Page 15 of Lucky Shot

I exit the highway and follow my GPS down a graffiti-marred street.

New plan going forward: play hard; earn your keep. Enjoy the pseudo-vacation you’re getting, playing this American level soccer. Then return home to the league you love and the unmatched level of talent you enjoy competing at.

No more of this shit that’s making me drive to God fucking knows where so that I can smile big for the cameras just to prove I’m a good guy.

I am a good guy. Just ask me. I’ll tell you.

Good guy or not, the last thing I want to be doing is navigating my way through the streets of whatever this rundown town is on the outskirts of Miami.

“Fuck,” I mutter when my mobile rings, and I see the caller’s name on the screen.

What excuse will there be this time?

“Mum,” I answer drolly.

“Darling. How lovely of you to actually pick up,” my mother says in that aristocratic tone she’s adopted that suits the money she remarried into.

“I’m on the way to an event I don’t want to go to, saw your number, and figured why not be tortured twice in one day?” I make the joke but mean every single word of it.

Her laugh fills the line and by the annoying pitch of it, I know Monty is close by. Awesome. My least favorite person in the world, and I have a lot of them. “You and your cheeky sense of humor, Alexander,” she says like I’m ten. Fitting, considering that’s the last time she ever gave a fuck about me to know any different.

And yet I still bloody care.

“I’ve almost arrived so was there a reason you called or . . .” Was it just for shits and giggles? I take a left down a narrow street. Respectable houses line both sides of it, a couple look like scrapyards while others are well-kept with trimmed yards and bars on their windows. A few houses have people sitting on their porches, surveying what’s going on in the neighborhood—including my rather pricey car driving down its center—while others look locked up tight and their owners at work.

It’s a world so very far removed from the area I grew up in, and one I’m not the least bit curious about.

“Darling, I know we chatted about us coming over there to the States for a bit to watch your debut there, but . . .”

My debut? My US debut was over five months ago, but who’s counting? It’s not like she’s keeping track or anything.

“I just don’t think we’re going to be able to make it work,” she says.

I fist my hands on the steering wheel. Why does it still fucking get to me? Why do I not just expect it?

“Of course you can’t. What? Does Monty have some important event that just came up and that you simply can’t miss?” There is no mistaking the sarcasm in my voice—or the bitterness—but I’m so beyond fucking caring it’s ridiculous.

“Yes. Well.” She sighs like she’s so put out. No doubt Monty is giving her the wind it up motion with his finger because God forbid, she’s talking to her son. “Like I said, something came up that conflicts with the dates you sent.”

“Funny how that works. I’ve been here for five months and you’ve made trips to the States, but haven’t been able to make the time for a quick trip to a game. Your diary must be so incredibly full that it must be suffocating.”

“It is. You have no idea. Darling, we have so many events that I’d rather not attend, but you know, duty calls,” she says like she’s royalty and completely oblivious to my sarcasm. “You have to know that I’d much rather see my wonderful son.”

Spare me the bullshit.

“Well, your loss,” I say as I pull up down the street from the address on my GPS.

Doesn’t matter how fucking old I get, still feels shitty.

I roll my eyes before focusing on the scene before me. There are a few news trucks on the curb alongside some of Miami Mayhem FC vans with people milling about. A number of curious kids are meandering around too.

This really is a dog and pony show.

“Alexander?” Monty’s voice barrels through the line and my body tenses. Of course he was listening to our phone call. “You still there?”

For a split second, I consider not answering. “Yeah?” I say to purposely push his buttons.

Proper young men say yes. Not “yeah” like an uneducated tot.