Page 13 of Lucky Shot

“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?”