Page 74 of The Thing About My Rival

She might be right on both counts. Damn her for being so smart and infiltrating my head with her analyzey ways.

I roll over onto my other side to face the nightstand and grab my phone.

Just as I pick it up, the alarm goes off and startles me so violently it falls from my hand and hits the floor with a clatter.

Well, isn’t this a great start to the day? Another night of Hugo-induced close-to-zero sleep, my phone making itsirritating chime noise somewhere under the bed, and the realization that the most remarkable man I’ve ever met, who’s hotter than a ticket to a World Cup final, who gave me an orgasm I’m still recovering from, and for whom I’m developing feelings that are too scary to contemplate, was trying to be thoughtful and kind to me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

HUGO

It’s impossible not to chuckle at the sight of Wilcox letting out a giant, completely unselfconscious yawn while pounding away on the running machine.

I usually avert my eyes and keep walking when I’m on my way to the office first thing in the morning. After all, gym time is private time. You have to respect that. I wouldn’t appreciate someone watching me work out any more than she would. But this morning, for some reason, my feet come to a dead halt and refuse to move.

Or maybe it’s my eyes that refuse to move.

This window in the hallway looks right onto the glass wall along the side of the gym.

And just look at her—the way her ponytail swishes as she runs and her firm butt muscles flex back and forth in those orange leggings.

The other day as I was passing, I just happened to catch her high-five herself in the mirror, presumably for surpassing some target she’d set herself. She’s cute.

And there go the corners of my mouth again. Just the sight of her working out in her own world makes this miserable old scrote with a gammy knee smile—as well as want to grab her, throw her on the weight bench, rip off those leggings, and lick her till she screams for mercy.

That right there is a lethal combo I’ve never experienced before—someone who makes me want to shag themandsmile.

But she was as clear as clear could be yesterday that she thinks I’m a loudmouth, mansplaining control freak. So obviously she must consider what happened in the pub the other night to have been a spectacularly dramatic lapse in judgment.

The sound of the janitor’s cart rumbling along the tiles around the corner jolts me out of my trance.

I drag my eyes off Wilcox just as she yawns again and shakes her head as if trying to stop herself nodding off mid-run. Maybe she had a rough night. Maybe she was lying in bed tossing and turning. Jesus, how I would like to be the one tossing and turning her.

But maybe she was doing it in a rage, still furious at me for trying to stop Ramon from having a go at her. And thinking of better things she could have said to me, more dramatic ways to tell me to fuck off.

Christ, that lad was bang out of order, though. Have I yelled at coaches in my time? Hell, yes. Have I done it when I was young and thought I knew better even though I didn’t? Hell, yes. But there was no way I was going to let him do that to Wilcox.

Yes, her sharing circles and aroma diffusers will never be my way of doing things, but she did not deserve to be spoken to like that.

I push off the wall right before the janitor rounds the corner.

Yeah, she definitely looks tired. There isn’t quite as much bounce in her stride today.

“Morning.” I nod at Wally, and continue on my way to the office.

Nine hours later, I pass the same window on my way out after a day successfully steering well clear of Wilcox.

It’s farcical, really. I know I’m being totally pathetic. I mean, it’s not like I can avoid her forever. We have to pull together to turn this team into winners, for fuck’s sake.

But it’s sure as hell the weirdest partnership I’ve ever been part of.

I come from the on-the-pitch world where you’re either on the same side or you’re the opposition. But Wilcox is both my teammate and my opponent. And we each have one goal—to beat the other. It’s like playing for a club where half the players want the other half to go away. Or not exist.

I’m just feet from the exit and free of any worry of bumping into her, when Miller calls my name and trots up the hallway behind me.

He excitedly chatters about a possible new sponsor—Under Riggs, currently the coolest men’s underwear on the block.

“Anyway,” he says, after twenty minutes of pondering places we could slap their logo and whether their boxers would work under a suit or if they’re best with jeans, “if the marketing folks are able to close the deal I’ll let you know.”

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