Page 6 of The Thing About My Rival

I was about to try the one next to it, which is white and bears the wordcoachin orange paint. It looks like it was stenciled about thirty years ago by a two-year-old with zero art skills.

Come to think of it, that means it could have been done by Wilcox.

I did some research on her last night. Found some interviews where she hinted she grew up more at this ground than at her house. And also some photos that revealed she looks remarkably good in an evening dress with her hair falling around her shoulders. Not that today’s blue leggings are unflattering. And I definitely didn’t think anyone could look that shapely in a boxy orange Boston Commoners sweatshirt.

“Think if you constantly wear team colors it might swing things in your favor?” I ask.

“I always wear club colors to work. It helps foster a sense of team spirit.” She pulls back her shoulders, which pushes her chest out a little farther.

“I can’t exactly feel morale rumbling through these hallways.” I peel off a bit of flaking paint and flick it to the floor. “Bit ironic this place is called Spirit Field.”

“It was named after the insurance company that sponsored the stadium when it was built.” That chin jut says she’s delighted to educate me. “The company went out of business years ago, but the name stuck. And yes, before you ask, because of the Commoners spirit.”

She yanks her little cart forward to park it next to the office door. A pencil case with a black-and-white football pattern slides off the pile of stuff nearest me and lands on the floor with a clatter.

Instead of kicking it back toward her—my first instinct—I bend to pick it up and drop it onto her pile of books, the top one titledSoccer: The Mind Game.

The whole trolley is stuffed to bursting with colorful folders, a pile of more sky blue and orange items of clothing, a bunch of clear plastic baggies containing a variety of office supplies sorted by color and, teetering on top, there’s a plant that looks like an eccentric professor’s hair on a stick.

There’s also a weird pink bulbous thing with an electrical cord. I nod at it. “Do you always bring your sex toys to work?”

She tilts her head and sighs like she’s already extremely tired of me. “It’s a diffuser. For essential oils. Helps create the right atmosphere and state of mind. And given the stench in the locker room yesterday, it will have bonus odor elimination benefits.”

Oh, Jesus. She’s into the woo-woo shit.

I fold my arms and lean against the door frame to my soon-to-be office. “Well, all I can tell you, Wilcox, is that you don’t coach your way to victory with stationery and essential oils. You coach withthis.” I thump my chest right over my heart.

“Maybe I should set up the diffuser right here. Get some sage going. It’s good for stress. And you seem a little…edgy.”

“Edgy?Pft.”

Okay, my pulse rate is a bit higher than normal. But that’s just down to this ridiculous situation.

While I’m sure the job is mine, the odd stray thought of doubt did waft across my mind last night as I lay in my rented penthouse—that I’m paying for myself because theplace the club was going to lease for me looked like it hadn’t been updated since about 1963.

I mean, in all fairness, it does seem like Wilcox was already on the payroll before me. And she does have a coaching record, which I don’t.

But I soon snapped myself out of that bullshit. Everyone in football—and a lot who aren’t—know me. She’s known by literally no one outside of the women’s game and the staff who’ve been at this stadium since she was a kid.

And the new owners are obviously after star power and name recognition as well as someone who knows how to kick both arse and a football. And that would be me. Not Miss Essential Oil Diffuser here.

So, yes, once the guys arrive and confirm the job’s mine, this tension at the base of my skull will be gone and I’ll be totally back to normal.

Wilcox looks at her watch. “Five to nine.”

“This is going to be an awkward few minutes.”

“For you,” she snaps.

“Why would this be awkward for me? I’m not the one who’ll have to trundle a cart full of all my worldly goods back along the hallway with my tail between my legs.”

She sighs, then looks past me and waves. “Morning, Wally.”

“Heeey, Drewsky!” he calls back with the affection of an old soldier greeting a comrade he hasn’t seen since the war. “Heard you were around.”

“It’s been too long,” she says. “I’ll find you after my meeting. I’m sure you have some crazy new bowling league stories for me.”

“Drewsky?” I can’t help but chuckle.

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