Page 116 of The Thing About My Rival

She snatches her arm away—that might be the last time I ever touch her—and turns her back so she’s facing the window, staring at the just-visible rear end of the bus.

“The guys really will want you there. I’m not just saying it to get you to come.” I know I sound pathetically pleading, but I don’t care, and if she won’t do it for me, maybe she’ll do it for them.

Her shoulders heave as she takes in a jittery breath.

“Just go,” she says. The fight has left her voice. There’s no anger left. All that remains is the sound of hurt.

“Don’t make me choose, Wilcox. Because I can’t stay here with you right now. You know I can’t. I have to go help these guys win.”

“I know,” she says. Her shoulders slump and her head drops forward.

“Jesus. Look, I’ll call you later. We can?—”

“Don’t. I’ll be busy packing.”

My stomach feels like it’s been tossed into the wastebasket along with the scrunched-up ball of tape. “Packing?”

“For Portland.”

“They offered you a job?” Of course they fucking did. They’d be mad not to.

She stands statue-still. “Yup.”

Now someone’s jumped on top of my stomach in the wastebasket and is stomping on it.

I refuse to believe this is the last time I’ll ever see her. I have to refuse to believe it because the reality of that is incomprehensible. “And you’re leaving right away?”

She continues to stare straight ahead through the window. “I’m not leaving anything. I’m not leaving anyone. I’m just trying to save myself.” Her voice is calm and emotionless now.

I push my fingers through my hair and rest my hand on the back of my neck, which is the tightest it’s ever been. “Well, I guess the idiot here is me, then. For allowing myself to believe for a single second that I could have a relationship that worked. What a fucking fool I was.”

The bus makes two more sharp, impatient honks.

I turn toward the door and shove my hands into my pockets. My fingers graze the thing I’d forgotten I’d put there.

“Here. I found this on my bathroom floor just after you left this morning.”

She turns to look at me over her shoulder. Only her head moves. Her body stays resolutely facing away from me, no longer mine.

I take out her log cabin charm and hold it in the air.

A fresh tear falls from one bloodshot eye and rolls down her beautiful pink cheek as she watches it dangle and swing from side to side.

A few minutes ago I had everything I’ve been fighting for since my knee injury. I coach a team that’s on the up. The British media is writing positive stories about me. And European clubs are showing interest.

But now? Now I have a hollow gnawing feeling in my gut that says I have absolutely nothing.

I toss the charm around in my hand. “I’ll leave this here for you.” I set it on the still-empty bookshelves next to my desk and walk out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

HUGO

I have to enter this locker room in the Orlando stadium in a minute and give the guys the rousing, inspirational speech of my life.

But how the hell am I supposed to do that without Wilcox by my side? I haven’t made a single coach’s speech without her next to me. And without her, all my coaching powers are deserting me. I’m like Samson with his hair cut off. Except I’m Hugo and my Wilcox has been cut off.

It doesn’t help that I hardly slept last night—a cardinal sin for any athlete. The one thing you need before any big match day is rest. And it seems I’ve been completely unable to take the advice I give to everyone else to put all personal problems in a box until after the game.

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