Page 46 of The Thing About My Rival

They’re already gutted by the result. Yelling at them now won’t do any good. It won’t change anything. Well, it might—it might make things worse.

Damn her for being hot. And damn her for being right. Which actually makes her even hotter. So just fucking damn it all.

“Okay, guys.” I try to muster a half-smile. “I know you’re all disappointed. But let’s not dwell on that right now. Get yourselves showered and home. Have a good rest day tomorrow. And we’ll see you here Monday morning.”

They look at me and each other, obviously shocked that I haven’t ripped into them. Another reason Wilcox was right—it keeps them on their toes not knowing what to expect from me.

Before I’ve even turned my head to look at her, I know she’ll be pleased. Indeed, she gazes at me for a second and nods, like a proud parent whose kid has finally gone potty on his own.

“Yup,” she says to the guys. “Sleep in. Call your mothers. Go for a walk in nature. Play video games. Eat a great dinner. Whatever floats your boat. Just clear your heads and try not to think about that field or that ball for a full twenty-four hours.”

The stunned faces turn back to me for a second, clearly still waiting for me to tear a strip or three off them. Whennothing comes, they mutter among themselves and start removing boots and socks.

Wilcox gives me a knowing smile as she moves past me back into the office, her arm brushing mine and sending a shimmy down my side that I could definitely do without.

She closes the blinds over the window into the locker room—blinds she’d had installed at the start of the season. That’s somethingIwas right about. If we’re counting. Which I’m obviously not.

“Thank you,” she says, when I follow her into the office and close the door. “Nicely done.” She sounds genuinely appreciative.

She picks up her laptop and slides it into her bag. “I’ll call Dr. Boateng. Get her in for some one-on-ones. They need to get this disappointment out of their systems before the next game. So it’s not the start of a downward spiral.”

She swings the bag over her shoulder and pauses for a second, her eyes locking with mine. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” Guess she’s still worried I might fly off the handle. “But maybe consider booking a slot for yourself.”

“Pah.” I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Figured.” She walks around me, no accidental arm touches this time, toward the door to the hallway.

I find myself suddenly fascinated by where she’s going, what she does with herself outside work, what her life is like, who she really is.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, anyway?” I ask.

“Tomytherapy. Otherwise known as a drink with my friends.”

“Friends? You havefriends?” Teasing her is always fun. But right now there’s something inside me that doesn’t want her to walk out that door, and some teasing mightkeep her here a while longer. “I’ve never heard mention of these friends before.”

She pulls the door open. “That, Hugo freaking Powers, is because you know almost nothing about me.”

She raises her eyebrows at me over her shoulder and disappears into the hallway.

The streets of Boston are alive with late summer Saturday evening revelry.

Tonight’s cab home from the stadium has already taken me past plenty of people eating and drinking on patios outside the city’s bars, restaurants, and cafés.

Even the people in the orange and sky blue shirts, who’re more drowning their sorrows than celebrating tonight, are sharing a smile or two.

Four-nil.

I mean, for fuck’s sake.

Good on Wilcox for going out to let that shiny blond hair down. That’s the first hint of her having an actual life I’ve heard of. Who are these friends? Does she have a boyfriend?

I did more online research the other night to try to find out about her private life, but it seems she keeps a low profile. That, or the media isn’t interested in her.

Even the publicity surrounding our appointment at the Commoners didn’t mention many personal details about her. But, to be fair, that stuff was ninety percent about me—apparently I have more than enough personal details to go around. I only found one article in one women’s magazine where the main angle was the whole first female head coach in the league’s history thing.

How infuriating that must be for her. If all the coverage had focused on her, with me as an afterthought in one sentence tacked on at the end—“and jointly appointed head coach is former English footballer Hugo Powers, who’s won some stuff”—I’d have been mighty pissed off. But she never said a word about it.

That article concentrated almost entirely on her professional achievements, which, to be fair, are pretty damn impressive. There was just a brief bit at the end about her family—her dad starting the Commoners, the club’s slow growth, the sale to the Fab Four, and the fact he’s divorced from her mum whose name wasn’t even mentioned. That was it.

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