Page 105 of The Thing About My Rival

Bakari and Hammond catch up with Ramon and jump on him. Wilcox jumps on me.

The ref blows his whistle.

The hope of the playoffs is alive—still slimmer than a wafer-thin piece of paper that’s just been steamrolled, but it’s alive.

I grab Wilcox’s face and plant my lips on hers just like I did in the first match of the season in Atlanta.

Except this time it’s different. This time she leans into it, her lips pressing back against mine with the sweet taste of not just victory, but passion, and something new that runs even deeper.

I tear my mouth from hers and ease back just enough to look right in her eyes, eyes that are leaking tears all down her face.

“I love you, Wilcox. I fucking love you.”

After victory laps, applause for our amazing fans, and the flinging of shirts into the crowd—our kit manager’s going to be furious—each of the Commoners stops to give me and Wilcox a hug when they pass us and head into the tunnel.

Behind us the Goal Getters have roused the crowd into a rendition of a Commoners fan favorite, Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.”

When the last player is on his way inside, I turn and raise a victory fist at the owners’ box where Miller, Chase, Leo and Prince Oliver are celebrating.

Leo calmly acknowledges my fist with a lift of his champagne glass, Miller stops clapping for a second to check his phone, and Chase pats Prince Oliver on the back while he sticks two fingers in his mouth and releases a whistle so piercing it’s audible over the crowd that shows no sign of leaving the stadium.

Not our supporters anyway. The side for the opposition fans is almost empty.

There’s suddenly a sharp stabbing pain in my left arm. Christ, am I having anactualheart attack?

Thankfully, for many reasons, it’s Wilcox’s hand again. More specifically her nails digging into my flesh. If she was dragging them down my back while screaming my name I could deal with it, but this just plain hurts.

Something is obviously wrong, though.

I follow her gaze back up to the owners’ box, where a fifth person has now appeared alongside the Fab Four.

An older man. In a suit.

Shit, it’s her dad.

He’s been to a few matches since we took over, but he’snever hung around long enough afterward for me to meet him, so I’ve only seen him from a distance of approximately fifty yards.

Wilcox continues to stare at the man who looks like he hasn’t smiled this century.

I put my arm around her and pull her to my side. Thankfully she doesn’t resist this time. I’m not sure how this thing with her dad is going to go. But I do know I’m here for her. If she’ll let me be.

“Do you want me to go up there with you?”

“No.” She shakes her head and emerges from her temporary state of shock. “It’s fine. I just didn’t know he was coming. He didn’t mention it. And it took me by surprise. Sorry.”

She looks up at me, her eyes still shiny with victory tears, the corners of her beautiful mouth toying with the idea of a smile. “Let’s go tell the guys how proud we are of them.”

“Not too many beers,” Wilcox calls to the final stragglers as they wander past our open office door on their way out. “And get some good rest.”

She walks into the empty locker room and heads toward an old radio that someone’s left playing. Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi’s voices are coming out of it.

“A victory to be proud of,” Gilbert says.

“Absolutely, Frank,” Rossi replies. “Ramon is a world class player and that was a world class goa?—”

“Hey,” I call to Wilcox. “You turned it off just as I was starting to like them.”

On her way back, she stops, leans against the doorway and folds her arms. “Guess we should go upstairs.”

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