Page 47 of The Thing About My Rival

Maybe whatever happened there is what’s made her believe in the sharing circles and therapy.

She was certainly right that the appropriate coping mechanism for tonight’s loss is a drink with pals. It’s exactly what I could do with. All my friends might be thousands of miles away, but the thought of a cold pint in a pub makes my mouth water.

Is there any chance I could slip into one of these bars unrecognized?

Actually, there is one I’ve spotted before that might work.

“Change of plan.” I lean forward to talk to the driver. “Could you take the next left, just a little way along?”

“Certainly, sir,” he says.

On my strolls around the city on my days off, I’ve passed this little side-street Irish pub that reminds me of my local back in London. A place where no one gives a shit who I am.

It’s worth a try.

The driver makes the left turn.

“You can drop me just a little way down here, on the right. Outside that pub.”

“The Blarney Stone?” he asks. “Great old place. My grandpa used to drink there. You won’t find tourists or swanky city types in there. That place has a heart of gold.”

I gaze up at the faded green exterior. “Perfect.”

Yes, this place looks like exactly what I need tonight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DREW

“…then one of the boys tipped the trash can over his head and said, ‘And I’m Oscar the Grouch.’”

Winston’s tales of the kids’ antics during his days teaching elementary school have had me, Mona, and Joyce holding our bellies for a good half hour. And I can’t think of a better way to take my mind off the evening’s awful loss.

Not to mention off Hugo. I’m still in shock that he didn’t lose it on the players after the game—not only because he actually took my advice, but also because he proved he’s capable of controlling his temper, and stopping himself from yelling and punching a hole in the wall.

It might be the most obvious sign of him softening, but there’ve been other glimmers these last few weeks since our dinner. Although we’ve stayed out of each other’s way as much as possible, our paths inevitably cross briefly a couple times a day and we have to collaborate on the prematch tactics meetings, so it’s impossible not to noticethese little things. Or maybe I just observe him an unhealthy amount in the moments I’m around him—it’s hard not to when all my senses are drawn to him in a way I’ve never experienced with anyone.

He’s started saying good morning to Wally, the janitor. It might not sound like much, but acknowledging him and stepping around the damp area of freshly mopped floor is a big difference from acting like Wally doesn’t exist and stomping right through in muddy cleats.

When the laundry attendant hurt his back, Hugo told the players to stop leaving their wet towels on the locker room floor and to throw them into the laundry containers.

And a week or so ago, after the Fab Four ordered lunch for the whole team—I had a particularly great avocado and smoked salmon sandwich with my favorite pickles on the side—he weirdly bolted out the door halfway through his food. But when he came back down the hallway he was whistling.

Whistling.

Never heard him do that before. It might have been a bit off-key, but I swear to God it was“Walking on Sunshine.”

Is his time at the Commoners chipping away at his bravado? Is Hugo Powers growing up a little? Calming down and maturing into the man he could be? And probably should have been all along if his head hadn’t been turned by fame and fortune?

Mona runs her finger around the rim of her sherry glass. “Your stories make me wonder,” she says to Winston. “Maybe I should volunteer at the school. Might make up for never having had grandk?—”

She’s interrupted by Joyce, who, snatching a sharpbreath, grabs my arm like a clamp tightened to the max. We all turn to look at her.

“Is thathim?” Joyce whispers. “It is. It’shim,isn’t it?”

I follow the line of her squinting eyes to the door.

And oh my ever-loving hellfire and damnation. It is.

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