Page 3 of The Thing About My Rival

But I do need to win. There’s no bigger high in life. SoI’m here for that. And also because I want my reputation back.

No one thought I’d ever get a coaching job. But here I am.

No one thinks I can drag this trash can team to the top of the league. So let’s show them.

When I die, I don’t want the headline to be “Hugo Powers, known more for his off-the-pitch antics than his football, died today in a pool of his own beer vomit surrounded by half-naked women and food delivery boxes.”

I want it to be “World Cup champion coach, Hugo Powers, respected for his supreme talent on the pitch and inspirational leadership off it, dropped dead while screaming ‘fucking brilliant’ just as his team scored a winning goal.”

If I’m going to turn things around so people talk about my skill rather than who I last slept with, the first step on the very bottom of that tall ladder is to whip this team into shape.

“You can think whatever you like about me,” I tell them. “But you know what I am?”

A guy in the corner mutters something, but a teammate scowls at him and shakes his head. Maybe I’m already starting to get through.

“I’m a fucking winner, that’s what I am. And I’m going to train the unholy shit out of you all until I turn you into winners too.”

A few more faces are looking at me now and all of the Fab Four are smiling. Well, only half of Leo’s mouth is smiling, but that’s like two smiles from anyone else.

“Do you want to win more games in what’s left of this season than you did in the rest of it and make theplayoffs?” The prospect of that is a bit far-fetched, but it is mathematically possible. I’ve run the statistics every which way so many times I had a nightmare about a giant number three chasing me down a dark alley where two, four and zero were waiting to beat the crap out of me.

There are nods and a couple of mumbled yeses.

“I said, do you want to make the playoffs?”

A few more of them join in with the yeses.

“You can definitely do better than that. One more try. Do you want to make the fucking playoff?—”

“Hi, guys.” A woman with a blond ponytail tied high on her head, wearing a sky-blue Commoners T-shirt and orange track pants with three white stripes down the side of each perfectly shaped leg, bursts into the room.

She drops a kit bag inside the door and heads straight for the Fab Four, leaving a hint of a lemony-orangey aroma as she passes.

Nice arse.

“I was looking for you in the office upstairs, but everyone said you were down here. You must be Miller,” she says. He shakes her offered hand despite the look on his face that says he has no clue who she is.

“And Chase.” She makes her way along the line. “Nice to meet you, Leo.” They all politely shake, looking at each other like everyone else must know what’s going on.

She holds out her hand to Prince Oliver, then stops. “Oh. Er. Sorry. I haven’t been briefed on protocol. Not sure if I should curtsy or something.”

“Fuck no,” the prince says. “Just shake my hand and call me Oliver.”

“Great.” She offers him her hand. “Thanks, Oliver.”

Something about her is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

She turns to face the team.“I’m Drew Wilcox,” she tells them. “Your new head coach.”

What?

My head snaps to the owners, who all take a step forward at the same time, with varying degrees of what-the-fuck?-ness on their faces.

Miller is the first to open his mouth.

But before any words can emerge from it, this Wilcox chick swings around and points an accusing finger at me. “And my first question is—what the hell is Hugo Powers doing here?”

CHAPTER TWO

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