Page 99 of The Thing About My Rival

I can’t lie to him. I already feel racked with a lifetime’s worth of guilt for referring to Jill as an “old friend” even though she is.

Oh my God, this is an awful situation I’ve gotten myself into. Just awful.

I drop my head into my hands to hide my face and nod.

“Shit, Wilcox. Why? What are you doing?”

I sense the heat of his presence before I uncover my eyes to discover he’s walked around and rested his backside on the desk right next to me.

Shame and embarrassment grip my throat like a tightening rope. If I try to speak, I’m certain it’ll push my welling tears over the edge and complete my humiliation.

But the warmth of his big, caring hand on my back nudges me beyond the brink instead.

“Hey,” he says softly, when one tear, then another rolls silently down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I just about squeeze the words out. “I don’t want to lie to you. But I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” He rubs his hand up and down my spine.

“You’re bound to get the job. The team’s doing well. We’ve got the Under Riggs sponsorship, and they want you in the ads as well as the players. And there’s this.” I re-open my laptop and flick to a tab I’ve had open in my web browser for the best part of a week.

Hugo looks at the British newspaper article emblazoned with a picture of him punching the air in victory with the most glorious, alive smile on his face, next to the words. “He Powers Back.”

“What’s this shit you’ve been reading?” he asks.

“It says how well you’re doing here. How much everyone likes you. And how the team has won more consecutive games since you’ve been in charge than in their history.”

“So?”

“This is what you wanted. What you came here for. To clean up your image. To get the British press to respect you again. So someone over there will give you a job.” I swallow back a sob. “It’s all working out for you. Even if you stay at the Commoners next season, you’d be back in the UK or somewhere in Europe for the one after. So it wouldn’t make any difference anyway if I was in Portland.”

“Portland?” He leaps to his feet. “Please tell me there’s a Portland in Massachusetts. Or New York. Or New Hampshire. Or in whatever other bloody states border Massachusetts. And you’re not talking about the one three thousand fucking miles away.”

I nod. “Oregon.”

“Jesus Christ, Wilcox. I’m crazy about you, and you’replanning to run off to the other side of the fucking country?”

More tears spill out in pure frustration. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the Fab Four to kick me out, jobless, onto the street? I have to have a backup plan.”

“How about the US women’s team? At least that’s only DC. That’s not far, right?” He crouches beside me, his hand on my arm, looking up at me with a half-smile that verges on pleading.

“I can’t go back there. I gave them almost no notice when I left to come here. I’d need to wait for the management to change before I could ask.”

“Fuck.” He pushes a fistful of fingers through his hair.

“What’syourbackup plan, Hugo? If the Fab Four keep me, what will you do?”

“Not thought about it. I never contemplate losing. It’s not how you win.”

“You’d go back to London, right?”

He closes his eyes and sighs.

“See?” I snatch a tissue from the box on my desk. “You criticize me. But you’re planning on doing the same thing.” I wipe my nose. “If you don’t get the job, you’ll move three thousand miles away too. So don’t point your finger at me and say I’m the one running.”

He rises silently to his feet and turns away, walking toward his desk, his shoulders sagging.

“Anyway.” He reaches into the top left drawer and takes out a roll of Joyntz medical tape. “I only came in to get this. Nowak caught the ball weirdly and bent a finger back. I need to tape it up for him.”

---