Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HUGO
The last time I had this much trouble sleeping was right after my knee injury when I knew my life was over—my footballing life, that is. But since I’ve eaten, slept, thought, and breathed the game for as long as I can remember, it actually is my whole life.
And now the only way to resuscitate it is to play nice with Wilcox.
Fuck.
I shove the pillows to the side and roll over flat on my belly, cheek pressed against the cool sheet covering the mattress.
Man, she looked hot tonight.
The way just the tiniest curve of her breasts peeked out from that neckline made me remember seeing the same thing in Paris. And thinking the same thing in Paris. And feeling the same thing in Paris. I might not recall what it was like to touch her, but the deep internal shudder she stirred within me came flooding right back when I looked into her eyes across that table at dinner.
I do not need to be having feelings about Drew fucking Wilcox—not any that aren’t all about beating her to this job, anyway.
I just need to work with her to get this team winning, then I need to convince the Fab Four to extend my contract and not hers.
But man, after we’d come to the conclusion that working together was the only way to save ourselves at least until the end of the season, she became the woman I vaguely remember from the nightclub.
She got a bit tipsy on the wine and lost some of her sharp edges and pointy corners.
And she was funny. Told me a story about how she once full-body tackled a streaker on the pitch before the cops could get to him.
She’s ballsy.
And although I might not agree with some of her ideas, she is right that the guys could all benefit from regular sessions with a sports psychologist.
Lord knows I’ve been sent to my fair share of them. Not sure it ever did me much good—the addled mess inside my head is probably beyond repair. But being made to see someone once a week who has to listen to you complain about things because they’re paid to, ended up feeling like a good thing.
And Wilcox is smart.
She did math about goal averages in her head. Doubt I could have done it with a calculator.
I sat there and watched the cogs in her brain turn while she worked it out. It was like she went to another place for a second. But the spark in her eyes remained .
Fuck.
The night I couldn’t sleep because I was so cut up about my knee, I called Tom. It helped. He’s kind of like my therapy now. He’s definitely the best mate a guy could wish for. And right now he’s in LA, so it’s only 11:15 p.m. there, and he’s always been a night owl.
I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand.
“Hey,” Tom says. “Let me guess. You’ve slept with the enemy.”
I put the phone on speaker and lay it on my chest as I gaze up at the ceiling. “Don’t even.”
“You’ll have to forgive the assumption. But it wouldn’t exactly be out of character.”
“I haven’t slept with her, no. But you know what?”
“You want to?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Oh, Hugo. Hugo, Hugo, Hugo. I thought you were supposed to be focusing on the job here. You know, new leaf and all that.”
“I am. But on top of how hard it is to co-coach with someone—her in particular— we’ve just spent the evening having dinner together at a restaurant so fucking romantic that even someone trying to dream up a romantic restaurant wouldn’t come close. And she looked fucking gorgeous. And she was smart. And funny. And…” I link my hands behind my head, barely able to bring myself to utter the word I’m thinking. “Cute.”
“You had dinner together ?” Tom couldn’t sound more surprised if I’d told him I’d just bumped into my footballing hero Bobby Moore—who’s been dead for several decades. “You mean you asked her on a date ? And she said yes ? And you went to dinner ? Are you losing your fucking mind? ”
“God, no. None of that. The Fab Four were pissed off we weren’t getting along. They said if we can’t work it out, they’ll have to send one of us on gardening leave. So Chase booked us an all-expenses-paid meal at Pulacini’s to give us a chance to sit down and figure out a way to work together.”
My mind flashes back to the image of Wilcox’s genuine belly laugh when I told her I was once chasing the ball so hard that I couldn’t stop and flew headfirst over the advertising boards into the crowd and landed in a guy’s lap.
“And I think we did.”
“Oh, Jesus. Do you actually like her? Like, like her?”
“I don’t know. What does that feel like?”
“You’re a lost fucking cause.” Tom’s long sigh is full of despair. “But if you are ready to dip your toe into the waters of an actual relationship, I might suggest that the person you have to train a football team with every day—and who you’re fighting against to keep the job—might not be the best candidate.”
“Ex-fucking-zactly. But I’m not saying I want an actual relationship. I’m just saying she’s different. And I was lying here trying to sleep but couldn’t. So I thought I’d call my old mate to straighten me out.”
“Well, at the risk of stating the obvious, I’d say the reason you can’t sleep is because she’s playing on your mind. And if she’s playing on your mind, it’s because you like her. And if you do actually like her, then maybe the situation is irrelevant.”
“Wrong answer, Dashwood. Wrong answer.”
“Hmm. Now, let me think.” Something sarcastic is coming. “If I recall correctly, a very unwise man once said something to me that was very wise. I believe it was along the lines of, ‘You can’t always control the timing of your life. Sometimes you have to just go with it.’”
“Whoever that was is an idiot.”
“Well, your words served me well, my friend. If it hadn’t been for that, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here with the world’s greatest fiancée and world’s greatest stepson-to-be.”
Wherever I dug up that wisdom, I’ll never know. Maybe it’s just easier to see it in someone else’s life than it is your own.
“It’s entirely the wrong advice for me though,” I tell him.
“Are you sure about that? I mean, how much longer do you plan on playing the field?”
“I dunno, mate.” I sigh. “Not really given it any thought.”
“Does it make you happy?”
“Man, these are very big questions for someone who needs a team that didn’t win a single match last season, and has only won a handful so far this year, to win on Saturday and validate my appointment. And I’ve got precisely one more day to figure out how to make that happen.”
“Except that’s obviously not what you’re thinking about. You’re thinking about the woman you had dinner with. Who you actually like. Even though she probably hates you for being a dick in Paris.”
“You know what the most frustrating thing is? I’ve squeezed my brain as hard as I can, but I still don’t remember if we did it or not.”
“I’m sure she’s flattered.”
“Not sure she’d be flattered by anything, to be honest. Like I said, she’s different. She has convictions. And believes in stuff. And thinks I’m full of shit.”
“Ha.” Tom’s sharp, loud laugh distorts and rattles out of my phone. “Similar to how Hannah felt about me. It’s pretty hot when someone calls you on your crap, eh?”
“Annoying. It’s annoying .” I breathe a heavy sigh, the phone rising and falling on my chest. “And irritating. And difficult.”
And yes, hot. But I’m not prepared to say that out loud.
“Look, Hewg. Thirty-four isn’t exactly over the hill. But you’re not getting any younger either. I mean, if you want a family?—”
“Suddenly feel very tired, mate. Like I could drop right off.” I make an exaggerated yawning sound. “Must go.”
“Sure.” Tom’s chuckle ends abruptly when I hang up.
I toss the phone back on the nightstand and roll onto my side.
He’s wrong. I refuse to accept that it’s Wilcox I’m hung up on.
The only thing bugging me has to be the fact that this job should be mine. But she’s there too. And I have to fight her for it.
But, also, what the fuck did happen in Paris?