Page 21 of Lucky Shot

“You’re right. Just like I don’t have to accept the money you threw at us to ease your guilty conscience over blowing us off.”

“I didn’t—”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear it from a two-bit soccer god who set more of an example to my players today of who not to be than you’ll ever teach them otherwise.”

“Whoa. Down, girl.” Hardy holds his hands up in surrender as he smirks like this is funny.

It’s not.

“And to think you actually made the trek across town to be there, but you were so disgusted by something about us—the peeling paint, the faded signs—or was it just lower-class kids in general you can’t stand? You afraid they might rub some of their grime and desperation off on you, huh?” I shake my head, disgusted with him and all of the reasons I’ve made up in my own head to justify—or not—his actions.

“You’re being completely ridiculous.”

“But you were there, right?”

“No. I wasn’t anywhere. I told you I was home. Sick.”

I nod and glance around before meeting the eyes of the other players seated with him. “Sexy, red sports car. Tinted windows. Scissor doors. That’s not you?” But the minute the words are out of my mouth, I can see the reaction of his teammates. The widened eyes and bobbing Adam’s apples. Yeah. The red sports car was him. “Huh. Must have been someone else afraid we’ll wear off on them.”

“Babe—”

“Whitney,” I correct. I’m not his babe. Not in the least. The fantasy I shaved for earlier already died a quick death.

“Whitney. How . . . lovely.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is this the part of the program where you cut me down so you look bigger?” I shrug. “Gotta save face with your teammates somehow, right?”

“I think you’re misunderstood. I’d like to make things right, yeah?” He shifts to stand and moves toward me. “Who are you to the academy?”

“Meaning?”

The man is even more gorgeous up close. How is that possible? And why am I even noticing?

“Meaning usually coaches of any reputable academy are ex-Premier League players. College coaches. These accolades elevate a program and bring it some notoriety. Make parents think they aren’t wasting their money sending their kid there,” he says quietly, trying to keep this conversation between the two of us.

But his words pack a punch he couldn’t have any idea he was throwing. I shrug them off. The few drinks I have under my belt don’t hurt either.

“Clearly you didn’t get out of your car or you would have seen differently.”

“Which part?” He narrows his eyes, and a ghost of a smirk plays at the corners of his lips. “The Premier League player hiding behind the goal net? The college coach who volunteers his time and tries to get the older kids on the scholarship or college ID camp route? Or what?”

Prick.

“Guess we’re not reputable.” I cross my arms over my chest and question why I’m still standing here. Why I’m arguing with a man who clearly does what he wants.

“So what is it that you do there, then?”

“You’re so learned on the topic, why don’t you tell me?” I lift my brows.

“Play in college?” he asks.

“Nope. Did you?”

“Nah. I had other, more pressing plans,” he says. Everyone knows he was a phenom and played on the grandest stage in his late teens.

His grin is full force, and I hate how I melt a little under its brightness despite despising the man. Smart-ass.

“See? Now that we know a little more about each other, can we get back to doing what it is we came here to do?”