Page 4 of The Thing About My Rival

DREW

“I think you’ll findI’mthe new head coach,” Hugo freaking Powers says, folding his arms tight across his broad chest. His biceps aren’t as lean as they used to be.

It’s impossible to stop the loudhathat flies from my mouth because that’s clearly ridiculous. Is there any player in the world who’d be worse coach material than Mr. Hard-partying Playboy here?

I can’t say I’m surprised that there’s a mix up of some kind—after the last-minute way this job came about, I was expectingsomethingnot to be right.

But I was most definitely not expecting God’s gift to pop star banging to be somehow involved in it. That was a plot twist I didn’t see coming.

And why the hell would the man who’s played at the top of the world game since he was seventeen want to coach the worst team in this league’s history?

Oh yeah, because no other club would touch him witha ten-foot pole. And if they did, they’d need to soak it in Clorox afterward.

The new ownership combo of property developer, movie star, entrepreneur dude, and disgraced prince all move toward me, talking at once in a verbal mush of “We appointed Hugo,” “You can’t be,” “There’s been a misunderstanding,” and “Whoareyou?”

Fortunately, because my highly trained suspicious gut had already been working overtime, I’m prepared and armed for trouble.

I haven’t worked in soccer to the age of thirty-two without clawing my way up in a male world, fighting for every job and being overlooked in favor of less-qualified men. So I had a feeling this was too good to be true.

But the problems I’d imagined had all been a little less fundamental. Like maybe something to do with salary or sponsorships. I hadn’t foreseen anything as basic as someone else also having been given the goddamn job.

I head back to my kit bag and pull out the perfectly organized folder sitting right on top, ready for whatever issue was certain to crop up.

“Here.” Opening it, I thrust it at the Fab Four and point at the top right corner. “That’s the date on my contract. What’s the date on his?” I jerk my head toward soccer’s answer to a one-man frat house who’s saying nothing. “His has to be dated after mine, because I was appointed right before the sale went through. So you bought the club with me already in this job.”

Leo Johanssen takes the folder and flips through my paperwork like he eats legal documents for breakfast.

After a few moments of awkward silence punctuated only by some heavy nasal breathing, he releases a long sigh.

“She’s right,” he says, then looks up at me. “But why would the old owner give you the job just hours before selling us the club and not mention it to us?”

“Because he’s my father.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from the players I haven’t met before, which is most of them.

Hugo strides up next to me, facing the owners, then takes one step closer to them.

I look up at the impressive wall of muscle, the wide shoulders and solid back. My eyes involuntarily flick downward to the shorts hugging his butt, the shiny black fabric stopping halfway down his tree-trunk thighs. I regain control of my eyeballs before they can do any more damage and glance at the Fab Four, whose attention is fixed on Hugo.

“Look, guys,” he says, acting as if I’m not here. “You’re the owners. Andyougave me the job. So that’s that, right? I’m the head coach. End of.”

It’s childish logic—like a kid disputing the unfairness of only his brother getting a chocolate bar. Could it really be that inside that brash, muscular exterior there’s an insecure little boy desperate to prove himself?

“Well, before we’d finalized our purchase, we got word that the previous coach was quitting because of the sale. So we thought we’d better hire a new one quickly,” Leo says. “And I guess while we were scrambling to get you, Mr. Wilcox had already brought Drew on board to fill the hole, and neither of us knew what the other was doing. It looks like this was all a big miscommunication. Or lack of communication.”

Leo rubs his chin. “So, yeah, Hugo. Being hired by us doesn’t trump Drew’s appointment if we bought the clubwith her already in the post—even if we didn’t know. I’m afraid that’s not how employment law works.”

“It certainly isn’t.” I step forward, level with Hugo.

The top of my head might only reach his shoulder, but there’s no way I’m going to let his larger-than-life presence dominate their attention.

I stand right next to him, less than a foot between us, like we’re reality show contestants waiting to see who’ll be voted off the island, and point at the folder still in Leo’s hands. “And if you check page four, paragraph three, subsection two point five, you’ll see I have quite a substantial termination clause.”

Leo flips the pages. It’s obvious when he finds the spot because his eyes pop. “Jesus. I’m not sure even Ronaldo had a clause like this. What the hell kind of lawyer do you have that you got that through?”

“You don’t need a good lawyer. You just need a parent who underestimates you, so he rubber stamps the contract.”

“Ah, I get it,” Hugo says, a supercilious smile stretching from one side of his stubbled square jaw to the other. “Daddy gave his little girl the big job she’s not qualified for.”

I turn to face his skyscraper frame.

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