Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
DREW
“Welcome,” Leo says from behind the desk. “I would say take a seat, but there isn’t room.”
This office never expected there to be four owners. There’s just one desk and two more chairs. A slouchy Prince Oliver sits in one, Chase in the other.
Miller stands beside them, leaning back against the wall, and tugs his shirt cuffs out from his expensively tailored jacket sleeves.
Unbelievable. This is un-fucking-believable. Hugo and his refusal to accept anything other than his own way of doing things has gotten us hauled into the principal’s office.
And we have four very powerful principals.
We’d walked in silence behind Miller as we got out of the elevator on the fourth floor and followed him along the hallway to the executive suite. Well, it’s executive by Boston Commoners standards. Which means a slightly bigger office, with carpet, and two windows—one looking directly onto the stadium field, the other with an expansive view over the training field.
There’s also an office for Amelia right outside the door. And an exclusive restroom. When I was a kid, the plumber was here to deal with one issue or another with that every couple months.
After brief hellos and how-are-yous, Hugo and I face our bosses and stand side by side in the middle of the room. If it were possible to hear the crackles of resentment that fill the air between the two of us, the noise would be deafening.
“Thanks for coming up,guys,” the prince says. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to calling him just Oliver.
Chase crosses an ankle over a knee. “Yeah, we know you’re working hard to get ready for the game this weekend, so we appreciate your time.”
“I’ll get right to it.” Leo drums his fingers on the edge of the desk. “We’re a little concerned this arrangement might already not be working out.”
Shit. Are they going to fire one of us after all? “What do you mean?”
Hugo glares at me for a second in disbelief that I might interrupt Leo. Where the hell did he get manners from all of a sudden?
“We’ve heard you haven’t been getting along.” Leo taps a pen on the back of his hand. “That there’ve been some disagreements. In front of the players. And that’s not good.”
“Well, this is an unusual arrangement.” Hugo gestures to me like the unusual arrangement is me.
If this man throws me under the bus, that’s another thing to add to the list of things I’ll never forgive him for.
“I wouldn’t call them disagreements ,” I say, jumping in to try to salvage this because if they’re going to pick just one of us to keep, they’re bound to choose Hugo—the actual soccer player, the famous guy, the glamour appointment. “We have different training philosophies, sure. But that’s one of the benefits of having two coaches, right? You get two brains instead of one.”
“True enough.” Miller folds his arms and crosses his ankles.
The other three nod.
“She’s right,” Hugo says.
My head almost spins off my neck as it snaps to look at him. Hugo Powers agreeing with me is about as likely as my dad telling me I’ve done an awesome job.
Or could it be that soccer’s gift to women is as afraid of being fired as I am?
“Like I said,” Hugo continues, “this is an unusual situation. But it was an inspired decision.”
Ah, the good old-fashioned suck-up technique. Excuse me while I try to stop my eyes from rolling out of my head.
“With my experience on the pitch and Wilcox’s expertise in the all-important behind-the-scenes player maintenance, fostering their physical longevity in the game and the longevity of their loyalty to the club, and all the mindset work and mental health support she’s brought in, well…”
He pauses to flash them that dazzling smile and point between us like he’s always thought we’re a great team. “…you’ve got a winning combo here.”
And, with that, I’ve learned something new about Hugo Powers—he’s a very convincing liar.
“Oh, right, well then I guess there’s no problem.” Prince Oliver makes to stand up, clearly considering the issue resolved.
He drops back into his chair when Miller starts speaking. “But what about the fight at training the other day? And whatever was happening when I just came downstairs?” The property developer pushes his hands into his pants pockets. “And the yelling at the sports psychologist? None of that is good for team morale. And I can’t imagine the doctor got a very good impression of us.”
Ah, so it’s Hugo they’re pissed off with. It’s impossible not to feel a small sense of relief.
“No,” Leo joins in. “We need to be boosting the club’s reputation, not dragging it further into the gutter. Having to pay both of you is bad enough, but these stories have already gotten back to us, and with Sharpe and Rossi always sniffing around for leaked info for their podcast there’s a chance they could spread wider. Rumors of petty backroom fighting would be more than embarrassing—it’d be intolerable. And I’m not sure that’s a risk we’re prepared to take.”
The relief is washed away by a wave of returning panic. Guess it’s not just Hugo then.
“Oh, it’s just animated debates,” Hugo says, trying to dismiss it. “Part of the passion for the sport. We all just want what’s best for the team, what will make us win. That’s the name of the game, right?” Underneath his usual confident bluster there’s a hint of scrambling in his voice, like he can sense himself on the chopping block.
“Well…” Chase says it like a question and folds his arms. If even Mr. Nice Guy is pissed off enough to be unsure about keeping us both, then we’re in serious shit. “It’s only Thursday. You guys haven’t even been here a we ek and already people are talking about how obvious it is you don’t get along.”
“We never wanted two coaches,” Leo says. “But we thought we’d stay positive and see it as two being better than one. But if you’re going to fight like you’re on opposing teams rather than the same one, and drag down the club’s already pretty low reputation, we’d be better off putting one of you on a leave of absence.”
A fire rips through me so hot he might as well have lit me like a match. “Oh, I’m sure we can?—”
I stop mid-sentence, realizing Hugo’s talking at the same time, saying something about being a team player and being able to get along with anyone, except his words are coming out in the wrong order. Something like, “It’s fine. We’re player teams. We together well work. Fine. Totally.”
His hands are clenching and unclenching by his sides, and I swear to God there’s a sheen on his forehead that wasn’t there a minute ago.
Watching even Mr. Cockyface lose it, is like being on a plane at thirty thousand feet and watching a panic-stricken flight attendant run down the aisle and strap herself in.
I knew he wanted it badly but had no idea he was this desperate.
But this is survival of the fittest. The only way to guarantee they’ll keep me is to make sure they don’t send either of us home—because if one of us has to go, the odds are that it will be me. So to save myself I—oh, irony of ironies—have to save him too.
I heave in a breath, but my chest is so tight I can only fill the top ten percent of my lungs. “So sorry it’s come across that way,” I tell the Fab Four. “We’re both very passionate about what we do. That’s all it is.”
I glance up at Hugo, who’s subtly trying to wipe his top lip.
“We are both committed to leading this team to victory,” I continue. “And Dr. Boateng is so delighted to be working with us that she’s coming back next week. She felt like we were on the verge of a real breakthrough when Hugo barged—” Shit. “I mean, when we decided to cut the session short and get the guys out onto the field.”
“Here you go.” Amelia appears in the doorway behind us holding a tray of mugs. Her arrival cuts through the atmosphere and thankfully distracts from my blunder.
Hugo catches my eye as I turn back to face the room and gives me a tiny nod of approval for my intervention.
God bless Amelia for buying me a bit more thinking time. She and I were good friends in high school, but fell out of touch when we went to different colleges. So I couldn’t have been happier when my dad took her on right after graduation. And she’s been here ever since—for ten years.
I don’t doubt she could have moved on to a much more glamorous club long ago, but she’s come to love the Commoners as much as I do. Plus, she has some family issues that keep her in Boston.
I’m excited to get to work with her—she’s always been as sharp as a freshly sharpened tack, and it didn’t take her long to pick up almost everything there is to know about how to run this place.
And I’m absolutely certain that if this office were mine now, with Amelia behind me, we’d be a force to be reckoned with in the league.
She puts the tray down on Leo’s desk, and he breaks into the first warm smile I’ve seen on him since we met. “Thank you.”
Amelia ignores him and picks up two mugs, hands one to Miller and one to Chase.
“I asked for black coffee,” Miller says.
“And me for white,” Chase says, giving the contents of his mug a suspicious sniff.
“Oh, sorry.” Amelia takes back their drinks, gives one to Prince Oliver, the other to Leo.
“Hot chocolate?” Prince Oliver says.
“Mine,” Leo says. “And I have your tea.”
They switch drinks.
Never in my life would I have had Leo down as a hot chocolate drinker, but I guess you never can tell.
“Not to worry,” Leo says, flashing Amelia another smile that reaches right to his eyes.
If he’s suddenly in a good mood, we definitely need to take advantage of that.
“These must be yours then.” Amelia hands the other two mugs to Miller and Chase.
The two men look at them, then switch drinks.
“I’m not here because of my waitressing skills,” Amelia mumbles as she picks up the tray. “I would have ordered in from Found Grounds if you’d given me more notice. They’re the professional hot beverage makers, not me.”
She gives me a subtle eye roll as she passes by on her way out. Maybe I’m not the only one who wishes this was my office.
“As I was saying,” I tell Leo, who’s gazing right past me to watch Amelia leave the room. “Everything’s great.”
I look to Hugo for backup, but there’s nothing. Is he so frightened of losing this job that he’s been struck speechless for the first time in his life ?
“Isn’t it, Hugo?” I give him a nudge of encouragement, my elbow making contact with the forearm that felt so good wrapped around my waist in Paris.
Jesus, why the hell has my stupid brain gone there? This is the worst possible moment to be distracted with those ridiculous thoughts.
“Oh, sorry. Yes.” He turns to look down at me, his eyes meeting mine for a second in unspoken agreement of the game we’re playing here. The game where we’re both on the same side. “Yes, everything’s great, guys.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulder.
Okay, well, I didn’t see that coming.
It’s as unexpected as the flutter that starts in my chest and shimmies worryingly lower when he pulls me to his solid side. I tuck perfectly under his arm and catch a waft of that spicy antiperspirant—the aroma shoots my mind right back to him perching me on the shelf of that Paris janitor’s closet.
He dangles his hand over my shoulder, like it’s lived there all its life, and leans into me. “Wilcox and I are a top team. The finest. At the end of the season, you’re not going to want to get rid of either of us.”
Shitbags. Don’t put that idea in their heads. If I can’t have the owner’s office—and clearly I can’t—then I want the goddamn head coach job to myself.
“No chance,” Leo says. “The budget’s to the bone as it is. That’s why you decided to rent your own apartment, remember?”
“Well, the one you were offering wasn’t quite?—”
“You were offered an apartment?” I look up at him over the rise of his right pec.
He raises his eyebrows, mouth curled up at one side. “You mean your dad’s contract didn’t offer you one? ”
Not that I’d want to waste the club’s money on my accommodation when I can stay over the pub for free. But still, my dad… Urgh.
“Maybe it was all a misunderstanding then,” Prince Oliver says. “You guys fighting, I mean. Good to know that everything in the garden is rosy.”
Is he naive or just kind enough to play along?
“Anyway, just in case,” Chase says, “we thought you might need a bit of time outside the stadium to get to know each other better. To improve relations.”
Improve relations ? I’ve had more than enough relations with Hugo Powers to last me a lifetime. And why the hell does he still have his arm around me?
I duck out from under it. “Oh, no need for any team-building exercises or anything like that.” I have zero desire to go paintballing, or escape-rooming, or anything else-ing with Hugo. “We’re just great.”
I give him a guy-friend pat on the back. Christ, the muscles in his back have muscles on top of them. And I’ve run my fingers over those before… Good God, brain, focus on the important matter at hand.
“Great, that’s settled then. Good to see you all.” I step backward toward the door. “Gotta go. The players will be back from yoga any minute and ready for Hugo’s training session.”
My foot catches on a wrinkle in the crappy old carpet and my knees buckle.
Before I know it, Hugo’s hand has cupped my elbow and caught me.
“Yes,” he says. “Yoga. It’s brilliant.” Again, so good at the lying. “Makes them all nice and bendy for me. Very important. Thank you for setting that up, Wilcox. ”
As soon as I stand up straight again, he lets go of my elbow.
What the hell was that about? Why didn’t he just let me fall flat on my backside and look like a fool in front of everyone?
“So if that’s it…” he says to the Fab Four while also backing toward the door.
“I didn’t mean team-building exercises.” Chase’s words stop us in our eagerly departing tracks. “I’ve called in a couple of favors to get a table for you at Pulacini’s tonight, so you’d better show up.”
“Pulacini’s?” If my eyes don’t look like they’re bulging, they certainly feel like they are.
Pulacini’s is one of the best restaurants in Boston. Known for its exclusivity and privacy. It’s where celebrities, like any of our bosses, would take a date if they didn’t want anyone to find out. The staff are famous for being unbribably discreet.
“Yeah,” Leo says, his stern face now back in place. “A quiet spot for you to smooth over any cracks without anyone thinking you’re on a date.”
“Heaven forbid,” I say at the same time as Hugo says, “Fuck, no.”
I can’t help but feel offended. But God knows why. I couldn’t care less if he’d hate the idea of anyone thinking he was dating me. He replies to my furrowed glance with a shrug, as if to say he thought that was the right answer.
“And maybe talk some team tactics, too,” Prince Oliver, ever the soccer fan, says.
“Really no need for the dinner thing.” Christ, I have to get out of this. Not only because I don’t want to spend an awkward hour eating with Hugo, but I have nothing to wear to Pulacini’s. “We can talk about everything here. At work. In the office.”
“Or walking laps of the pitch,” Hugo adds, obviously equally as desperate not to spend an evening with me.
“Yes, or that.” I back him up.
I guess we can work as a team on some things then. Who knew it would take the horrific thought of being forced to have dinner together to bring that out?
“Nah, take the dinner. It’ll do you both good,” Prince Oliver says, before looking into his mug of tea, screwing up his nose, and placing the drink on the edge of the desk. “That’s awful.”
“Americans will never learn how to make a good cuppa,” Hugo quips.
“Not sure it has anything to do with being American,” Miller says. “My coffee’s terrible too.”
“I was drinking mine just to be polite,” Chase says.
“The hot chocolate’s not so bad,” Leo says, then takes a little sip and grimaces.
Amelia is not exactly known for her drink or food preparation skills.Once, when we were about fifteen, she had to call the fire service over a bacon-frying incident while her mom was at work.
“ You should take the table, Chase,” I tell him in one last effort to wriggle out of this. “It shouldn’t go to waste after you pulled strings to get it.”
“I can’t use it. Got some production meetings with people back in LA. And the time difference means they’re happening this evening.”
Miller pushes off the wall and straightens his jacket. “It’ll be good for you both, and the team, for you to get to know each other better anyway.”
“Yup.” Leo nudges the mug of hot chocolate to one side. “Go to dinner. Besides who in their right mind would turn down a free meal at Pulacini’s?”
Probably someone forced to eat opposite a world-renowned womanizer with whom they’d had a drunken encounter in a French janitor’s closet. That same womanizer they now have to work with every day while competing against them for their job. That’s who.
Prince Oliver gets to his feet and gathers up everyone’s unfinished drinks. How ironic that the one person in the room raised with actual servants is the one tidying up.
“Then we will graciously accept. Dinner it is,” Hugo says with a broad smile.
Turning to me, eyebrows raised, he adds, “You’d better be good company, Wilcox.”
Damn him.