Page 16 of The Thing About My Rival

“You’re a funny guy.” The last bits of salmon skin appear to be welded to the pan for the next millennium. “Just be thankful I managed to get the smoke alarm to stop wailing before I called you.”

“Maybe you should have started your culinary journey with something simple. Like beans on toast.”

“Guess I did overstretch myself with salmon and spicy rice. But moving here is supposed to be a fresh start, so I thought I’d give the whole cooking-your-own dinner thing a go.” I drop the pan in the sink and run water into it. “Sadly, I ended up with fish that was black on the outside, raw in the middle, and rice so soggy I could have regrouted the bathroom with it.”

More importantly, I’d thought the activity would keep me occupied and take my mind off the bloody awful work situation.

Tom snorts into his phone.

“This is the last time I call you for moral support,” I tell him.

He’s pretty much the only person in the world who’s ever gotten me. And he’s not even a footballer. He owns Garage Records, the multibillion-dollar global label with some of the world’s biggest music stars.

But we became fast friends ten years ago when he was living in England and we met at the Glastonbury festival. We were two people who no one else seemed to understand, but we understood each other.

He’d been in London since he was a teenager but moved back to the States last year after falling for an American. And he’s talking to me from his office in their house high in the Hollywood hills.

“Any more taking the piss out of my cooking,” I say, “and I’ll tell LA Galaxy to cancel the tickets I had them send you.”

“God no,” Tom says. “I’ve finally managed to get Dylan excited about it now.”

Dylan is Tom’s teenage stepson-to-be. He’s into baseball. But Tom, who became a huge footy fan while he was in the UK, has been working hard to turn the kid into one too. I figured getting them tickets to a local match might help Tom’s cause—and be fun bonding time for them both.

“Anyway,” Tom says, “let’s get back to the point. Who exactly is this woman coach you’re accidentally job-sharing with? Is she actually qualified to coach the Commoners? Or just daddy’s little nepo baby?”

“Drew Wilcox. And yes, she’s qualified.” I sigh. “Irritatingly qualified.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone as I cross the apartment to the two walls of windows looking out toward the river and over Boston Common—Christ, there’s no fucking escape from those two words.

“Hold on,” Tom says. “Drew Wilcox?”

“Yeah, why?” I unlatch the giant sliding-glass door to help release the stink of burned salmon. Stepping out onto the balcony I take a huge, chest-expanding breath of the summer evening air.

“As in, the assistant head coach of the US women’s team?”

“Well, obviouslyformer.” A flock of birds circles high above the trees on the common. They’re big. Might be hawks. I’ll look that up later. “Since she’s now, you know, co-head coach of the Boston Commoners.”

Tom chuckles. “Christ, that’s gotta be awkward.”

“I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes telling you how fucking awkward it is.”

“I don’t mean just because of the job thing,” he says. “I mean because of the Paris thing.”

“What Paris thing?”

“At the Euros.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t remember?” If you look up the wordincredulousin the dictionary, it plays the sound Tom’s voice is making. “A few years ago? When you were with the England team in Paris?”

I lean on the railing and gaze at the cars and dots of people in the street forty-two floors below. “The thing Iremember most about that is that we got knocked out in the final sixteen because that wanker Newman took a shot at goal with all the skill of a drunk toddler.”

“I’m not talking about the game.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh my God, Hugo.Seriously?”

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