Page 84 of The Thing About My Rival

I snatch it away in the nick of time before he can make contact. “It’s fine. Nothing.”

I’m not sure I trust myself if he touches me. We might be more at ease now over the Ramon argument, but the prickly unease over the whole passionate sex thing, over the him telling me he wanted to make new memoriesthing, hasn’t faded one bit. The air between us is thick with it, bubbling with it, like boiling heavy cream.

And it’s definitely in the quirk of that eyebrow.

He folds his arms, as if clutching them to his chest is the only way to stop himself from wrapping them around me.

I should be swinging this bag over my shoulder and getting the hell out of here. But instead I’m stuck to the spot, unable to take my eyes off the fingers of his right hand pressing dents into his left bicep.

“So what’s the deal with you and your dad?” he asks, the strident confidence in his voice gone and replaced with a quiet calmness and a kernel of compassion.

After the—dare I call itromantic—way he spoke to me in the pub on Saturday night, the tea apology this morning, and how he backed me up when I told Schumann to wait until the meeting to discuss tactics, there are zero doubts in my mind that he hides a kind, insightful spirit under that brash surface of bravado and cockiness.

And now his question about my dad sounds genuine. There’s a gentleness to his tone, like he’s trying to ease his way below the surface because he wants to discover what makes me the way I am.

Since I rarely talk about my family, he’s obviously spotted that there’s something not quite right there all by himself.

Wanting to learn more about me is sexy. But him picking up on little signs that would go unnoticed by anyone else, moves me on a deeper level—it cracks open my heart.

“Where’d that question come from?” I ask.

“Well, there’s obviously something odd between you two.”

“I mean why now? What made you ask that right now?”

“Because I just watched you run that tactics session. It was all you. I was just your sidekick. You’re a great coach.”

I rest the back of my hand against my forehead and make like I might be about to pass out in shock at such a rare compliment of my skills.

“Yeah, okay.” He shakes his head and smirks, admitting defeat—conceding the fact that it’s so obvious that I’m a good coach that even he, the last person who wants to accept it, has to admit it’s true. “So I’m wondering why your dad never gave you a job here before. I assume if he had, you wouldn’t have turned it down since you love the place so much.”

“Working for the national women’s team was a privilege. Winning a World Cup…” I pause for a second to meet his eyes once he’s finished rolling them. “That was a career high, the one thing in soccer that everyone wants to do. I wouldn’t have done that working here.”

“So, if you’d been given the choice of working here or for the women’s team, you’d have picked that?” He cocks his head and raises a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s all about racking up titles for you.”

Shit, this man really does see me. “It’s not. But they’resurenice to have.” Even I can hear my flirtation oozing from every word—Christ, I just can’t help myself with him.

Taunting him is fun. Taunting him in the area that winds him up the most—winning—is thrilling.

“Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk about your dad.”

I kind of do, though.

I want to tell him everything.

For the first time in my life, I’m filled with the urge—no, more than that, theneed—to completely unload everything about my life and my career, about wanting this club to be mine, to a man. And that’s because it’sthisman. This very particular, one-off man. Hugo’s the only person I know I could rely on to comprehend it all, to not think I’m crazy, to understand all my decisions. And that’s because the sport runs through his veins just like it does mine.

His understanding might be accompanied by an “Oh, that’s so fucking you, Wilcox,” but that would just be an even bigger sign that he gets it. Getsme.

Having someone get you is hot.

Having an insanely thoughtful, talented, sexy-as-all-hell guy get you is as scorching as surging lava.

“It must have been hard for you, getting to where you have.” His voice is soft and buttery and all I want to do is dissolve into it. “The sport’s hardly overrun with women coaches. I bet you took a lot of stick.”

And there he goes, getting me again.

“If you mean did I get a lot of hassle, a lot of people looking down on me, and almost everyone thinking I wouldn’t be able to do it, then yes.”

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