Page 91 of The Thing About My Rival

“God, that’s awful. I hate the thought of anyone treating you like that.” She checks herself. “Of treatinganyonelike that.”

“It took a financial adviser to get me to see the light. I resisted at first, but finally realized I had to draw a line. Now, I make sure they all have what they need, but in a more regulated way. A payment of the same amount every month. I do right by them.”

“Do you see them?”

“Yup. I was there at Christmas. I’m not going to be the rich son who fucked off because he thought he was better than them. That would only lead to more criticism. I mean, visiting them isn’t exactly the most fun I ever have. But they’re my family. So I do it.”

“Sounds familiar,” she says.

“Exactly. See, anyone can have family bullshit. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich and own a soccer team, or poor and your kid plays in the street in clothes passed down from his two older brothers. Family bullshit is family bullshit.”

We turn to look at each other at the same time. Her eyes lock with mine, and the more I stare into them, the more I see my childhood angst reflected back at me. “The pain of your family bullshit is no different from the pain of my family bullshit, Wilcox.”

When her eyes gloss over and shimmer in the warm evening sun, I slowly peel my gaze from hers and look back at the five-a-side game.

It takes a swallow and a sniff before I can speak. “Anyway, your dad was an asshole for selling to the Fab Four and not giving the club to you.”

“That’s not fair.” She coughs, like having to defend himchokes her. “I told you, he needed the money to retire. So he couldn’t give it to me. And it’s fine. I get it.”

I shove the last chunk of hot dog into my mouth and scrunch up the wrappings.

“Seriously?” She looks at the ball of napkins and paper in my hand. “How have you finished that when I’m not even halfway through mine?”

“The best thing—actually, maybe the only good thing—about not playing anymore is being able to eat what the fuck I like, when the fuck I like.”

“And there I was, thinking it was getting to work with me.”

My heart does that skippy thing again. The one that sends prickles down my arms and legs.

“Careful.” I point at the boys. “You’re going to miss Jordan’s free kick.”

When the game’s over, I’ve finished teasing Wilcox mercilessly about her hot dog-eating capacity, and we’ve had a chat with Jordan, we gather up our garbage and toss it into the trash can.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she says. “I’m going to walk home.”

I want to say goodbye about as much as I want a kick to my bad knee. But although we kissed earlier, I can’t be sure she wants any more than that tonight. It’s obvious there’s still a part of her that thinks this is a terrible idea.

And, I mean, objectively, that’s absolutely right.

But if you take stupid objectivity out of the way, the right thing is for me to peel her clothes off agonizingly slowly, kiss every inch of her skin, and do all manner ofthings with my tongue and my fingers until she’s at the point of frustration where she begs me to be inside her.

Even if that’s not on the cards tonight, there’s something I need to get off my chest that will at least keep her here next to me a little bit longer.

“Look,” I tell her, my heart in my mouth at the thought of cracking this open again, but I have to say it. “About the whole Ramon thing.”

“It’s okay,” she says, waving and turning to walk away. “Forget it.”

“No, I know a cup of tea isn’t the answer to everything. I want to explain.” I close the gap between us, put us within touching distance. “I want you to understand.”

I look down at the grass between my black sneakers and her white ones. “I really was trying to help. If I’d thought for a single second you didn’t want me to do that, I would have stayed outside.”

I can’t help but chuckle when I look up and meet her suspicious wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Okay, that might be hard to believe,” I admit. “I would have found it difficult, yeah. Because I would have wanted to march in and punch him into next week until he stopped speaking to you like that. But if I’d known you wanted me to stay out of it, I would have.”

Her expression morphs into something softer. “Would you really? Or are you just saying that?”

“I’m not just saying it.”

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