Page 6 of Lucky Shot

How he manages it all, I have no idea, but I’m slowly finding out.

“Like I said, the guy was in my face,” I try to explain.

“And so you decided to punch him, break his camera, while a hundred other people had their phones out filming? Bloody brilliant,” he says sarcastically.

I’m supposed to feel guilty. I know I should, but I don’t in the fucking least. “He called my date a bitch and taunted her.”

“And in the scuffle, she was pushed to the ground.”

I draw in a deep breath. “That wasn’t me. We were blinded by all the flashes, and somehow, she got caught in the middle.”

“If you were blinded, then it could have been you, couldn’t it? Regardless, it doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t. What matters is all the mobile phones and all the footage on social media being posted. What happened to her can be misconstrued any way you want.”

“It’ll blow over.”

His smile has alarm bells going off. “This isn’t like back home, Hardy. You should know that from the time you’ve been here.”

“The press is the press. Social media is social media. It doesn’t matter what country you live in, it’s all the same.”

He chuckles. “Except you’re forgetting one very important thing. We’re paying you to be the face of this club and MLS added handsomely to that sum to be an ambassador for this game. That holds more weight than most.”

“And I’ve taken that duty seriously in my five months here. I’ve played my arse off in games—our record proves that. I’ve gone to all the events asked of me and then some. I’ve flown from here to everywhere to make sure my face is where it needs to be and my star power behind it. Grand openings, interviews, inaugural matches for new stadiums, the Hollywood bullshit. One little flub isn’t going to negate all that time I’ve put in.”

“You’re right. You’re a wanted man in all aspects, but let’s be clear here—it hasn’t just been one little flub.” He eyes me from above his steepled hands with a look that says he’s not going to believe my own bullshit any more than I do.

“The others were all explainable.”

“The others? Which of those are you referring to since you seem to get amnesia every time I bring them up?”

I level him with a glare. Does he really want to do this? I’ve more than put my time in here. My one-year transfer to America’s Major League Soccer from the Premier League may come with a massive contract and bonus, but it also came with a spotlight that was bright.

Even brighter than the one I face in the UK, if that’s even possible.

At home, I’m one of many footballers who represent the game in a raucous atmosphere of loyalty, fandom, and gamesmanship that stretches back for many generations for some. In the States, I’m the sole face, on loan here for a year and for a very pretty penny, to be the person to try and create a sliver of that passion here.

That means things that would fly under the radar at home are under a bloody microscope here.

And I’ve been examined under its lens plenty.

“How about the incident with the fan in the first month of the season?” Rush prompts.

“He threw a bottle at my head on a corner kick.”

“But you didn’t instigate it at all, no?” he asks while I just stare at him. My mouth may or may not have been running as I walked to the flag to take the kick. “Or with Gallo?” he asks, mentioning our goalie.

“We had a slight difference of opinion.” I shrug and fight the smile as I run a hand over my jaw. The fucker knows how to throw a punch. I’ll give him that.

“A difference of opinion that was caught on camera and posted from here to Kingdom Come.”

“The upside? It got people paying attention to the team. And we’ve learned to manage our differences and put the team first.”

“No doubt if I run down the list of the rest of your incidents, you’ll have a smart-arse response to all of them, won’t you? The drunken incident while at Disneyland—”

“It’s the happiest place on earth. I’m allowed to take a night off.”

“The snubbing fans at Fanfest.”

“I didn’t see them standing there. Do you really think I’d ignore them?”