Page 141 of Lucky Shot

Talk about conflicting my emotions even further.

“Normally the sheds are all locked, but I got here early and opened them.”

“Martin!” I turn to find him standing there with a sheepish look on his face, and without thinking, I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him tight. “You’ve been lying to me.” I laugh as I lean back and swat at his arm.

His cheeks are beet red with surprise from my affection. “I had to swear on my soul to Hardy that I wouldn’t tell you.” He bristles with pride.

“This is . . .” I throw my hands up and look all around again as if I’m in a dream. “Insanity.”

“You’re telling me.” He chuckles. “Because he’s Hardy, he sweet-talked the high school in to letting us use their fields while we made the improvements.”

“There’s no way there was enough time to do all this,” I say more to myself than him.

“No shit. I thought he was crazy when he told me the plan. It’s like that old show, Extreme Home Makeover, but for the soccer academy. So many people here all at once working together. Like teams of people moved in and worked together to get this done.”

“I’m at a loss for words. I sound like a broken record, but I am.”

“Just wait till you see the locker rooms. The game room. Your office. Every single place has been updated.”

“What do you mean?”

“The locker room was overhauled. It looks like the Mayhem’s . . . or I can assume what the Mayhem one looks like. New lockers. Updated bathrooms and showers. It doesn’t even look the same.”

“You said my office?” I don’t know why the idea induces fear in me. But it does and I’m on the move as Martin follows close behind.

“Check out the game room first.”

I look in the bay window and . . . a new foosball table? A new couch? A vending machine? But it’s the décor that has me smiling. Hardy has placed the deck of my old foosball table on the wall. And somehow, some way, he found a picture of my championship-winning team. It’s been blown up and placed in the center of the old foosball table, which acts almost like a frame. I smile at the thoughtfulness of it. At the meaning held in it.

“The TV is to review film and stuff like that. Or have movie nights for those who don’t want to go home. Oh, and look at this,” Martin says. He flips a switch and a neon sign flickers to life on the far wall.

The words make me catch my breath.

Dreams change. Dreams shift. Find a new one and chase it.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Martin asks.

I nod, my fingers playing with the charm on my necklace as words escape me. Those are the same words Hardy said to me. The same ones that have slowly embedded their way into my psyche and made me wonder if I could possibly want more.

“Very cool.” I almost can’t get the words out.

He provided them with a new safe spot. One where kids can hang out after practice rather than be out in the streets. He made it seem more like a clubhouse than a daycare.

Hardy gets it. He just does, and I don’t know how that’s even possible.

I draw in a deep breath as Martin ushers me to my office. I move with trepidation.

This is my spot, my sanctuary, where a lot of my core memories were had.

I freeze when I hit the threshold and suck in a breath. It’s still my office—same size, same shape—but it has been completely overhauled. A new desk with built-ins, complete with a picture of Patrick and me framed amid all of the organized binders. A bookshelf with all of my soccer books and some new ones. A brand-new desktop computer with a massive screen.

But it’s what’s on the wall behind the desk that has the tears welling up finally spill over.

Hardy had the side of my old desk, the one my whole team had etched their initials in, hung on the wall just as is. He left the crooked foot and the smear of Sharpie across its top and hung it just as it was.

“Uh-oh. Whitney? Are you okay?” Martin asks as the tears keep coming.

“Yes. I’m . . .” I turn to look at him as I shove the tears from my cheeks. “I just can’t believe you guys did all this.”