Page 12 of The Thing About My Rival

“Six years ago?” What nonsense is she talking now?

She snorts and spins away from me. “I’m going to get a bucket. This place needs a scrub.” And she disappears out of the door.

I knew I recognized her from somewhere.

But what the hell happened six years ago?

CHAPTER FIVE

DREW

“And he really taped a line through the middle of the office? And up over thewindow?” Joyce holds her belly with one hand and slaps the other on the pub table, jangling her bangles and rattling our glasses.

I nod and pick up my Guinness to save it from toppling over. “Yup. That’s how pathetic he is.”

“More like how much he likes you, you mean.” Winston rubs the white stubble that contrasts against his dark skin, then takes a sip of his Sam Adams.

This corner table at my aunt and uncle’s pub, The Blarney Stone, has become my regular evening haunt since I moved into the apartment above it. With them having retired to Florida, and Garrett, the manager, having his own home with his husband and kids, it was sitting empty. So they’ve lent it to me as a stopgap until I find somewhere more permanent. But right now my work situation seems too precarious to even start looking.

When I’d come down to say hi to Garrett the evening Imoved in, he introduced me to this band of three local seniors who stop in every night at ten o’clock to set the world to rights. The Oldies, as they call themselves, welcomed me with open arms, and I instantly became their fourth wheel.

And that’s great because, although I grew up in Boston, I fell out of touch with my friends. But now I have new ones. All of them are in their seventies, and after just a week they already feel more like family than friends. Actually, they’re a hell of a lot better than my family.

“Oh, yeah,” Mona says, her gray bun bobbing as she nods. “Boys only do stuff like that when they like a girl. When my Dennis was first trying to get with me, he’d sneak my lunch from my backpack and hide it. Then I’d have five questions to figure out where it was.” Mona and her husband were high school sweethearts. He passed away eight years ago.

Joyce pats the back of her peroxide pixie cut. “Sounds more irritating than attractive.” She reaches for the bacon-flavored potato chips sitting in the center of the table—they share a bag every night. “If anyone got between me and my lunch, they’d be the last person I’d fall in love with.”

“Mona’s right.” Winston gives me a wise old owl look over the top of his wire-framed glasses. “I used to yank Nora O’Sullivan’s braids and run away all the time. But only because I liked her.” His gaze drifts off toward the old wooden bar with its rows of beer taps and shelves of Irish whiskey behind. “Wonder what she’s doing now?”

“So hurting girls and taking their lunch used to be thought of as adorable?” I ask

“Not by me,” Joyce says.

“I didn’t hurt Nora. I pulled her hair gently.” Winston looks thoughtful. “At least I hope I did.”

“And my Dennis was shy,” Mona says. “Teasing was his only love language.”

“Well, my situation is definitely not a case of being teased by an admirer,” I tell them. “It’s a case of someone trying to make my life such hell that I’ll quit and he’ll get what he wants.”

“So the new owners gavehimthe coach’s job? Even though your dad had already appointed you?” Mona asks.

“Yup. The previous guy walked out as soon as he heard that my dad was selling the club. And my dad panicked that the buyers might back out if they got wind of there being no head coach, so he scrambled to fill the role. Giving it to me was an easy quick fix for him.” I gaze into my drink, my stomach tightening. “I’m sure he’d never have given it to me for any other reason.”

“He was that desperate to sell?” Winston asks.

“Yup. Heart doctor’s orders to retire. But there’d been no takers because of how badly the team was performing. So when this bizarre mixture of the rich, the famous and the royal made an offer three weeks ago, he had to grab it with both hands.”

It might have felt like a last-minute consolation prize, but I had only seconds to decide. So I’d shoved the catastrophic disappointment of him not passing his own role on to me to one side, and accepted this as not only a way to keep the Commoners in my life, but also as a monumental achievement—the first female head coach of an MLS team.

“Anyway,” Joyce says, “Hugo totally wants to get in your pants.” She knocks back the remains of her gin and tonic and slams the coral lipstick-rimmed glass backdown. “And I’ve seen his pictures.Phwoar.” She fans herself. “We’ve got a hot one. Why not have just a teensy bit of fun?”

I lift my glass to my mouth in the hope it might hide the heat flaring in my cheeks. “No way. We work together. Also, there’d be absolutely zero fun involved. Because he’s a total ass.”

“How could any man be an ass to you?” Mona clutches at her high-necked floral top as if she’s holding pearls. “He should be so lucky as to have a chance with such a smart and beautiful young woman.”

I put my drink down and draw a line in the condensation from the top to the bottom. “Thing is…”

Should I tell them? I’m as certain as I can be that I can trust them. But is this story best kept to myself? Probably. I am three-quarters of the way down my second Guinness, though, and fit to burst about this ludicrous situation, so fuck it. I could use some help processing it, and these guys have definitely lived lives and might have some good advice.

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