Page 49 of Lucky Shot

He stares at me with an intensity I don’t expect, almost as if he’s trying to determine if I am a safe bet or not, before nodding. “Okay. I believe you.” Joey’s smile is still plastered, and his head is rocking from side to side as if he’s afraid I’m going to disappear when he looks anywhere else.

“I’ll be here. See you tomorrow?”

He nods as he takes a step back, that lopsided smile crawling over his lips and making his freckles dance. “Yep.”

I watch him walk toward his bike, his head down as he scrolls through the photos we just took. He then gets on his bike and whoops loudly as he rides down the street, his carefree laugh floating back toward me as I watch him pass beneath the glow of a streetlight.

Fucking kid. In one fell swoop he just roped me into this place—more than figuring out Whitney Barnes.

I yank my sweatshirt off the fence and head back to my car. It’s then I notice the light on in the window of what Whitney referred to as the clubhouse earlier today. It’s on the back half of the building that one could consider an office. The window is large and allows me a glimpse into the sparsely furnished room.

There’s a leather couch on one side that has clearly seen better days with its worn patches, and it has a few framed motivational posters hanging above it. There’s a foosball table in the center of the room, what looks like a pinball machine against the far wall, and a few other items I can’t exactly make out from where I’m standing.

But it’s the woman who walks into the room blowing on a Cup Noodles container who holds my attention. She takes a spoonful and then shakes her head, clearly scalding her tongue. She sets the food down and moves toward the foosball table, where she begins to spin the handles with what looks like the weight of the world bearing down on her shoulders.

She seems sad, conflicted, but why? She has had more attention on this club in the past twelve hours than she’s probably had in years. She has ten thousand more dollars in her bank account than she did a week ago and maybe more rolling in because of the broadcast. And she has me coming back to do it all over again for the next few weeks.

What possibly could be weighing her down?

But for the first time since I walked into this fucking place, I think I understand. She has a hundred more Joeys that she’s worried about. That she feels responsible for.

And while I can meet one, take a picture, and promise to be here for a few weeks to try and cheer him up, it feels like she carries much more of their burdens than that.

“Who are you, Whitney Barnes?” I murmur into the darkened night.

The bigger question is . . . what about you makes me want to know you better?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Whitney

Ten Years Ago

“You’re taking too many touches,” Patrick yells from the sidelines but I push the white noise out of my head. Let it fade into the background. Ignore him.

I know what I’m doing. It’s like I can see everything play out in front of me before it even happens. Where my defenders are going to move to. How the shape the rest of my players keep is going to dictate the space I can take. How that hole is going to open up right there so I can take a shot.

I’ll win the game.

I’ll be the hero.

I can picture it all. Each step. Every juke. The final shot. The roar of everyone else’s parents as I win the game.

And then out of nowhere, a green jersey flashes in front of me. Before I can react, before I can guard it, the ball is stolen. The player breaks past my defenders, dribbles down the pitch, and takes a shot.

Scores.

The crowd roars, but it’s not for me. It’s not for my team.

The sinking feeling in my gut remains long after the final whistle is blown and the bleachers have cleared. I lie in the middle of the pitch staring at the dark sky above. Stars are nonexistent here in the city. Just another bright thing to be snuffed out by this damn town. The grass beneath my back is itchy, and the feel of my tears hitting my ears is a weird sensation.

I hear the crunch of Patrick’s shoes and his resigned sigh as he settles down beside me to mimic my position.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually.

“Nope.”

He chortles. “Well, I do.”