Page 55 of Lucky Shot

If I thought the lone news van this morning was going to be our only media today, I was absolutely wrong.

This place is a madhouse. Camera crews and spectators. Soccer players who are part of the academy and others showing up with a ball in hand and parents asking if they can sign up their kids for the remainder of the camp.

Some can pay. Others cannot. I accept all of them. Me and my horrible business model. But the thought makes me smile and my heart feels so very full.

It might also feel a tad fluttery when I don’t do fluttery because of Hardy’s praise this morning.

Dreams change, Whitney. Dreams shift. It’s okay to find new dreams to hold on to.

Maybe. Then again, maybe this is the dream I was meant to live.

Right here at the academy. The place that is now humming with energy, a buzz of possibility, and an air of excitement that hasn’t been here since we won the championship way back when I used to play.

I walk out of the office and glance toward the sky. I hope you’re watching this all, Patrick. But it’s the man on the field who everyone is watching. Who holds everyone’s attention and who is fulfilling every imaginable part of his obligation.

What changed?

Why did it change?

And then I see him walk over to where Joey is standing apart from everyone else, squat down, and talk to him until he giggles. Then Hardy stands up, puts his hand on Joey’s back, and encourages him to participate.

Little Joey with a rough home life and an even rougher time making friends because he’s so shy.

It’s not like he’s any different from most of the kids here at the club, but something about Joey—his small stature, his freckles, the uncertainty that he might set you off when he asks a simple question—tugs at every part of your heart and soul.

That and . . . I don’t break my promises.

Yes, Hardy gets it now.

I jump when my cell rings. The usual exasperation that hits when I see the 1-800 number on my phone isn’t as heightened today. I know a bill collector’s phone number when I see it, and this is most definitely one.

The past week has provided a whirlwind of funds—between Hardy’s donation and the donations coming in—but I’m under no misguided illusion that my money troubles are fixed.

I know the bills due, the delinquent loan payments, and my credit cards that are maxed out.

But man, has all of this loosened the collar that has been tightening on my neck over the past year. The collar that I feared might make me close the doors permanently despite my best efforts to keep Patrick’s, and now my, dream alive. That keeps these kids safe and gives them a sense of purpose through sport.

So I take the call with a bit more confidence and promise that a payment will be made by tomorrow morning. It’s the first time I’ve been able to say that in a long time, and it puts a smile on my face.

I guess all that time writing letters paid off. That and—oh. Wow. Hardy looks over at me and his smile steals my thoughts.

In the moment, I can see him as a little boy, playing a game that makes royalty out of grown men and loving every second of it. The hard work, the gamesmanship, the competition, the comradery.

And something about that gets me through the chaos of the day. All of the noise, the cheering, the photos, and the interviews.

It’s still cool in the most unexpected of ways.

The sky is that odd gray between sunset and nightfall when I step out of my office after paying several bills. Without question, it’s been a good day. Probably one of the best we’ve had here in a long time. The kids were excited and helping each other. Martin was in rare form with his dad jokes that had the kids laughing in the downtimes. The media kept their distance but still reported. The public who came to sneak a peak of Hardy in the flesh were respectful.

And then there was Hardy himself. To say I am impressed with him and how present and . . . entertaining he was, is an understatement.

But right now is the perfect time for me to slip out and make a long-overdue visit to someone. I say goodbye to Martin, who’s on his way out.

“You going home?” he asks.

“Nah, just have to run something over to Mr. Macias.”

“Okay.” He lifts his eyebrows and nods, drawing the word out. “Is there a reason you’re going to knock on Mr. Grumpy’s door? Do you need backup? The man hasn’t said a nice thing to anyone for as long as I’ve worked here.”