Page 1 of Lucky Shot

PROLOGUE

Whitney

The field is empty, but the moon is full and bright, so the pitch is bathed in its light. This is no place for a thirteen-year-old girl, but it’s the only place I want to be. The only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged.

The dim light. The absolute silence. The crunch of the grass beneath my shoes when I walk. The ability to create my own destiny.

All of this is so much better than the bright lights, the nonstop noise, and the constant crying babies back at the Ramsey’s house. Or is it the Ramsel’s? There’ve been so many families over the years that they all now run together.

This right here is the best part about my new foster placement with the Rams-whatevers. A soccer pitch I can sneak onto through a hole in the chain-link fence. The grass is decent and it feels safer. Sort of.

But does it really matter? Does anything anymore? I’ll only be there just long enough to get settled before they realize having a teenager is harder than they thought and way more expensive than the monthly stipend they receive. Then I’ll be sent to the next family in a long line of families.

Might as well take advantage of this pitch while I can.

I set the ball down on the penalty kick spot to take a few more shots in my game of Around the World. A stupid contest I play with myself where I pretend I’m the star in a game that’s on the line. In my version, I call out a location for my shot and then aim to hit that spot. If I make it, I win. If I don’t, then I move on to the next location.

Silly and juvenile—I am a teenager after all—but satisfying nonetheless.

Plus, it allows me to be the hero in the story. Who doesn’t like that?

“Upper right corner,” I say to myself as I look up at the goal twelve yards away and then close my eyes to build the scenario in my head.

“It’s the ninety-fourth minute of match play,” the imaginary announcer says in my head. “We’re in stoppage time. The game is tied at one a piece and Whitney Barnes steps up to the line. Can she move the team ahead on this penalty kick?”

I draw in a deep fortifying breath and open my eyes to look straight ahead and not give my kick location away to my pretend goalie.

“Barnes steps to the line. She takes a deep breath and then starts her run. And the kick is off to the upper right-hand corner. Gooooaaaaal. Gooooooaaaaal. She scores and wins the game for her team.”

I throw my arms up as the crowd roars all around me. They begin to chant my name as my teammates lift me on their shoulders to celebrate. In the moment, I become something so much more than poor, little, foster girl Whitney.

I’m good at pretending. Great, actually.

Isn’t that how I’ve lived my life thus far? Pretend to love the family I’m placed with. Make sure that I’m easy and not troublesome so I’m not removed and re-fostered again. Pretend that none of this—the not being wanted or loved—hurts me. That none of it affects me.

The scenario in my mind dies, and reality begins to sink in. I’m standing all alone on this pitch. Chills chase over my skin, and I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched.

Maybe I’m not camping out here tonight after all.

I shrug the feeling off but jog toward the goal to collect my ball, suddenly a little spooked.

“Lucky shot.”

“Argh!” I jump out of my skin at the man’s voice across the field. My heart pounds so hard in my chest that it leaps into my throat as I turn to face him, trying to put the goalpost between him and me.

Like that’s going to help if he’s an axe murderer.

He holds his hands up as he moves slowly toward me. He’s tall, athletic looking in his soccer shorts and moisture-wicking shirt. His blond hair is wavy, and it’s obvious even in the dark he spends a lot of time in the sun, but I can’t quite tell how old he is. I watch every single step he takes, eyeing escape routes as he does.

You’re so stupid, Whitney. Why’d you put yourself in this position?

But he stops a good thirty feet away from me in what I can assume is an attempt to show me he’s not going to hurt me.

“There wasn’t anything lucky about that shot,” I say with my chin jutted out. “I meant to make it there.”

“Fair.” He purses his lips as we size each other up. “I would have turned the lights on so I wouldn’t scare you, but it takes a while for those old things to warm up and fire, plus the cost to do so is ridiculous.” He looks around and then back at me with a half-smile. “I’m Patrick. I own this school.”

“School?”