Page 19 of The Thing About My Rival

The potential for an irritating smirk plays at one corner of his mouth. But I’m on a roll here, so I plow on. “Give me all the shit you like back there.” I point toward the offices. “But out here we have to be on the same side. Not least because a team is never going to respond to warring coaches.”

He throws his hands up to the sky. “How can I treat you as an equal when you’re my rival? My job here is to win the permanent coach position. And that means I have to beat you.”

“So you’re planning to undermine me every step of the way?”

He shrugs.

“Well, that’s not a tactic I recognize from the Hugo Powers playing days. That Hugo Powers won by using his skill and his brain and his God-given talent. Not by poking childish fun at the opposition.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. There’s no sign of the soft pools of melted chocolate I remember from Paris, now they’re more like burnt toast—dark, scratchy, and liable to rip my throat out.

Well, screw him. “If you want to keep this job, how about you win it fair and square, by actually being the better coach. Not by being the tiny little man who tells the team not to listen to the girly. You’re better than that, Hugo.” I snort. “Or maybe you’re not.”

He folds his arms and huffs. “And this is all because I asked you to move the cones?”

Here we go again with thelook at the little woman overreactingattitude. I ball my fists tighter to keep from beating on his broad muscular chest in frustration. Is he deliberately being obtuse or does he really not understand?

“First.” It’s hard to talk through such firmly gritted teeth. “You didn’t ask me, you told me. Second, you shouted it in front of the players, giving them the impression you’re my boss. Which, by the way, you are not.”

Jesus, how did I get here? How am I standing on the training field fighting tooth and nail with one of the world’s biggest soccer stars for a job I never really wanted, just so I can keep a foothold at my beloved Commoners? I only ever imagined working here as owner when my dad passed it on to me someday, never as coach.

“I told you yesterday.” He sighs and even manages to make that sound superior. “This is never going to work.”

“It definitely won’t if you don’t try.”

“The only thing I’m trying to do here is to turn thisbunch of losers into a bunch of winners.” He flings his finger toward the guys. “And it’s not my problem if I know how to do that and you don’t.”

My thumping heart pauses for a second at words that could so easily have come from my dad.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I have a coaching pedigree most people my age can only dream of. But right now, I need to remember that with all my might.

I glare at him and battle to keep my voice calm, but firm, despite the wobble in my throat. “How many World Cups have you won? Zero. How many times were you captain? Zero. Examples of leadership skills? Zero. My list of coaching credentials, however, is even longer than your bar tab. I absolutely know how to get the most from players. And I absolutely know that you taking Ramon aside for a special little chat, and singling him out from the others like that, will do nothing to foster team spirit. And it’s team spirit that wins titles.”

“Right, yeah, sorry. I forgot you won a World Cup.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes to the sky. “But that’s because it doesn’t count if you’re standing on the sideline holding a fucking clipboard.”

“It’s very mature of you to diminish my coaching achievements to make yourself feel better about having none.”

“Look,” he says, with a tone that clearly indicates an arrogant explanation of something obvious is about to follow. “Ramon is the biggest talent on the team.” Yup, there it is. “Of course I have to encourage him. He could win everything for us.”

“And there you go again. All about the individual.” Apparently my hands are on my hips now and I’m leaningforward into him. “No one player wins a soccer game, Hugo. Teams do.”

“I have. I’ve won plenty of matches single-handedly.”

“I think you’ll find there were ten other men on the field with you.”

He sneers. “Sometimes there might as well not have been.”

“And you fostering that same it’s-all-about-me attitude in Ramon will be his downfall. He’s eighteen. He’s impressionable. He comes from nothing. The salary he’s earning here is more money than he ever thought he’d see in his whole life. It could all easily go to his head.”

Suddenly, Hugo’s hand is on my arm, his fingers tight around my bicep.

“What the hell are?—”

I can’t complete the question because he’s yanked me so hard to the side that I’ve lost my balance and fallen nose-first into his chest. A chest that smells of clean laundry and a hint of spice that gives me a flashback to that closet in Paris.

“What the fuck was that for?” I ask, yanking my arm free of his grip and pushing myself away from his solid form.

A ball whistles right by us.

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