Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DREW
“…then one of the boys tipped the trash can over his head and said, ‘And I’m Oscar the Grouch.’”
Winston’s tales of the kids’ antics during his days teaching elementary school have had me, Mona, and Joyce holding our bellies for a good half hour. And I can’t think of a better way to take my mind off the evening’s awful loss.
Not to mention off Hugo. I’m still in shock that he didn’t lose it on the players after the game—not only because he actually took my advice, but also because he proved he’s capable of controlling his temper, and stopping himself from yelling and punching a hole in the wall.
It might be the most obvious sign of him softening, but there’ve been other glimmers these last few weeks since our dinner. Although we’ve stayed out of each other’s way as much as possible, our paths inevitably cross briefly a couple times a day and we have to collaborate on the prematch tactics meetings, so it’s impossible not to notice these little things. Or maybe I just observe him an unhealthy amount in the moments I’m around him—it’s hard not to when all my senses are drawn to him in a way I’ve never experienced with anyone.
He’s started saying good morning to Wally, the janitor. It might not sound like much, but acknowledging him and stepping around the damp area of freshly mopped floor is a big difference from acting like Wally doesn’t exist and stomping right through in muddy cleats.
When the laundry attendant hurt his back, Hugo told the players to stop leaving their wet towels on the locker room floor and to throw them into the laundry containers.
And a week or so ago, after the Fab Four ordered lunch for the whole team—I had a particularly great avocado and smoked salmon sandwich with my favorite pickles on the side—he weirdly bolted out the door halfway through his food. But when he came back down the hallway he was whistling.
Whistling .
Never heard him do that before. It might have been a bit off-key, but I swear to God it was “Walking on Sunshine.”
Is his time at the Commoners chipping away at his bravado? Is Hugo Powers growing up a little? Calming down and maturing into the man he could be? And probably should have been all along if his head hadn’t been turned by fame and fortune?
Mona runs her finger around the rim of her sherry glass. “Your stories make me wonder,” she says to Winston. “Maybe I should volunteer at the school. Might make up for never having had grandk?—”
She’s interrupted by Joyce, who, snatching a sharp breath, grabs my arm like a clamp tightened to the max. We all turn to look at her.
“Is that him? ” Joyce whispers. “It is. It’s him, isn’t it?”
I follow the line of her squinting eyes to the door.
And oh my ever-loving hellfire and damnation. It is.
Is it possible for your blood to run hot and cold at the same time? For your heart to thump with both dread and excitement? To have butterflies in your belly, but for half of them to be stomping around in lead boots rather than fluttering?
Hugo’s still wearing his game gear, jacket unzipped to reveal a white T-shirt that looks glued to his pecs. He pauses just inside the door for a second, till his gaze lands on the bar.
“Over here!” Joyce is on her feet before I can stop her, and she’s pointing directly down to the top of my head.
Almost every face in the bar turns toward her. Hugo’s included.
Fuck .
I do not want to socialize with Hugo. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be right. It’s far better, or perhaps safer, that there’s a dividing line between work and play—a line as clear as the one Hugo taped through the middle of our office.
When his eyes follow Joyce’s finger and find me, his chest rocks with a chuckle that morphs into a sarcastic grin.
“He won’t want to sit with us, Joyce.” I tug her sleeve until she retakes her seat. But she’s still beckoning him with her other hand.
“Oh, I think he does,” Mona says, sitting a little straighter and fluffing the back of her hair.
And she seems to be right. Unfortunately .
Taking long, leisurely steps, he approaches us across the half-empty bar. The ironic smile curving his lips complements the mischievous glint in his eye, and prompts the butterflies with lead boots to kick them off and join the flutter party in my belly.
Hugo stops right behind Mona, whose head is turned and tipped back so she can gaze up at him like an abandoned puppy that just got rescued.
“Wilcox.” He parts his lips and runs his tongue along the front of his shiny white upper teeth. “So this is where you hang out. And these are your friends ?”
He can say “friends” as sarcastically as he likes, but I will stand by these three to the end.
“Yes. Let me introduce you. Hugo, this is Joyce.”
She jumps to her feet and stretches across the table to shake his hand, her eyelashes batting so fast they’re barely visible. “Quite excellent to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Hugo says with a tone so resembling a nineteenth-century lothario that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s about to bow and kiss the back of her hand.
Joyce looks like her life has been made and she’ll never wash that hand again.
“And Mona.” I gesture toward the woman who, if she leaned back just a couple more inches, would be able to rest her head on his abs.
She continues to gaze up at him, her grin getting wider. She giggles girlishly, then wiggles her fingers at him in a tiny wave.
Hugo nods down at her. “Delighted to meet you.”
“And this is Winston.” I lift my palm toward the man on my right, who levers his arthritic hips into a standing position .
“We’ve heard a lot about you, young man.” Winston extends one hand and pushes his glasses up his nose with the other, like a scientist examining a particularly unpleasant specimen.
“All of it good, I hope,” Hugo says, shaking his hand.
“I wouldn’t say all ?—”
“Anyway.” I wrap my clammy hands around my beer glass in an attempt to cool them. “I guess you’re not staying.”
“Oh, but you must stay.” Joyce points at the chair at the end, which squeaks away from the table with the assistance of her foot.
I give her my best silent what are you doing? glare, but it’s not me who has her attention.
“Well, if you insist, Joyce.” Hugo rounds the end of the table and takes the magically moving chair.
Jesus. First we have a four-nil home loss, and now I have to share my evening with Hugo freaking Powers. What’s next? A plague of frogs?
Joyce beckons over the server, who takes Hugo’s order of “something Irish and cold” and responds with her standard wisecrack of “my mother isn’t available.”
Interesting that his request was so vague, though, since he took much more care ordering the wine when we went out for dinner.
Winston, who hasn’t sat back down, drains his glass and plants it on the table with a thunk. “Right. Time to go, ladies.”
Oh, no. The Oldies leaving would be like having a safety blanket snatched away. Now my armpits are as clammy as my hands, but I can’t exactly wrap them around my beer glass.
“Really, no need.” I clutch Winston’s sleeve .
“It’s our usual leaving time anyway.” Winston checks his old gold watch, causing me to have to let go. “Actually, past it.”
Mona, whose eyes haven’t left Hugo, lets out a faint whimper.
“But he just got here.” Joyce taps Hugo’s forearm. Her eyebrows immediately shoot up and she makes an oo of approval as she gives the muscle a not very subtle squeeze.
“Precisely,” Winston says, reaching behind him and lifting his jacket off the back of the chair. “These two must have a lot to talk about.”
“Indeed we do,” Hugo says, as the server places his beer in front of him.
“Oh, all right then.” Joyce gets to her feet, slings her shiny red purse over her shoulder and grabs her jacket.
As she moves behind Hugo, she pauses to rest both hands on his shoulders for a second.
“Do come to see us again sometime,” she says in her best Mae West impression.
“Oh, I most definitely will.” He lifts his drink toward me and winks before taking a sip.
Winks .
He just fucking winked at me.
And seriously, that flutter in my belly needs to behave itself.
“Oh, we’re the last ones here,” Mona says, scanning the room, her attention finally taken by something other than Hugo’s face.
She’s right. The rest of the bar is now empty.
Shit, they’re about to leave me and Hugo alone. The server is hanging up her apron and grabbing her coat. The only other person here is Garrett, and he’s wiping down the beer taps.
Mona takes a step closer to Hugo and bends her knees to dip toward his ear.
“Lovely to meet you,” she says in a loud whisper, like it’s sort of a secret but not quite.
Devil that he is, he leans toward her like they’re sharing a conspiracy. “Lovely to meet you too, Mona,” he whispers back.
The women head to the door, shoulder to shoulder, muttering and giggling.
Winston points a stern finger across the table at Hugo. “You treat her well now, young man.”
“Always do, sir,” he says with what sounds like genuine respect.
“She’s a precious commodity, this one.” Winston gives me an awkward pat on my back.
From a man clearly uncomfortable with physical signs of affection, that’s a compliment so enormous, so touching, that a lump rises in my throat.
“Oh, I am well aware how precious she is,” Hugo says, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before I look away.
“Thank you, Winston.” I swallow hard. “That means a lot. You take care, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
He shuffles off toward the women who’re holding the door open for him.
And now I’m almost alone in a pub with Hugo freaking Powers.
Thank God Garrett’s still here.
“Drew,” Garrett calls as he lifts the flap in the bar and walks out. “We’re closing early tonight, remember?”
Hallelujah. There’s a gift I can grab with both hands .
“Oh, I completely forgot.” I get to my feet and look at Hugo. “Guess you’ll have to go.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Garrett says, following Winston toward the door. “You and your friend can stay.”
No, no, no . That’s absolutely the opposite of what I meant. “I’m sure Hugo needs to leave. It’s been a long and, well, trying day.”
“Exactly why I need this.” Hugo rests his elbows on the table, which somehow makes his shoulders appear extra broad, and holds his drink up to me. “I can stay to finish it, right?”
That smirk, or grin, or whatever the hell it is, is a fatal combination along with the flirtatious, pleading sparkle in his eyes.
I glance over at Garrett, my final hope of someone to rescue me from Hugo’s magnetic force.
But he’s busy. He bolts and locks the door behind the Oldies, pulls down the blinds over the door and windows, and flips off all the overhead lights, leaving on just the ones above the pictures on the walls and the low green one illuminating the shelves behind the bar.
On his way back through, he drops the keys beside me on the table. “Be sure to lock up when he leaves.” He looks from me to Hugo. “Have a good rest of your night.”
And with a smile that suggests he thinks we’re more than friends and he’s doing us a favor, he heads behind the bar, drops the flap behind him, and disappears out the back.
Now I’m alone in a dimly lit room full of alcohol with Hugo freaking Powers.
And we all know how that ended last time.