The Thing About My Rival (The Boston Commoners #1)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

HUGO

“What the hell is that noise?” Tom’s voice says through my earpods.

“Me scraping the cremated remains of my dinner off the frying pan and into the bin.”

“You’re cooking ?” I might as well have suggested I’ve sprouted wings and am currently flapping my way over the Midwest en route to visit him in LA. “Has every restaurant and delivery service in Boston closed down?”

“You’re a funny guy.” The last bits of salmon skin appear to be welded to the pan for the next millennium. “Just be thankful I managed to get the smoke alarm to stop wailing before I called you.”

“Maybe you should have started your culinary journey with something simple. Like beans on toast.”

“Guess I did overstretch myself with salmon and spicy rice. But moving here is supposed to be a fresh start, so I thought I’d give the whole cooking-your-own dinner thing a go.” I drop the pan in the sink and run water into it. “ Sadly, I ended up with fish that was black on the outside, raw in the middle, and rice so soggy I could have regrouted the bathroom with it.”

More importantly, I’d thought the activity would keep me occupied and take my mind off the bloody awful work situation.

Tom snorts into his phone.

“This is the last time I call you for moral support,” I tell him.

He’s pretty much the only person in the world who’s ever gotten me. And he’s not even a footballer. He owns Garage Records, the multibillion-dollar global label with some of the world’s biggest music stars.

But we became fast friends ten years ago when he was living in England and we met at the Glastonbury festival. We were two people who no one else seemed to understand, but we understood each other.

He’d been in London since he was a teenager but moved back to the States last year after falling for an American. And he’s talking to me from his office in their house high in the Hollywood hills.

“Any more taking the piss out of my cooking,” I say, “and I’ll tell LA Galaxy to cancel the tickets I had them send you.”

“God no,” Tom says. “I’ve finally managed to get Dylan excited about it now.”

Dylan is Tom’s teenage stepson-to-be. He’s into baseball. But Tom, who became a huge footy fan while he was in the UK, has been working hard to turn the kid into one too. I figured getting them tickets to a local match might help Tom’s cause—and be fun bonding time for them both.

“Anyway,” Tom says, “let’s get back to the point. Who exactly is this woman coach you’re accidentally job- sharing with? Is she actually qualified to coach the Commoners? Or just daddy’s little nepo baby?”

“Drew Wilcox. And yes, she’s qualified.” I sigh. “Irritatingly qualified.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone as I cross the apartment to the two walls of windows looking out toward the river and over Boston Common—Christ, there’s no fucking escape from those two words.

“Hold on,” Tom says. “ Drew Wilcox ?”

“Yeah, why?” I unlatch the giant sliding-glass door to help release the stink of burned salmon. Stepping out onto the balcony I take a huge, chest-expanding breath of the summer evening air.

“As in, the assistant head coach of the US women’s team?”

“Well, obviously former .” A flock of birds circles high above the trees on the common. They’re big. Might be hawks. I’ll look that up later. “Since she’s now, you know, co-head coach of the Boston Commoners.”

Tom chuckles. “Christ, that’s gotta be awkward.”

“I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes telling you how fucking awkward it is.”

“I don’t mean just because of the job thing,” he says. “I mean because of the Paris thing.”

“What Paris thing?”

“At the Euros.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t remember?” If you look up the word incredulous in the dictionary, it plays the sound Tom’s voice is making. “A few years ago? When you were with the England team in Paris?”

I lean on the railing and gaze at the cars and dots of people in the street forty-two floors below. “The thing I remember most about that is that we got knocked out in the final sixteen because that wanker Newman took a shot at goal with all the skill of a drunk toddler.”

“I’m not talking about the game.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh my God, Hugo. Seriously ?”

“Now you sound like my mother. Seriously, what ? I called you for moral support, not riddles.”

Silence blares through the line.

It’s followed by a groan. “Oh my good God. You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Tom lets out a horrified laugh. “Holy shit, this is bad. Even by your standards.”

“What’s bad? What the fuck are you on about?”

“You don’t remember the party after the final?”

“Er.” I try to spin my mind back to however I was drowning my sorrows after the tournament. “Maybe. Were we at a nightclub?”

“Yeah. And you were drunk and picked up a girl.”

I straighten and take in the clear blue sky. “So?”

“And you were up to no good with her in the janitor’s closet when the door flew open and you fell out.”

“That does ring a bell, vaguely. But what the fuck does it have to do with anyth?—”

When people say their blood runs cold, I always thought it was just a figure of speech. Until now. Until this very moment when it feels like I have a slushy coursing through my veins.

“Oh…” The inside of my head swims and I stumble back inside, hitting my toe on the threshold. But it doesn’t hurt. I’m already in too much shock to feel any pain.

I lurch toward the enormous sofa and grab onto it to steady myself before dropping my backside onto the cushion. “Are you saying that was…?”

“There we go.”

“Fuuuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. You were passed out, propped up against the wall, so I called my driver to take her back to her hotel. And while we were waiting, I had to kill time chatting to the poor woman. She was mortified. Obviously.”

“Christ.” I drop my head into my hands.

“She told me her name was Drew Wilcox. And that she was coaching for Dijon FCO. Then when the new coaching lineup for the US women’s team was announced a few years ago, I remembered her. Which is clearly more than you did.”

“So I’ve shagged Drew Wilcox?” Hearing those words come out of my mouth is as horrifying as the moment in a scary movie when they finally show you the monster.

Her arse does look phenomenal in those leggings, though. And her nose freckles are cute. And there is something hot about the way she looks at me like I’m a useless prick. So I could see why I might have wanted to.

“No idea. But when you fell out of the closet, your pants were undone. And I know that because I had to do them up for you. Don’t ever say I’m not your best friend.”

“Shit, so not only do I have to share this job and the office, and not only do I have to crush her to keep the only chance I have to get my career going again, but this person I have to crush has seen Mr. Happy?”

“If it’s any consolation, she was very nice. And I apologized on your and Mr. Happy’s behalf.”

“Fuck.”