Page 51 of The Thing About My Rival

And she’s wriggled under my skin and gotten stuck there like one of those burrowing beetle things. But with only two legs. That look incredible in sports leggings.

She’s cute, and passionate, and fucking loves football.

Much as I hate to admit it, and much as I like to think I’m always right—when it comes to footy anyway—after only a month I’ve already learned things from her. Become a better coach—hell, a betterperson—because of her.

She’s right about making the guys more flexible to prevent injuries and giving them a safe space where they can get their thoughts and feelings off their chests without fear of judgment. And, goddamn her, she was right to stop me yelling at them earlier. And she did that because she believes in treating people well.

That means she deserves to be treated well too—certainly better than I usually would.

I don’t want her to think I’m the dick who behaved like she was just another throwaway drunken fumble for a second longer.

Her eyes bore into me like she’s trying to find my soul but isn’t sure there’s one to find.

“Sit.” I drag my hand off hers. It’s almost a stroke, not wanting to break contact until the final second.

“Why?” That single word might be defiant, but the edge in her voice is a little softer now.

Is it my touch that did that?

“Because I want to ask you something.” There are actually a thousand things I want to ask her. Does she have a favorite pizza topping? What’s her go-to free kick play? If I sucked her nipples while she came, would her inner walls squeeze harder around my dick?

“I think we need to move the defense around, if that’s what you want to know,” she says. “Because tonight they were?—”

“It’s not about footy.”

“Okay, but we should probably talk about how to pick the guys up after that loss so they don’t start a downward spiral. Because I thought we’d decided there was no reason for us to discuss anything but work.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going back on that. And please sit down.”

She sighs. “Five minutes.” And drops back onto the bench seat. “What is it?”

I rest my forearms on the table either side of my drink and lean forward, to just a few inches outside the zone where I might be able to catch the scent of her hair or skin.

This is the most difficult question to ask. And might result in my utter humiliation. But I’m not sure I’ll ever find peace if I don’t have an answer.

I thread my fingers together and squeeze tight, steeling myself. “I want to know what happened in Paris.”

Immediately she’s back on her feet and picking up the keys. “We are definitely not talking about that.”

Then she’s halfway to the door before I can get out of my chair to chase after her.

“Wilcox, wait.”

When I reach her, I catch her free hand and spin her around.

Her surprised gaze, again, moves to where we are connected, looking at her hand clasped in mine like it can’t possibly be a part of her body. “Not only are we not talking about it, we’re supposed to be forgetting about it.”

“I can’t.” The truth falls out of me before I can stop it.

She sucks in her top lip, her expression making my insides sink with regret at my honesty. I know better than that, better than to let anyone see the real me. Losing control like that was stupid.

But does her hesitation mean she can’t stop thinking about it either? That she lies awake wondering what it would be like for us to kiss again and to be naked together?

Her hand gets warmer the longer I hold it. Is the rest of her skin warming too? Maybe the delicate patch a little farther above my touch on the inside of her wrist? The spot just below her left ear, where the tiny birthmark sits? How about the soft area high on her inner thighs?

“What difference does it make?” she asks, her words slow and steady. “Things like that mean nothing to you. One woman one night, another one the next. Who cares what you did and who you did it with?”

She dips her head toward our skin-on-skin contact. “And why are you holding my hand?”

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