Page 131 of The Thing About My Rival

“…Hugo Powers!”

What?

I look up at the stage to see Zoff’s tucked the envelope under his arm and is staring right at me while he claps.

What the fuck?

My stomach feels like it’s hooked to the back of a truck that’s straining to pull it from my body.

What the actual fucking fuck?

Everyone at my table stands and applauds. It actually sounds like everyone at every table has stood up and is clapping, but I can’t see beyond those in my immediate vicinity because everything’s gone blurry around the edges.

The server arrives at my side and dips his head to me. “Did you want something, sir?”

“Yeah, a teleportation device to get me out of here.”

He cups his hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. Loud clapping.”

“Another one of those, please.” I point at my empty glass.

But it’s going to take a lot more than another beer for me to make sense of what’s happening right now. Of how Hugo the fuckup, Hugo the man who willingly threw away a playoff spot—so is, in fact, Hugo the loser—could possibly be winning this award.

This should be Ramon. He needs this. He deserves it.He’s played like a fucking demon this season. And he has his whole future ahead of him. This award would mean the world to him.

I pull the napkin off my lap and toss it onto the table, offering what I hope is a smile that looks more grateful than absolutely fucking mortified.

As I get to my feet, my legs wobble in a way only ever previously induced by Wilcox’s breath on my neck as her fingers slid in a crotchwardly direction.

Except this time it’s a wobble of dread, a wobble of embarrassment. A wobble of absolute shame.

Yes, I like to be the center of attention. Yes, I like to win. But I don’t deserve to win for losing.

And I most definitely don’t deserve to win for something that wasn’t even my idea.

As I straighten my jacket, my eyes somehow make bull’s-eye contact with Wilcox’s.

She stares back at me, clapping, but with a steeliness in those green eyes that says she thinks I deserve it even less than I think I do.

And that makes me the biggest loser of the night.

Then somehow, in a slow-motion, out-of-body experience, I’ve made it through the sea of handshakes and backslaps, have climbed the steps to the stage, am taking the trophy and am standing behind the podium, staring out at a room packed with the best in US football in various stages of inebriation.

How can I make a speech when my lips feel like they’re made of rubber, my throat’s as tight as a chafing jockstrap, I have no fucking clue what to say, and the woman of my dreams is staring at me like I’m the biggest dipshit on the planet?

The applause finally dies down and everyone takes their seats.

I look from the award to the crowd. “Ifyou’reshocked I won this, imagine how shockedIam.”

Thankfully that gets a big laugh.

“This is…well, it’s pretty fucking unbelievable.”

Out of the sea of people swimming before my eyes, one person comes into crystal clear focus. One person in a long, dark blue dress who is the most gorgeous vision I have ever seen. The only person in the room—fuck me, the world—who matters, who means anything.

She eases herself out of her chair, turns away from the stage, picks her way between the tables, and disappears through the big gold doors.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

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