Page 5 of The Thing About My Rival

“Not qualified?I’mnot qualified?” I shake my head. Poor deluded soul. “You’rethe one not qualified. The only thing you’ve ever coached is the bartender on how to pour your beer.”

There’s a whooshing sound behind me from the players sucking in air.

Hugo finally deigns to turn his head to look down at me. “I’m qualified because I know how to win stuff. What have you ever won?”

“Er, well, as I’ve been the assistant coach of the US women’s team for the last four years, I’ve won a World Cup. Something your England team hasn’t managed for, let me see…how long has it been now…?” I tap my pursed lips as if in thought. “Oh yes, fast approaching a century.”

Hugo’s dark brows knit together and something resembling a flicker of recognition flashes across his brown eyes.Nowdoes he remember me?

“It’s notthatclose to a century?—”

“Look,” Chase says. “This is obviously all a mix up. But the thing is, the press room upstairs is full of journalists waiting for us to wheel out our new top secret head coach signing.”

“Great, let’s go then.” I clap my hands together. “Having the first female head coach will be a great story for them. And for you.”

“I’mthe fucking head coach.” Hugo jabs his finger in his chest and his face flushes with that famous temper.

I meet Chase’s gaze and jerk my head toward Hugo. “And you know if you take him into a room full of reporters, he’s likely to punch one.”

“He’s not the only one who’s ever felt like doing that,” Prince Oliver says, exchanging a knowing look with Hugo.

And here we have it. Another boy’s club.

But it’s not the first one I’ve had to battle, and I’m absolutely certain it won’t be the last.

The most important thing about taking this job was that it meant I’d get to work with the team every day, and the Commoners would still be part of my life.

I’ve been excited about it, planning the first speech I was going to make to the squad ever since.

The speech I’d be making right now if I hadn’t been beaten to it by Hugo freaking Powers.

“Okay, look.” Miller takes charge. “How about we postpone the press conference. We’ll have our lawyers and HR look over this whole situation. Let’s meet back here, at the locker room, at nine a.m. tomorrow, and we’ll tell you which one of you actually has the job.”

“Perfect,” I say. Which it is, because obviously the job is mine. My contract predates his and the sale, and the only reason these guys took on Hugo was because they didn’t know they already had me.

Hugo spins around to face the players. “Okay, lads.” He rubs his hands together like he means business and grins. “Be back here at ten tomorrow. And I’ll pick up my speech about how I’m going to lead you to more wins than you ever thought possible.”

Man, is his little boy ego going to be dented in the morning.

Okay, so my dad might have given me this job at the last minute because he was afraid that if word got out the team had no head coach the Fab Four might pull out of buying it, but to hell with that. I’m going to hang onto it and prove to him that I deserve it. And that he should have appointed me because I’m the right person for the role, not just because it was an emergency and he was panicking.

But the best part will be taking it away from Hugo Powers. Not only because I’m more qualified, have loved this club with all my heart for as long as I can remember, and am the best person to lead the team to victory. But because this is the first time the asshole’s spoken to me since I was stupid enough to have a drunken encounter with him in a janitor’s closet at a Euros party in Paris six years ago.

CHAPTER THREE

HUGO

The door at the far end of the long hallway swings open, letting in a shaft of sunlight and the woman living under the delusion that she has my job.

“Say hi to Freda and the grandkids for me,” she calls over her shoulder to the security guard who must be way beyond retirement.

“Whoa-ho, Wilcox.” I point at the cart she’s dragging behind her that’s overflowing with stuff. “That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“Might as well bring my things,” she says over the rumble of wheels on the uneven tiles, “since the job is obviously mine.”

Her ponytail swishes from side to side as she approaches me along the corridor. The rough concrete walls are painted the team colors—the bottom third orange, the rest sky blue. All scuffed, scratched and chipped, of course.

Wilcox and her cart come to a stop in front of meoutside the locker room door, which I’ve just discovered is locked.

---