Page 83 of The Thing About My Rival

“Right…yeah,” his disembodied voice calls back. “Going to…er…walk around.”

It couldn’t be more satisfying to know he’s as thrown off-balance by that encounter as I am—so much so that he’s accidentally headed in the wrong direction.

I’ll take one admission of being wrong as enough for today.

I raise my cup to the empty doorway.

“Apology accepted,” I murmur to myself, crossing my legs and clenching against the heat between them as a smile sneaks onto my lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DREW

“I think we’re in with a chance on Saturday,” Hugo says as I pack my laptop into my bag.

Spending all afternoon running the tactics meeting together has cleared the air a little. Having to work as one, to discuss a strategy for breaking Chicago’s annoyingly solid defense and talk the players through the videos, meant we had to communicate with each other as well as them and had to not let any awkwardness between us show. We were both solely focused on one thing—winning Saturday’s game.

Well, apart from when I handed Hugo a whiteboard marker and his fingers brushed against mine. I was in the middle of saying something and stopped mid-sentence. All my neurons were suddenly directed toward blocking the tingles dancing up my arm (fail) and my underwear from becoming instantly damp (fail), leaving my brain with no capacity left for the forming and uttering of words.

And then there was the moment when I paused a video and turned around to ask Hugo what he thought about my suggested play and caught his eyes shooting up from precisely my ass level. Have to admit, there was something extremely satisfying about that.

So yes, we got through all of that fine.

But now we’re back in the office together. Just the two of us. And with no one else around to dilute the atmosphere, to force us to pretend like everything’s okay and perfectly normal, the tension is back in the air.

I don’t even know why he’s here. It’s not like he has something vital to collect from his still completely empty desk. Actually, I take that back. I did see him put a pack of chewing gum in the top drawer the other day—on the little plastic tray thing that slides back and forth across the top. I remember noticing the grass stain across the hem of his shorts as he did it.

But this tension is different—and possibly more dangerous—than the one this morning. It’s not an awkward, tongue-tied embarrassment like before. It’s more charged, more crackling, as if I can feel his heart beating from across the room. And Lord knows I wish I could slow mine down.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s as if the fight over him barging in when Ramon was getting out of hand never happened. It’s more like we’ve both moved past it.

Usually it would take more than a cup of tea for me to hand out any forgiveness, but I know that for Hugo, deciding to get me that drink, physically going and buying it, and leaving it here for me washuge. He’s not one to back down, to admit he was wrong. Tolose. For him, giving me that cup of tea was like anyone else giving me their kidney.

Right now, I would willingly forgive him with the inside of my thighs. But that pub encounter was so far beyond professional, it must never be repeated.

Better that I get out of here and grab a cold shower in the safety of my own home.

“Don’t you think, Wilc?—”

“Ow.” Pain sears through my finger. “Shit. Fuck.” I shove it in my mouth and suck on it.

“What’s up?” He rushes to my side. “What happened?”

I point a finger that’s still in one piece toward the zipper on my bag.

“Ew. You got it stuck in the teeth?” He grimaces and bites his lower lip.

I nod as my tongue finds the metallic taste of blood.

“I feel your pain. I got something stuck in a zipper once. But it wasn’t my finger.” He grabs his crotch and winces.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. As if I need any more encouragement to think about what he keeps in his pants.

I lock eyes with him and tilt my head. “Thop ith,” I say through a mouthful of throbbing finger.

I take it out and examine the injury. The pain is way out of proportion with the pathetically small mark.

“Let me see.” Hugo perches on the edge of my desk right next to me and reaches for my hand.

---