Page 133 of The Thing About My Rival

“This club,” he continues, “is a part of you. It’s in the beat of your heart, the air in your lungs, and the blood in your veins. It lives in every fiber of your being. And that has been a magical thing to behold. I’d thought that was how it was with me and Man U. But that was before I witnessed firsthand the way the Commoners are you, and you are the Commoners.”

The music starts up to play him off stage, but he leans into the mike and holds up his hand to stop it. “Please, can I have a moment more? I’ve never said anything as important as the things I’m about to say.”

The music fades. “Thanks.”

He places the trophy on the lectern and runs his fingers over it. My body reacts as if it’s me he’s caressing, my pulse racing, the skin of my arms and neck tingling, a warmth between my legs.

“You see, folks, I really was an arsehole.” The titter that runs through the audience is quieter now, responding to the shift in his tone—more serious, less the frivolous, lighthearted Hugo the world knows and loves.

“I probably still am to some degree. But I’m a lot less of one for being around Drew Wilcox.”

My chest hitches when he says my name, my whole name. What was it he said that one time he used my first name before? That he was doing it to get my attention? Well, he definitely has it now.

On that screen is the Hugo I know and love—yes, fuck it, I love him. What the hell else could this feeling be that consumes me every minute of every day? This feeling like I’m not me if I’m not around him, I’m not whole if I’m not around him, that there’s no fun, no joy, no goddamn point in anything if I’m not around him.

“If I hadn’t spent the last couple months of the seasonaround Wilcox,” he continues, “I would never have backed the team’s decision to refuse to play on against Orlando. The pre-Wilcox me would have yelled at them, threatened them with fines and suspensions until they kicked the goddamn ball again. That me would have cared about nothing other than winning the match.

“So, if it hadn’t been for Wilcox, I wouldn’t have done the thing you’ve given me this award for. Yes, if I’d made them play on, we might now be storming through the playoffs and on our way to winning the big, shiny cup. But there’d be no post-Wilcox me. I’d still be the total arsehole.”

“Oh my God,” the coat check attendant clutches her chest, eyes welling up. “Whoever that is is the luckiest person alive.”

I stare at her for a second, the awe on her face mirroring the awe in my heart. The awe for a man who is the person I hoped he really was, who deep down Iknewhe really was.

“She is,” I whisper. “She really is.”

I slide my coat off the counter and, without processing exactly what I’m doing, allow my feet to carry me back toward the ballroom.

“I don’t know where you are, Wilcox,” his voice says through the speakers, “but I don’t deserve this award. The only person who deserves it is?—”

The door lets out a loud squeak as I pull it open, and all heads in the ballroom turn to face me. Hugo’s eyes land on mine, lighting up as that famous smile spreads across his face. But the smile isn’t for the audience, the camera, or the world. The smile is for me.

He dips his head to the mike until his lips almost touch it.

“…you,” he finishes softly.

Taking the microphone from the stand, he picks up the trophy and makes his way down the steps from the stage, his eyes never leaving mine.

“When I showed up for that first day at the Commoners, three-quarters of the way through the season, and discovered we were going to have to share this job, I hated it. It meant I wouldn’t be the sole leader, the sole voice, the sole glory-taker. And I hated you for being the person I had to share it with.”

He moves between the tables toward me, people turning in their seats to keep their eyes on him as he passes. My feet are glued to the floor, my heart in an all-out race against itself. Hundreds of people are in this room, but it’s like they’ve all vanished, faded into insignificance in the face of the man walking toward me.

“But then I realized that without you to share the wins with, wins are meaningless. I didn’t know what true meaning was, what true love was, until I met you. I’m not the man who taped a line through our office in August, Wilcox. I’m a better man. The man you showed me I could be. The man I want to be for you.”

He’s so close now that I can hear his words coming from his mouth, his heart, rather than from the speakers.

“You taught me that winning isn’t everything. My only regret is that I had to lose you to learn that.”

His words expand my heart beyond my chest to fill every empty, hurt corner of my soul. I was wrong. He’s not like my dad at all. This man is everything. I need nothing more than Hugo Powers. He’s my inspiration, my teammate, my love, my home.

“So this”—he raises the trophy next to his head—“is for you.”

Two more steps and he’s right in front of me, handing me the glass soccer ball. I don’t know what else to do but take it.

“Because the only thing I want to win is you. Please, dear God, Wilcox, please give me some extra time to prove myself. Please tell me you haven’t already blown the final whistle on me.”

I place the trophy on the floor, put my hand over the microphone, and push it away. Stretching up on my toes, I rest my mouth against his ear and whisper to make extra sure no one can hear me. “I’m sorry I said you were like my father. You are not. You are ten thousand times the man he will ever be.”

It’s hard to tear myself away from the aroma of him—the herby wood of his hair, the almost shower-fresh scent of his skin.

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