Page 82 of The Thing About My Rival

I wrap my fingers around the base of the cup and turn it in a circle on the desk. “Of course.”

“You guys sure? Because this feels exactly like when I’d walk in on my mom and dad having a fight and they’d pretend everything was just dandy when actually they were about to rip our whole world apart.”

Again, Hugo and I speak at the same time. It’s a jumble of my “No, no. Not at all” and his “No world-ripping going on here.”

“Totally united,” Hugo adds.

I flash him a look but he’s concentrating on repeatedly tossing the ball into the air, his corded forearms flexing.

“Did you want us for something?” I ask Schumann.

The use of “us” gives me a brief shot of pleasure as it rolls off my tongue like the most natural thing in the world. As if Hugo and I are a “we.” Which we most definitely are while at work. And that’s exactly how I meant it. So it’s perfectly normal that it felt natural and right.

“Something I noticed about the Chicago defense I wanted to talk about,” Schumann says.

Hugo bounces the ball on the ground, this time making his biceps twitch. “There’s a tactics meeting after training,” he says against the thump, thump, thump of the ball hitting the tiles. “Coach Wilcox has a whole series of videos prepared.”

Why is him saying my name while his attention is entirely focused on the ball a potent aphrodisiac that’s making all my insidey bits tremble?

“Thanks, yes.” I lace my fingers around the cup, leaving them there till they heat to the edge of discomfort to distract me from the skip in my heartbeat and the throb at my core. “We can talk about it then. As a team.”

“Okay,” Schumann says. “But all I wanted to say is tha?—”

“Like Coach Wilcox said,” Hugo says firmly, “we’ll all talk about it together at the meeting after training.” He catches the ball and tucks it under his arm as he turns to face Schumann in such a definite way that it’s obvious that’s the end of the matter.

And, more importantly, that he’s backing me up.

And this time it feels good. Not like he thinks I can’t stand up for myself. Not like he’s saying it just so we’re putting on a united front for show. But like he’s supporting my response because it’s right and he genuinely agrees.

While my chest swells with professional pride, my lady bits find it even more pleasing.

Schumann nods at Hugo, then at me, and returns to the locker room, clicking the door shut behind him.

And instantly the air crackles with awkwardness again.

Hugo takes hold of the door handle, making to leave.

Half of me heaves a sigh of relief that he’s on his way out, but the other half’s desperate for him to grab me and throw me across the desk.

He pauses on a throat-clearing cough. “You got the…er…” He nods toward the cup in my hands.

“I did.”

“Good.”

“How did you know to get the jasmine one?”

“I asked the guy…you know…the one with the blond spikes.”

“Ah. Well, thank you.”

How can a conversation be so stilted and yet also so brimming with desire?

He turns to leave. “You’re welcome.”

He walks through the door and turns right.

“Training field is the other way,” I call after him.

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