Page 23 of The Thing About My Rival

“A what-the-fuck now?” He narrows his eyes and leans toward us, like I’m speaking a language he’s never heard before.

While every pore of me wants to tell him not to be so rude and closed-minded, I take a deep breath and keep my tone as gentle and measured as is humanly possible under such asshole-fueled circumstances.

“This isn’t really the energy we need in the room right now, Hugo. Could you please excuse us? You and I can talk about this privately afterward. If you’d like.”

“I don’t need to chat about anything. And neither do these guys. Come on, fellas. Off your arses and onto the field.”

Half the players jump to their feet like they just spotted the life raft on a sinking ship. Most of the rest awkwardly stand up like they’re caught in a fight between their parents. And Bakari and Ramon look at me.

How dare he. How fucking dare he. Tears of frustration fueled by years of clawing my way up in the sport and alifetime of my dad thinking I should have chosen a non-soccer career prick at my eyes.

But I will not cry in front of Hugo freaking Powers. I will not.

“We still have forty-five minutes left.” Despite my best effort, my breath shakes in my throat. “I’ll send the guys out when we’re done.”

“Bollocks to that.” He grabs the door and points through it. A handful of the players who’d stood up seize the chance to flee to freedom. “Anyone who wants to do your hippie talking-stick bullshit can do it when they’re off the clock. But it’s not going to eat into actual training time.”

“Thisispart of training, Hugo.” I clasp my hands in front of me in what I hope is a calming manner—for me as much as him—and pray no one can see how white my knuckles are.

“Training, Coach Wilcox, is drills and fitness and practice, learning how to fight, fight, fight, fight for a win.” He punches the air with everyfight. “It is not sitting around talking about your shitty childhood.”

I look at Ashanti who meets my gaze, her eyebrows lifting just a tiny hair as if to say, well now we all know who had a shitty childhood.

“Come on.” Hugo casts his eyes over the remaining players and points through thedoorway.

They move away amid a scraping of chairs and some mutterings, including a “Thank fuck for that” or two.

Before he leaves the circle, Bakari turns to Ashanti and says, “Thank you.”

At least someone has manners.

“You’re very welcome,” she replies. “I hope to see you next week.”

Ramon tosses the ball back to her. “Yeah, thanks.”

Then he follows his teammates—and the man I cannot believe I ever kissed—out of the room.

I stand in the middle of the empty circle as Hugo slams the door behind him.

When I turn back to face Ashanti, she has the most serene smile on her face. “Well done for keeping your composure.”

“You have no idea how hard that was.”

“Oh, I think I do. But they’ll come around. They always do.”

“A few of the players might. But jerkface there is a lost cause.”

“No one’s a lost cause.” Her words are heavy with the insight and experience of someone to whom none of this is new, unique, or even that bad.

And with a comforting smile, she tosses the ball to me.

I catch it and wrap my arms around it, hugging it to my chest. “Me? My biggest fear?”

She nods.

I could say that it’s failing at this job and losing all hope of my father ever thinking I’m good enough to be in the game. Or I could tell her how seeing even just a picture of a snake makes me want to climb onto the nearest high surface and scream for my life.

But instead, I jerk my head toward the door. “Punching him in the face and being arrested.”

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