Page 26 of The Thing About My Rival

“Look at all of his different colors,” I tell the kid. “That always surprised me. You don’t realize how many they have until you get this close.”

The bird suddenly puffs himself up and ruffles his feathers, and with a good shake they all fall neatly back into place like nothing ever happened.

“He’s back.” The endorphin hit from seeing him recover brings on a smile I wasn’t expecting.

And with that, the bird takes a couple hops away from us, spreads his wings and flies off.

“Whoa,” the intern says as if I’ve performed a magic trick.

“Right,” I tell him. “Now go fetch that ball. And if you must play with the equipment, be more fucking careful.”

I stand up and stretch my legs, rubbing my bad knee that’s not enjoyed the crouching.

Still not another human in sight.

What the hell is going on? Has someone called a meeting and I didn’t get the memo?

I check my emails as I march through the tunnel and head toward the locker room.

The janitor and one of the grounds crew look the other way when I pass them. But then they’re among the long-serving members of staff who hug Wilcox whenever they see her.

Yeah, maybe I should apologize to her for being a dick. I should be the bigger person and show we can havedifferent ideas but still be on the same side. I mean, ultimately we both want this team to win, right? We do havesomethingin common.

I open the locker room door to find it empty. There’s not a single sign anyone has even been in here today. No clothes hanging up, no shoes or kit bags on the floor.

The only person in the vicinity is Wilcox, sitting at her desk on the other side of the large plexiglass panel, typing on her laptop.

On the wall behind her, she’s now hung a photo of the US women’s team and staff taken right after they won the World Cup three years ago. The captain is front and center, holding up the goddamn trophy.

Swear to God she’s put that up just to annoy me.

But if I’m going to be Nice Hugo, I should think that ifI’dbeen involved in a World Cup win I’d also want to shout it from the rooftops. So, much as I’d like to criticize her for that, it’s probably not fair.

Yeah, I’m going to say sorry for bursting into her session the way I did yesterday. I could have achieved the same thing and gotten the guys out and onto the field without behaving like that.

Wilcox glances up when I open the door from the locker room to the office. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, then immediately turn back to her computer screen. An image of her looking up at me like that in that Paris club, but with smiling eyes and blond hair cascading over her bare shoulders, flashes across my mind.

Those thoughts need to take a fucking hike.

And it’s easier than expected to shake them off when my ears are assaulted by the voices of the world’s most incompetent TV football commentators, Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi, spouting forth from her laptop.

“Well, my sources tell me the two head coaches thing is anything but forward-thinking management,” Sharpe says. “I hear it’s all due to an administrative snafu and they never wanted Drew Wi?—”

She’s stabbed the mute button.

“Why are you listening to those two arseholes?” I ask her.

“It’s their new podcast. Thought I’d give it a try. Keep up with the news.”

“Seemsweare the news.”

She shrugs.

“Anyway,” I say. “Where is everyone? They were due out for training half an hour ago.”

She starts typing, her eyes firmly fixed on the screen. “At Downward Dogma.”

“Atwhat?”

---