Page 40 of The Thing About My Rival

And she was funny. Told me a story about how she once full-body tackled a streaker on the pitch before the cops could get to him.

She’s ballsy.

And although I might not agree with some of her ideas, she is right that the guys could all benefit from regular sessions with a sports psychologist.

Lord knows I’ve been sent to my fair share of them. Not sure it ever did me much good—the addled mess inside my head is probably beyond repair. But being made to see someone once a week whohasto listen to you complain about things because they’re paid to, ended up feeling like a good thing.

And Wilcox is smart.

She did math about goal averages in her head. Doubt I could have done it with a calculator.

I sat there and watched the cogs in her brain turn while she worked it out. It was like she went to another place for a second. But the spark in her eyes remained.

Fuck.

The night I couldn’t sleep because I was so cut up about my knee, I called Tom. It helped. He’s kind of like my therapy now. He’s definitely the best mate a guy could wish for. And right now he’s in LA, so it’s only 11:15 p.m. there, and he’s always been a night owl.

I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand.

“Hey,” Tom says. “Let me guess. You’ve slept with the enemy.”

I put the phone on speaker and lay it on my chest as I gaze up at the ceiling. “Don’t even.”

“You’ll have to forgive the assumption. But it wouldn’t exactly be out of character.”

“I haven’t slept with her, no. But you know what?”

“You want to?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Oh, Hugo. Hugo, Hugo, Hugo. I thought you were supposed to be focusing on the job here. You know, new leaf and all that.”

“I am. But on top of how hard it is to co-coach with someone—her in particular— we’ve just spent the evening having dinner together at a restaurant so fucking romantic that even someone trying to dream up a romantic restaurant wouldn’t come close. And she looked fucking gorgeous. And she was smart. And funny. And…” I link my hands behind my head, barely able to bring myself to utter the word I’m thinking. “Cute.”

“You haddinner together?” Tom couldn’t sound more surprised if I’d told him I’d just bumped into my footballing hero Bobby Moore—who’s been dead for several decades. “You mean you asked her on adate? And she saidyes? And you went todinner? Are you losing your fucking mind?”

“God, no. None of that. The Fab Four were pissed off we weren’t getting along. They said if we can’t work it out, they’ll have to send one of us on gardening leave. So Chase booked us an all-expenses-paid meal at Pulacini’s to give us a chance to sit down and figure out a way to work together.”

My mind flashes back to the image of Wilcox’s genuine belly laugh when I told her I was once chasing the ball so hard that I couldn’t stop and flew headfirst over the advertising boards into the crowd and landed in a guy’s lap.

“And I think we did.”

“Oh, Jesus. Do you actually like her? Like,likeher?”

“I don’t know. What does that feel like?”

“You’re a lost fucking cause.” Tom’s long sigh is full of despair. “But if you are ready to dip your toe into the waters of an actual relationship, I might suggest that the person you have to train a football team with every day—and who you’re fighting against to keep the job—might not be the best candidate.”

“Ex-fucking-zactly. But I’m not saying I want an actual relationship. I’m just saying she’s different. And I was lying here trying to sleep but couldn’t. So I thought I’d call my old mate to straighten me out.”

“Well, at the risk of stating the obvious, I’d say the reason you can’t sleep is because she’s playing on your mind. And if she’s playing on your mind, it’s because you like her. And if you do actually like her, then maybe the situation is irrelevant.”

“Wrong answer, Dashwood. Wrong answer.”

“Hmm. Now, let me think.” Something sarcastic is coming. “If I recall correctly, a very unwise man once said something to me that was very wise. I believe it was alongthe lines of, ‘You can’t always control the timing of your life. Sometimes you have to just go with it.’”

“Whoever that was is an idiot.”

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