Page 128 of The Thing About My Rival

Those two opened the floodgates to texts from other players and club staff.

Their affection and thoughtfulness opened my heart, and now, here I am, gazing down on a room filled with beautifully laid round tables glittering with silverware and glasses, walls swagged with dark red velvet, and light sparkling from the many huge chandeliers. And on the opposite side from the staircase is a stage with a lectern for the speeches and awards.

It’s the Oscars of soccer.

Part of me thinks I don’t belong, part of me is dreading seeing Hugo, and part of me is worrying about my toes pinching in these incredibly cute, but incredibly uncomfortable, sparkly heels.

This dress isn’t exactly comfortable either. But I love it. And, frankly, I want to give Hugo a glimpse of what he’s missing. The nipped-in waist, a sleeveless cut that shows off arms that are the product of training hard every day, and the split to the thigh are sexy as hell.

And then I spot him.

My breath hitches.

Amid all the people milling around between the tables before dinner, chatting with old friends, rivals, and new acquaintances, he’s the one my eyes fall upon, as if drawn there by some extrasensory force. My free hand flies to my quaking chest.

I’d recognize that hair anywhere. Even from this distance, and above. My fingers tremble at the memory of raking through it, of hanging on to it. My nose recalls its smell—sometimes freshly washed and bearing the herb-and-moss fragrance of his shampoo, and sometimes straight after a workout or training when it was dampfrom exertion and smelled of his own unique essence and the desire to win.

The recollection sparks the jittery sensation in my belly that I’ve been dreading. My body betrays my brain every time I so much as think of him, so there’s no hope of me controlling it with him right before my eyes.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in a suit. And my God does he know how to wear one. It’s either black or dark gray—hard to tell from here—with a crisp white shirt, open at the neck underneath. No tie. Bold move.

He’s angled slightly in profile to me, talking to a coach from Miami and the Chicago goalie. The coach says something that makes Hugo slap him on the shoulder and give a broad smile I can see from here. And, oh shit, look at him laugh. The jitter in my belly dances lower, right to my?—

Something whacks me in the middle of the back, making me stumble forward. Thank God I’m gripping the rail or I could have gone sparkly heels over updo down these stairs.

“Shit, sorry,” a male voice behind me says. “Still getting the hang of these.”

I turn to find Bakari brandishing a pair of crutches.

“Whoa.” His eyes go wide and he leans back in awe, taking me in from head to toe. “Coach Wilcox. Didn’t realize it was you.”

“Well, look at you, all up and about.” I point at his cast.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be resting. But Coach Powers gave me special dispensation for tonight.” He pauses and looks at me like he’s said a banned word. “Sorry.”

“Totally fine.” I wave it away like the mention of the man who has a place at the center of my beloved club—and my heart—is nothing. “So good to see you on themend. I could also do with an escort down these stairs. I suspect my shoes are harder to walk in than your cast.”

I hook my hand around the inside of his elbow, and together we hobble our way down this vast sweeping staircase toward whatever is going to happen this evening.

“We’re so happy you came,” Chase says.

I’m still not clear why he, Miller, Leo, and Prince Oliver have pulled me away to this deserted hallway off the main room. They appeared out of nowhere right as Bakari and I stepped off the bottom stair, and whisked me straight out.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I say. “I can’t wait to catch up with the rest of the guys.”

“We want to make you an offer,” Leo says.

What?

I didn’t see that coming.

You don’t not renew someone’s contract then change your mind.

A tremor of relief excites my belly at the thought of being back where I belong.

But it’s instantly washed away by a wave of reality.

If they’re about to ask me to coach another season with Hugo, they can forget it. It was hard enough for us to work together to start with. After everything that’s happened since, it would be impossible. How could I spend every day looking at a man that makes my insides ache with a painful combination of hurt and longing?

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