Page 11 of The Thing About My Rival

“You lost me at ‘protocols’ and ‘strategy.’ And that’s why this is never going to work.” I point at her desk. “You’re all files of statistics and color-coordinated notebooks and smelly sex toys. And I’m all…” I make a sweeping gesture at my dusty bare desk and vacant bookshelves.

“Empty and unloved?” She’s unable to stop herself from laughing at her own joke.

The familiar flash of temper sparks in my belly. Could she be any more annoying? Could she be any more in the way of me getting my career and reputation back? And, more disturbingly, could she have a point?

While all I feel like doing right now is yelling and throwing things, six months cooped up inside my house doing just that after my knee injury taught me it achieves nothing. All it resulted in was the need for a lot of new dishes.

But what might solve my problem here is making little Miss Houseplant’s life hell.

“I meant that I’m more bare bones, that I work from my gut, without the need for office supplies. We’re too different to be able to coach together. The only way to get through this torture is to have a clear delineation in all things. Including this office. So, since there isn’t space to put up a wall between us, this tape will have to do.”

I count the floor tiles along the wall with the locker room. “Sixteen. That’s eight for you”—I stick the tape between the eighth and ninth tiles—“and eight for me.”

I drag the tape along the full length of the room.

Wilcox quickly steps back when she sees I’m about to tape the line over her feet and stick her to the floor. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.” When I hit the wall, I carry on taping till it meets the first strip I put on the windowsill.

I step back and admire my pettiness for a second.

Oh, to hell with it. In for a penny…

I tear off another long piece of tape and slap it up the middle of the window.

“I’m delighted to get the half of the view with the dumpsters,” she says. “But you do realize I can still see out of your half, right?”

“Just want to be sure you don’t hang any dream catchers or some shit on my side.” I slide the plant along the ledge until none of the leaves are dangling over the line. “All that matters is that your stuff stays on your side of the room and my stuff stays on my side.”

“Apart from how incredibly pathetic that is, you don’t actually seem to have any stuff.”

“Everything I need to do this job is in here.” I tap the side of my head.

“I dread to think about what’s sloshing around in there.” She picks up the pile of folders and turns toward her shelves. Damn, her arse looks good in those sky-blue leggings. When she reaches up to put the files on the shelf, her sweatshirt rises enough to reveal the faint outline of a thong between the top of her butt cheeks.

“And I’m so happy this job is turning out to be everything I’ve ever dreamed of,” she says on a sigh.

I drag my eyes away from her. Admiring the enemy’s backside will not do. “Then quit. Go back to the US team.Or back to Portland. Or anywhere. You don’t need to be here.”

She turns her head slowly and peers at me over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Which means youdo, right?” She says it slowly, knowingly, like she’s seen right through me.

Shit. Did I let too much slip? “What I mean is that there’s no need for two coaches and you already had a good job.”

“Ah-ha.” Her eyes widen with realization. “So because I already had a job I should have been satisfied with that and not wanted to progress. Butyou’reentitled to this one.”

She turns to face me, shaking her head and pursing her lips. “Let me be very, very clear here for a second. Whichever one of us they choose to stay on after the end of the season will be the best person for the job. And you don’t get to be the best person just by needing to prove to all your buddies back in Blighty that you are capable of something. You’re the best person for the job if you want this team to win because you love this team. Not because they’re your selfish stepping stone to getting your life back.”

“It doesn’t matter what your motives are for winning, as long as you win. You just need to have the fire in your belly to score more goals than the other side. That’s the only thing that counts.” Why do so many people have to make it more complicated than that? That’s really all football’s about.

“Christ, that’s as pathetic as this line.” She steps right up to it, directly opposite me, just the tape’s width between our toes and not a whole lot more between ourchests. “It’s like you’re a twelve-year-old who doesn’t want to share their bedroom.”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t want to share my bedroom withyou.”

She freezes, pink blooming in her cheeks. Her breasts rise and fall as she fixes me with those bright green eyes and drags her tongue along her upper teeth.

“Well, well, well.” Her words are drawn out. Deliberate. Gone are the quick-fire comebacks.

She stares at me, nodding her head slowly. “Hugo freaking Powers. You really are exactly the thoughtless, self-obsessed asshole you showed me you were six years ago, huh?”

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