Page 120 of The Thing About My Rival

How hypocritical does it look that I preach about team spirit, then don’t go to this all-important game just because someone kicked a dent in my heart?

And if we win, I know for sure Hugo will take all theglory, that all my hard work and influence will be wiped from the pages of the Commoners’ history books as quickly as he’s undoubtedly wiped me from his memory.

There was a moment last night, and another this morning, when I looked up flights to Orlando to see if I could get there in time for kickoff. But there was nothing. I even stared at Leo’s name on my phone, my thumb hovering over the button to call him to see if he could get me on a flight with his private plane company.

But none of them really want me there. They never have. As far as they are concerned, I was only there by accident all along.

To them, I’m not good enough. And I never will be.

The Fab Four, the fans, and—when it comes to the crunch—probably the team, all want Hugo.

And he made it very clear yesterday that, deep down, he doesn’t think I’m any more capable than my father ever has. And that tells me he’s not the type of man I want or need in my life. He’s the exact opposite. He’s the type of man I need to run away from. Far, far away from.

I might have slightly exaggerated about packing to leave for Portland. I mean, I do need to pack, but just for a visit and in-person meetings. I had a video chat with the general manager during the week, and she has some thoughts about how they can use me. But nothing’s exactly signed and sealed until I’ve met them face to face.

I’m sure being back there will feel good. Not like being at Spirit Field, of course, which is like home, like where I belong. But they seemed excited by the prospect of bringing me on board in a more senior role. And being wanted feels good.

I’m sure people, maybe including my dad, might sayit’s a step backward from working for the US women’s team. But the national squad comes together only every so often. Being at an actual club, where you work together and train together with the same people every day, is different. In a way, it’s more meaningful—more like a family. And that’s the kind of job I want now.

I mean, it’ll never be the Commoners. But I can’t be there. So I have to take charge of my own future. And right now, Portland is the very best thing I can think of. I can make something of that. Make something of myself.

“Drew?” Garrett calls, as his feet clatter up the stairs that lead from the back of the bar to the front door of my apartment.

I gather up the pile of used tissues on the nightstand and toss them in the wastebasket.

“Yep?” Making my way out of the bedroom, I run my fingers under my eyes.

“Hey.” He smiles when I open the door. “Feeling any better? You look pale.”

I’d told him I was staying home from the match with an upset stomach. And it’s not actually that far from the truth. Ever since Hugo walked out of the office yesterday, I’ve constantly felt on the verge of throwing up and haven’t eaten a thing.

“I’m okay, thanks. Mainly tired.” Also true, except it’s due to spending the night tossing and turning while trying to push the good parts of Hugo out of my head.

Good parts like our first date when he took me to see the kids play on the common, the time I opened his kitchen cabinet to find a box of my favorite green tea in there, and when he told Ramon to treat me with respect—which, with hindsight, seems like an incredibly thoughtfulthing to do. Perhaps I was an ungrateful, stubborn, too-independent ass for not seeing it that way at the time.

“Did you need me for something?” I ask Garrett.

“I might have slipped up.” He pulls a broad grimace and twists the bar towel he’s holding. “I accidentally told the Oldies you’re here.”

Joyce, Mona, and Winston told me last week they were going to make an exception to their rule of only coming in for a nightcap and planned to be here to watch this afternoon’s game so they could support me in spirit. Which is totally fucking adorable. Especially since I’m pretty sure none of them would know what warrants a corner kick.

But I’d asked Garrett not to let anyone know I’m home. I just want to hide up here and watch the game alone. Or not watch it. I still haven’t figured out which would be the least painful.

I groan. “Shit.”

“Yeah, I’m so sorry.” His voice is full of genuine remorse. “I told them the only reason you’re here is because you’re not feeling well. And you probably wouldn’t be able to come down.”

“Okay, that’s great. Thanks.” Relieved, I start to close the door.

“But they asked me to make you the best drink for an upset stomach. So…there’s a ginger beer with mint sitting on their table for you.” He grimaces again. “They can be very persuasive.”

The last thing I want to do is to sit in the bar and risk someone recognizing me and wondering why the hell I’m not at the game. I just want to be up here alone, privately yelling at Hugo through the screen for all the bad decisions he will inevitably make without me there.

But the Oldies and their ceaseless thoughtfulness are a balm to my aching heart.

“They can. They are hard to refuse. Don’t worry about it.” I can’t possibly let down the three people who welcomed me into their clique like family. “I’m a sucker for a bit of emotional blackmail. Just let me tidy myself up. Tell them I’ll be down in a minute.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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