Page 45 of The Thing About My Rival

“Remember when you yelled at your goalie in the FA Cup final seven years ago?” she asks.

I furrow my brow, unsure whether I’m more puzzled that she knows I did that or that she bothered to research me in such detail.

“He was so rattled he let in a goal two minutes later and you lost,” she says. “Tearing into people who’ve had a bad day doesn’t make them better. It makes them worse.”

“So you want me to let them get away with it? Would you prefer me to waft around patchouli oil while they soak in a bubble bath and I read them some poetry?”

Her hand is still on my arm, her hold still unwavering. “When was the last time you shouted at someone and it improved things?”

“When I…” No idea how I was planning to end that sentence, but nothing is coming to me. “I actually don’t yell very often. People just think I do. It’s blown out of all proportion.”

“So never then.” There’s no gloating in her voice, no glee in her eye, no look of victory on her face. She’s as calm as a Zen master. Magnanimous in the face of being right. No scoffing. No celebrating her win. Just happy I’ve got the point.

“Does it count if it makesmefeel better?” I ask, unable to cave completely.

“It’s not about you. Iftheydon’t win”—she tips her head toward the locker room—“wedon’t win.”

Ouch. A verbal kick in the wins. She knows exactly where to get me.

“We’ll talk to them tomorrow,” she continues. “Go with me on this one.”

Her other hand reaches for my fingers on the doorknob, and, one by one, she peels them loose. And I let her.

When she lets go of me, it feels all wrong. Like it was right when she was holding on to me. Wrong now she isn’t. Where the hell did this bullshit feely stuff come from?

This is the longest we’ve been alone in a room together since we went to dinner. After that night we settled into a routine of avoidance and civility.

She stays out of my way, and I stay out of hers. I catch a glimpse of her working out in the gym every morning when I’m making my way to the training field—seeing her sweating in shorts and a cropped top isn’t exactly an unpleasant way to start the day.

She has the office in the morning while I’m out on the pitch with the guys, and I have it in the afternoons when she does whatever she’s doing with them—sharing circles, yoga, or whatever.

The only time we have to work side by side is during tactics meetings. We both review videos of the upcomingopposition and choose the clips we want the guys to see. I email her my list, and she puts together a presentation for the team.

I like those meetings. Being around her is kinda fun. She’s good at explaining things, and the guys take more and more notice of her with every session.

And it’s not unhelpful that I get to sit behind her and enjoy her backside when she’s up front talking.

Yup, it’s been a pretty good three weeks for us all to be proud of for lots of reasons. But that’s all come to an unceremonious end this evening.

“Okay. I’ll be nice.” I’m not entirely sure I will be, despite her annoyingly solid arguments.

“At least your face isn’t as red as when you stomped in here.” She rests her hand on the doorknob, protecting it from me. “Maybe that’s an encouraging sign. So…if you promise…”

Her eyes search mine for a moment as if she’s trying to figure out whether she can trust me. Their determined steeliness of the last couple minutes has faded into something a little softer, but still skeptical.

The click of the handle brings me back to reality and reminds me I’m supposed to be really fucking furious.

She sweeps the door open and gestures for me to enter the locker room ahead of her.

I didn’t actually promise anything though. And these guys definitely deserve the bollocking of their lives.

But maybe this is a chance to prove to her that I’m not the arsehole who loses his shit all the time.

When the hell did I start caring what anyone thought of me? Least of all someone I need to beat to get the job I want.

She follows me through the door and steps up by my side.

The sight of a room full of guys with slumped shoulders and faces as droopy as gas station flowers is a sign, clear enough for even me to read, that maybe, just maybe, Wilcox is right.

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