology for this kiss not accepted. For the moment, the situation in which you chose for us to have our first kiss though? Sure, I’ll accept.”
A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Interesting,” he says softly as mischief lights up his eyes.
“I may be a hard-ass, Hardy, but there are some things that soften me.”
“Like good-looking football stars?”
Definitely, but I’m not telling him that. “Like honesty. Sincerity. Apologizing when you’re wrong.”
He meets my eyes. “I let you down today. I apologize.”
I chuckle. “He learns fast.”
“He’s hoping for another kiss.”
I smile. “Funny.”
“You opened the door.”
“I did.”
“But the apology stands. I should have been here.”
“I got it covered. Besides, it was probably for the best.”
“Why’s that?” he asks and takes another step closer.
This feels weirdly intimate. It’s a strange thought, but it’s true. The dim light. The room I’ve been in during many stages of my life. The man and his hushed voice before me.
“Because maybe I was starting to like you a little too much and needed the reminder that this is all just temporary. That you’re unpredictable. That you’re someone I should steer clear from.”
“Right back to the pushing me away, huh?” He smiles. “But you’re right. You should steer clear of me. But fuck if I’m going to tell you that.”
“You just did.”
He tilts his head and studies me. “Did I warn you already that I have this habit of ... acting out when I don’t get what I want?”
“Yes. Minutes ago.”
“And what exactly is it you want Alexander Hardy?”
Something flickers in his eyes, but the minute it’s there, it’s gone. “Please. Just Hardy .”
“Noted,” I say but want to know so much more. “Question still stands. What have you not gotten that you want, because I suspect it’s not much?”
“You,” he says evenly.
“ I see .” I swallow harshly and feel completely out of place. And yet, this is where I’ve always felt at home. The intimacy is still there, but it’s charged now. Electric. A livewire snapping against water, daring me to step into its current.
Especially now that I’ve seen his naked body and that his fingers have been inside me. It’s worse knowing what he feels like. How he kisses. What he sounds like when he comes.
I shuffle my feet, break the hold he has on me despite desperately wanting to kiss him and begin to tidy up things that don’t need to be tidied up.
“Why do I make you nervous?” he asks, closer to me than expected.
“You don’t.” I put the pieces from the checkerboard on the table in their starting positions. I jump when his hand closes around my arm, my gasp filling the small room.
“Really?” He chuckles. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s just—you’re just ...” I don’t want to dare to hope. I did yesterday and then today you let me down. And standing on the razor-thin edge of hope versus abandonment isn’t the easiest way to live. Always wondering. Always waiting. Always expecting to wake up to find that person is gone. I finish setting a new game of checkers on the board. Anything to prevent me from turning around.
“We’ve already seen each other naked, Whitney. Already watched each other come. I’m pretty sure the nerves should be out the window.”
I open my mouth to speak and can’t. What he doesn’t get is it’s the physical that’s the easy part, but everything else that comes with it for me that’s the struggle.
“It’s not nerves. It’s ...” His hands on my shoulders turn me around so I’m forced to face him. My eyes flutter up to meet the gray of his. “You. Here . Me. Here .”
“It’s just a kiss, Whitney. Not a lifelong commitment.”
My pulse races, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears. I open my mouth to speak but only a croak comes out.
“I’m a man who likes to right his wrongs. I was wrong to kiss you as a means to prove a point and so ...”
“And so . . .?”
“Hmm.” His eyes flicker down to my lips and then back up as his hands run down my arms. “I seem to have lost my train of thought.”
The kiss happens in slow motion, like snapshots of time burned in my memory. His hand on my neck and thumb brushing over the dent of my collarbone. The scrape of his stubble and the softness of his lips. The addiction in his taste and the command in his touch.
My body sings with the slow burn of desire and the acknowledgment that I want him. His kiss. His body. His touch.
Everything we had the other night but that I didn’t allow to progress. Everything he respected me for.
I melt from the heat while it forges a need that’s so much greater than just this kiss.
The kiss ends with one last brush of lips, like a promise that this won’t be the last time.
He smirks. “It was worth the hangover.”
“What was?”
He takes a step back, which has me fighting the urge to take one forward. “Your kiss is better than I remember.” Another brush of his lips to mine. “So much fucking better.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, my body humming, my smile no doubt plastered all over my face.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m not who you think I am, Whitney. Who the media makes me out to be. The prick. The playboy. The selfish star. There’s a lot more to me than just that.”
“I’m sure there is.”
“If you saw me on my own turf, you’d see that.” Another step toward the door. “When you’re ready to trust that I’m not that guy, there’s a ticket waiting for you in the box office for any game so you can find out for yourself.” He’s at the door. “See you tomorrow, Lucky Shot.”
As Hardy walks out the door, I want to go after him. But his words make me pause.
I’m not who you think I am, Whitney. Who the media makes me out to be. The prick. The playboy. The selfish star. There’s a lot more to me than just that. If you saw me on my own turf, you’d see that.
I could be very wrong, but my gut instinct suggests that Hardy wants me to know the side of him that most don’t see. And that somehow both settles and excites me. Which is a little dangerous for my softening heart.