Page 130 of The Thing About My Rival

My stomach churns. Is my dream job worth sucking that up?

“Friends and supporters of the MLS.” The booming male voice cuts through the music. “Please take your seats. Dinner is about to be served.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

HUGO

Why did the Fab Four take Wilcox aside like that?

I push the dessert plate away, just one bite taken out of whatever that fancy chocolate and raspberry thing is. Usually, I never leave a crumb behind, but I can’t stomach another mouthful tonight. And I only managed half the main course.

Thank God Wilcox is at the other Commoners table. And thank God she has her back to me, because when I caught sight of her in that long slinky dress, slashed to the thigh, showing a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth skin I’ve sucked on more than once, Mr. Happy was very ready to say hello.

My stomach is definitely not happy, though. It’s been twisting itself into an ever-tightening tangle since she came down the stairs with Bakari.

If things had panned out the way I’d wanted, it would have been me she arrived with, my arm she was holding,me she was laughing and smiling at. And it would be my, or ratherour, hotel room she’s going back to tonight.

I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off her since we sat down, my gaze drawn to her bare shoulders, the back of her neck where it leads to her pinned-up hair, and a flash of that little cloverleaf birthmark below her left ear every once in a while when she turns her head.

“Maybe we’ll win something,” Schumann, who’s sitting next to me, says.

“What?” I take a sip of water and snap back to reality.

He drops his spoon onto a plate so clean it could be fresh from the dishwasher and nods toward the stage as music strikes up, the lights dim, and our hosts for the evening—the always annoying duo of Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi—take the stage.

“I doubt that very much,” I tell him, and join in with the applause.

“And now to our final award of the night,” Sharpe tells the crowd that’s probably averaging around three sheets to the wind. “The biggie. The Sportsperson of the Year.”

“And here to announce it is last year’s winner,” Rossi adds. “Goalkeeper for the LA Stars, Kaden Zoff.”

Thank God, it’s almost over. I down the last of the beer I finally managed to persuade one of the “It’s champagne only, sir” servers to bring me. As soon as this award’s presented, I’ll be out the door and as far away from the torture of Wilcox’s neck, shoulders, leg, smile, heart, mind and spirit, as I can possibly get.

Zoff holds the envelope in both hands and concentrates on the teleprompter. “This year’s recipient of theSportsperson of the Year is someone who’s faced adversity and blasted right through it, who’s shown unrivaled team spirit…”

Schumann puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ramon?” he whispers.

Could be.

“This person has led from the front, put their career on the line for others, and set an example to us all.”

At the other Commoners table there’s certainly a lot of eyebrow raising in Ramon’s direction. He humbly shakes his head.

“This person has lived and breathed soccer their whole life,” Zoff continues.

Christ, why does there always have to be such a big buildup to these things? And if it is Ramon, bang goes my plan to run out of here straight away. I’ll have to hang around to celebrate with him.

While I’d be delighted for the guy, I’m not in much of a celebrating mood. I’m in more of asitting on the couch with another beer, letting whatever movie is on TV wash over me while I try to scrape the last remnants of Wilcox out of my headmood.

Zoff is still reading from the teleprompter. “There was talk of him being a bad choice, a reckless man who could be a danger to himself and others. But at the end of this season, he showed himself to be a man of principle and honor. A man with the right priorities.”

Ramon makes eye contact with me over the hair piled on top of Wilcox’s head. I raise my glass to him. But he replies with a headshake.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the greatest soccer league in the world, this year’s Sportsperson of the Year is…”

A dramatic drumroll blasts from the speakers andspotlights swirl around the room as Zoff makes as big of a deal of ripping open the envelope as he did of that save against the Houston Dynamo early in the season.

I catch the eye of the server who got my beer and wave him over. If I’m going to have to stick around here to support Ramon, I’m sure as hell not doing it without another beer in my hand.

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