Page 44 of The Thing About My Rival

THREE WEEKS LATER

HUGO

My sneakers squeal on the hallway tiles as I storm from the tunnel to the office, the roars and boos of the crowd behind me barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears.

After three weeks of wins and some lucky-for-us losses by those above us in the table, we’ve risen to a respectable spot near the middle and the Fab Four are delighted.

Of course I know winning streaks never last. But I didn’t expect this one to end quite so humiliatingly.

Tonight, they blew it. Threw away everything I’ve taught them. Flushed the fresh energy from the change in ownership and our new approach to coaching down the toilet.

I yank open the office door to find Wilcox with herback to me, standing motionless and staring at her laptop. Spouting forth from it are Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi.

“Well, we all knew the Commoners wouldn’t be able to hack it among the big boys, didn’t we, Gilbert?” Sharpe says with a smug chuckle. “But I don’t think anyone expected the undignified four-nil pasting we just witnessed. It was more like watching a car crash than a soccer game.”

“A massive pileup would be more accurate,” Rossi adds. “One where vehicle after vehicle smashes into the others, spewing wreckage across the highway in all directions. For ninety minutes.”

“And on home turf too. Couldn’t be more shameful,” Sharpe says. “I imagine Hugo Powers will have something to say to the players about that.”

“Too fucking right he will.”

Wilcox jumps at my words and spins around.

Years of experience have taught me that, for no reason at all, every team member can have a really bad day on the same day. But knowing that can happen doesn’t prevent the disappointment and frustration from rattling around my brain and my chest, battering my skull and ricocheting against my ribs.

“Turn those wankers off,” I snap at Wilcox. “Sharpe hasn’t kicked a ball this century, and Rossi wouldn’t have known how to find the back of the net if it was decked out in flashing lights and a marching band was leading the way. I don’t want the shit they spew tainting the air of this place. I’ve got plenty of words of my own to share.”

I reach for the handle to the locker room door to give the guys the piece of my mind that’s left over from the one I gave them at halftime.

In a swift ninja move, Wilcox slams the laptop shut with one hand and lunges for my arm with the other.

“Don’t.” Her grip around my forearm and the urgency in her eyes say she means it.

I stop dead in my tracks, surprised by the mere fact she’s touching me as much as by the forcefulness of it. The way my body heats reminds me it’s our first physical contact since I accidentally kissed her at the end of the Atlanta game.

I’m still not sure how that happened. It was instinctive. My lips were on hers before I even knew what I was doing. And once they were there, I didn’t know what the hell to do. So I mashed my mouth against hers in a completely unromantic way to try to give the impression it was some sort of joke kiss. Just a lark, no biggie.

When the final whistle blew on our next victory, I grabbed our physio by his bearded cheeks and slapped my mouth on his to try to make out it was just something I always do to the nearest person whenever we win.

Brian wasn’t best pleased and asked me to never do it again.

Oh, no worries about that. How do people enjoy kissing men with beards? It was like sticking my face in a moist bird’s nest.

I abandoned that idea right there. So I have to hope that giving a smacker to one bloke was enough to convince Wilcox there’s no need to worry about our little lip-lock.

I, however, have continued to…yeah, let’s call itworryabout it.

I’veworriedabout it in bed. In the shower. And one time I had a very urgentworryin the restroom farthest from our office after we’d ordered in lunch and I discoveredthe way she eats pickles turns Mr. Happy into Mr. About To Fucking Burst.

And the way she’s looking at me now, all green eyes and flushed cheeks, it’s impossible for my attention not to be drawn to her full pink lips as they form the words “Don’t yell.”

Oh yes, our crushing defeat. How did she manage to momentarily distract me from that?

I scoff. “Sharpe and Rossi are right. The guys in there played like a bunch of donkeys who’ve never even seen a ball before, let alone kicked one. But they’remyfucking donkeys. And they need a rocket up their arses. From me.”

“Sleep on it.” Her hold on me doesn’t loosen.

Did she hang on to me like that in Paris? Is it how she’d grip me if she?—

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