Page 104 of The Thing About My Rival

So, I guess I was using this game as an excuse to casually put my arm around her, like we’re just great colleagues, because I’m so fucking desperate for any formof physical contact. Touching her was also a way to calm my nerves, because this is a real fucking nail-biter.

Her eyes are glued to the ball. And she’s clutching the little cabin charm that always dangles from her game-day jacket zipper so tight her knuckles are white. None of which I should have noticed because my total focus should be on the game.

It’s the penultimate match of the regular season, and we need to win this one and the next one to have any hope of qualifying for the playoffs. Sure, it’s a slim hope—as slim as the chance of my knee making it through a marathon—but it’s still hope.

A draw will not do today. But, with ninety-three seconds to go, that’s what we have. Two-all.

It’s so fucking hard to know what to do in this situation. We need to drive play toward the other end, but we also can’t risk abandoning our goal and giving Toronto a lead when there’s no time to claw it back. When I was on the pitch I had all the answers, was always certain. When you wear the coach’s hat, these decisions aren’t so easy.

But the guys are doing a storming job, essentially keeping Toronto at bay in midfield.

What we absolutely must not do is give away any stupid free kicks. A well-worked set piece from the other side could be curtains for us.

We were in the lead until Toronto equalized ten minutes ago. And with every tick of the clock since then my nerves have gotten tighter and tighter.

My attention is distracted from the pitch by Wilcox’s hand on my shoulder as she stretches on tiptoe to shout in my ear. “Think I might throw up.”

That’s the first time she’s voluntarily touched me for three days. Man, how I’ve missed that citrusy aroma.

I glance at the clock. “Thirty-seven seconds.” I shrug. “Almost out of time.”

She grabs my jacket and yanks me down to her level—that’s two touches in almost as many seconds. Thank God the tension of the game seems to have suddenly shattered her no-contact policy.

She cups her hands around my ear. “Don’t contemplate losing. It’s not how you win.”

I look at her to find a giant smile spreading across her face. Wilcox, you fucking marvel.

If there was time to kiss her, I would. Instead, I nod and turn back to the pitch, pumping my fist. “Come on, lads. Think. Concentrate.”

“Holy shit.” Wilcox clings to my arm in exactly the same way as she does when she comes, but this time it’s because Ramon’s made a break for it and is heading toward the Toronto goal.

“What the fuck?” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Ramon. Easy. Easy.”

The team’s under strict instructions to not do anything risky—to do nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, to risk the other side getting the ball.

But it looks like Ramon’s thoughtFuck it, what is there to lose in the dying seconds?And at his age, I’d have thought exactly the same thing and be doing exactly the same thing.

He bobs and weaves between the other side’s defenders. One of them slides at him and misses, ending up on his arse. Of course he grabs his leg like it’s broken when he can’t possibly have suffered anything worse than a grass stain. He gestures to the ref, but the ref, God bless him, waves play on.

Bakari and Hammond are belting after Ramon as fastas they can to support him, but they’ll never make up the ground.

Ramon is making a one-man run on goal.

Fifteen seconds on the clock.

Fucking hell.

My heart can’t take this. I need a fistful of blood pressure pills and an oxygen mask.

As he reaches the penalty box and the final Toronto defender tries to block him, Ramon pulls off the most beautiful curved shot I have ever seen in my life.

The ball floats gracefully over the defender’s head, past the fingertips of the goalie, and dips perfectly into the far corner of the net.

Holy fuck.

Three-two.

Holy fucking fuck.

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