Page 45 of Lucky Shot

“Says the woman who studied me all day but then gets quiet and averts her eyes when she notices me catching her looking.”

“Put a shirt on.”

“Says the woman who waltzed into the locker room and interrupted me in the middle of changing. Good thing I wasn’t in the middle of taking a shower.”

“Thank God for that.” For so many reasons. “But the discussion needed to be had.”

He angles his head to the side and studies me in a way that both unnerves me and gets under my skin.

“Of course it did, just like you need to admit why you’re so very mad at me for simply being me. Attractive. Sexy—”

“Annoying.”

“Charming.”

“Irritating.”

“A god on the pitch and in the sa—”

“A mediocre athlete whose ego is going to ruin his career,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and giving a definitive nod.

“Well, you sure told me. And now that we have that settled,” he says and steps out of his shorts so that he’s left wearing a very tight pair of boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Not the ample size of his cock. Not the ridge of its head that’s visible against the fabric. Not the firmness of his thighs that tests the bands of the underwear in them. Jesus. “Can you please leave?”

“Why? Do you have a problem with being confronted?”

“Not in the least. I just figured you’d want to leave before I stripped off the rest of my clothes.”

I stand there staring at him, a tad dumbfounded and at a loss for words. Unbeknownst to me, he takes my lack of response the completely wrong way.

“Okay then.” He starts to pull down his underwear. “Never pegged you for that kind of girl, but—”

“No. Stop. You’re . . . NO,” I screech when they dip even farther down.

He throws his head back and laughs, but my eyes drift to where his fingers are hooked in his waistband with the hint of a happy trail that leads beneath.

“You’re impossible, Lucky Shot.”

My head whips up and I do a double take. While he may have used the term earlier, it was in reference to my actual shot. But now he’s using it as a nickname like he knows about it. I haven’t heard it in years, and it momentarily stuns me. It must be the look on my face that has his expression fall.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. You . . . didn’t. Just . . . it’s fine. It’s nothing.” He’s the reason I’m here right now, fighting with Alexander Hardy. “Funny how life is sometimes, you know?”

“Whitney?” He takes a few steps toward me, brows narrowed.

“Like I said. It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” He draws the word out and then smiles. “So what time should I be here tomorrow?”

I groan. I did this to myself, didn’t I?

“Don’t be,” I say.

“You think you just caused that entire spectacle, and now I can walk away without more severe repercussions from my management and the MLS? I don’t believe that will go over well at all. Babe, you just fucked us both.” He lifts his eyebrows. “What time?”

“Never,” I say, needing to at least pretend I’m in control, as I turn and head for the door.

“See?”