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by becoming a professional athlete. “I was surrounded by a bunch of happy kids.”

      “That sounds safe enough,” Blake admitted. “But be careful. Another endorsement deal fell through. They’re nervous about your injury. The concerns over your image didn’t help.”

      Ryland dragged his hand through his hair. “Let me guess. They want a clean-cut American, not a bad boy who thinks red cards are better than goals.”

      “You got it,” Blake said. “I haven’t heard anything official, but rumors are swirling that Mr. McElroy wants to loan you out to a Premier League team.”

      McElroy was the new owner of the Phoenix Fuego, who took more interest in players and team than any other head honcho in the MLS. He’d fired the coach/manager who’d wanted to run things his way and hired a new coach, Elliot Fritz, who didn’t mind the owner being so hands-on. “Seriously?”

      “I’ve heard it from more than one source.”

      Damn. As two teams were mentioned, Ryland plopped into his dad’s easy chair. Cupcake jumped onto his lap.

      “I took my eye off the ball,” he said. “I made some mistakes. I apologized. I’m recovering and keeping my name out of the news. I don’t see why we all can’t move on.”

      “It’s not that easy. You’re one of the best soccer players in the world. Before your foot surgery, you were a first-team player who could have started for any team here or abroad. Not many American footballers can say that,” Blake said. “But McElroy believes your bad-boy image isn’t a draw in the stands or with the kids. Merchandising is important these days.”

      “Yeah, I know. Being injured and getting older isn’t helping my cause.” As if twenty-nine made Ryland an old man. He remembered what the team owner had said in an interview. “McElroy called me an overpaid liability. But if that’s the case, why would an overseas team want to take me on?”

      “The transfer period doesn’t start until June. None have said they want the loan yet.”

      Ouch. Ryland knew he had only himself to blame for the mess he found himself in.

      “The good news is the MLS doesn’t want to lose a homegrown player as talented as you. McElroy’s feathers got ruffled,” Blake continued. “He’s asserting his authority and reminding you that he controls your contract.”

      “You mean, my future.”

      “That’s how billionaires are.”

      “I’ll stick to being a millionaire, then.”

      Blake sighed.

      “Look, I get why McElroy’s upset. Coach Fritz, too. I haven’t done a good job handling stuff,” Ryland admitted. “I’ll be the first to admit I’ve never been an angel. But I’m not the devil, either. There’s no way I could do everything the press says I do. The media exaggerates everything.”

      “True, but people’s concerns are real. This time at your parents’ house is critical. Watch yourself.”

      “I’m going to fix this. I want to play in the MLS.” Ryland had already done an eleven-year stint in the U.K. “My folks are doing fine, but they’re not getting any younger. I don’t want to be an ocean away from them. If McElroy doesn’t want me, see if the Indianapolis Rage or another club does.”

      “McElroy isn’t going to let a franchise player like you go to another MLS team,” Blake said matter-of-factly. “If you want to play stateside, it’ll be with Fuego.”

      Ryland petted Cupcake. “Then I’ll have to keep laying low and polishing my image so it shines.”

      “Blind me, Ry.”

      “Will do.” Everyone always wanted something from him. This was no different. But it sucked he had to prove himself all over again with Mr. McElroy and the Phoenix fans. “At least I can’t get into trouble dog sitting. Wicksburg is the definition of boring.”

      “Women—”

      “Not here,” Ryland interrupted. “I know what’s expected of me. I also know it’s hard on my mom to read the gossip about me on the internet. She doesn’t need to hear it firsthand from women in town.”

      “You should bring your mom back with you to Phoenix.”

      “Dude. Keeping it quiet and on the down low is fine while I’m here, but let’s not go crazy,” Ryland said. “In spite of the reports of me hooking up with every starlet in Hollywood, I’ve been more than discreet and discriminate with whom I see. But beautiful women coming on to me are one of the perks of the sport.”

      Blake sighed. “I remember when you were this scrappy, young kid who cared about nothing but soccer. It used to be all about the game for you.”

      “It’s still about the game.” Ryland was the small-town kid from the Midwest who hit the big-time overseas, playing with the best in the world. Football, as they called it everywhere but in the U.S., meant everything to him. Without it … “Soccer is my life. That’s why I’m trying to get back on track.”

      A beat passed and another. “Just remember, actions speak louder than words.”

      After a quick goodbye, Blake disconnected from the call.

      Ryland stared at his phone. He’d signed with Blake when he was eighteen. The older Ryland got, the smarter his agent’s advice sounded.

      Actions speak louder than words.

      Lately his actions hadn’t been any more effective than his words. He looked at Cupcake. “I’ve put myself in the doghouse. Now I’ve got to get myself out of it.”

      The doorbell rang.

      Cupcake jumped off his lap and ran to the front door barking ferociously, as if she weighed ninety pounds, not nineteen.

      Who could that be? He wasn’t expecting anyone.

      The dog kept barking. He remained seated.

      Let Cupcake deal with whomever was at the door. If he ignored them, maybe they would go away. The last thing Ryland wanted right now was company.

      CHAPTER TWO

      LUCY’S hand hovered over the mansion’s doorbell. She fought the urge to press the button a third time. She didn’t want to annoy Mr. and Mrs. James. Yes, she wanted to get this fool’s errand over with, but appearing overeager or worse, rude, wouldn’t help her find a coach for Connor’s team.

      “Come on,” she muttered. “Open the door.”

      The constant high-pitch yapping of a dog suggested the doorbell worked. But that didn’t explain why no one had answered yet. Maybe the house was so big it took them a long time to reach the front door. Lucy gripped the container of cookies with both hands.

      The dog continued barking.

      Maybe no one was home. She rose up on her tiptoes and peeked through the four-inch strip of small leaded-glass squares on the ornate wood door.

      Lights shone inside.

      Someone had to be home. Leaving the lights on when away wasted electricity. Her dad used to tell her that. Aaron said the same thing to Connor. But she supposed if a person could afford to live in an Architectural Digest–worthy home with its Georgian-inspired columns, circular drive and manicured lawn that looked like a green carpet, they probably didn’t worry about paying the electricity bill.

      Lucy didn’t see anyone coming toward the door. She couldn’t see the dog, either. She lowered her heels to the welcome mat.

      Darn it. She didn’t want to come back later and try again. A chill shivered down her spine. She needed to calm down.

      She imagined Connor with a smile on his face and soccer cleats on his feet. Her anxiety level dropped.

      If

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