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

Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

DREW

The tip of my not-quite-dry ponytail chills the back of my neck as I open the office door. The hairdryer in the women’s gym changing room is completely useless. I bet the one in the men’s works perfectly. If there were more women around, maybe I could justify lobbying for a replacement.

When I step inside, my heart sinks.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” The words leave my mouth as much in disappointment as in annoyance.

I know this is hardly the most luxurious office in the world, but is someone seriously treating it even more like a trash can than usual and leaving their empty coffee cup on my desk now?

Sighing, I walk around and pick up the Found Grounds cup to toss it in the trash. But it’s instantly clear that not only is it full, it’s hot. And it’s not coffee. There’s a tea bag tag dangling down the side—a tag that says it’s jasmine green. My favorite .

Who the hell put this here? I turn it around to see whose name is written on the side. The scrawl looks like “Laya.” Did someone place an order saying they were Princess Leia and the person behind the counter couldn’t spell?

I study the name some more, tipping my head as if somehow that will help me decipher it.

Hang on…

Oh.

My stomach swirls as it drops.

I flop into my chair, staring at the writing.

Hugo.

It says Hugo .

He got me tea? Green tea. And how did he know it’s specifically the jasmine green I like?

Maybe it’s some sort of weird practical joke and is actually a cup of hot liniment or something. I take off the lid and sniff the contents. Nope, that’s real tea. And it’s still steaming. Like he’s so familiar with my morning routine that he knew exactly what time I’d walk into the office, and he made sure to drop it off right before, so I got it nice and fresh.

So why didn’t I see him?

Where is he?

Why has he given me tea?

Why is holding a cup he’s held and placed on my desk sending warm ripples through my belly?

Why is this all so confusing?

Oh, yes, it’s because I gave in to the lustful instincts he brings out in me and did all that…stuff…with him in the pub.

It was great stuff though.

Very great stuff .

The mere memory of the stuff makes my pulse rise as a snapshot of his head between my legs flashes across my mind.

But was it worth the confusion? Mayb?—

The door from the hallway swings open, jolting my backside off the chair and bringing me back to reality.

A reality that has Hugo’s large, square athletic frame in it.

My stomach flips, not just in surprise, but also because of the way his white T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, and the way the edges of the sleeves grip his biceps. My fingers tingle at the memory of running over the tickling hairs on that broad, solid chest.

His eyes meet mine for a second, then pause briefly on the cup in my hand before turning down to focus on the soccer ball he’s holding. “Morning.”

“Morning.” It emerges from my throat like a weird croak, as if it’s the first word I’ve ever spoken and my vocal cords aren’t quite sure how to do it.

I wipe a drip off the side of the cup where some tea leaked out when I jumped, clear my throat, and try again. “Morning.”

So who’s going to speak next? And what are they going to say?

A spiky tension hangs in the air between us, jagged with the fight about Ramon and yesterday’s uncomfortable encounter with Hugo’s friend that brought back way too many memories of Paris.

It makes me acutely aware of my rapid yet heavy breaths and my heart beating with more weight than usual.

I should make him speak first. He might have admitted he was wrong about the Ramon thing, but he was still an ass.

But then he did get me tea, so maybe I should say thank you for that?

“Did you—” I start at the same time as he says, “Is that the right?—”

My cheeks heat, and a girlish giggle sneaks out. “You go fir?—”

“Hey.” Schumann swings open the door from the locker room and strides purposefully into the office.

“Morning,” Hugo and I say simultaneously, eagerly turning our attention to him, both clearly overjoyed he’s shattered the awkwardness and we have someone else to talk to rather than each other.

Schumann looks from Hugo to me and back again. “You okay?”

Hugo nods and shrugs as if to say of course, what are you talking about?

As he turns to me, Schumann’s brow furrows like he knows there’s something not quite right but can’t put his finger on it. “And are you , okay?”

I wrap my fingers around the base of the cup and turn it in a circle on the desk. “Of course.”

“You guys sure? Because this feels exactly like when I’d walk in on my mom and dad having a fight and they’d pretend everything was just dandy when actually they were about to rip our whole world apart.”

Again, Hugo and I speak at the same time. It’s a jumble of my “No, no. Not at all” and his “No world-ripping going on here.”

“Totally united,” Hugo adds.

I flash him a look but he’s concentrating on repeatedly tossing the ball into the air, his corded forearms flexing .

“Did you want us for something?” I ask Schumann.

The use of “us” gives me a brief shot of pleasure as it rolls off my tongue like the most natural thing in the world. As if Hugo and I are a “we.” Which we most definitely are while at work. And that’s exactly how I meant it. So it’s perfectly normal that it felt natural and right.

“Something I noticed about the Chicago defense I wanted to talk about,” Schumann says.

Hugo bounces the ball on the ground, this time making his biceps twitch. “There’s a tactics meeting after training,” he says against the thump, thump, thump of the ball hitting the tiles. “Coach Wilcox has a whole series of videos prepared.”

Why is him saying my name while his attention is entirely focused on the ball a potent aphrodisiac that’s making all my insidey bits tremble?

“Thanks, yes.” I lace my fingers around the cup, leaving them there till they heat to the edge of discomfort to distract me from the skip in my heartbeat and the throb at my core. “We can talk about it then. As a team.”

“Okay,” Schumann says. “But all I wanted to say is tha?—”

“Like Coach Wilcox said,” Hugo says firmly, “we’ll all talk about it together at the meeting after training.” He catches the ball and tucks it under his arm as he turns to face Schumann in such a definite way that it’s obvious that’s the end of the matter.

And, more importantly, that he’s backing me up.

And this time it feels good. Not like he thinks I can’t stand up for myself. Not like he’s saying it just so we’re putting on a united front for show. But like he’s supporting my response because it’s right and he genuinely agrees .

While my chest swells with professional pride, my lady bits find it even more pleasing.

Schumann nods at Hugo, then at me, and returns to the locker room, clicking the door shut behind him.

And instantly the air crackles with awkwardness again.

Hugo takes hold of the door handle, making to leave.

Half of me heaves a sigh of relief that he’s on his way out, but the other half’s desperate for him to grab me and throw me across the desk.

He pauses on a throat-clearing cough. “You got the…er…” He nods toward the cup in my hands.

“I did.”

“Good.”

“How did you know to get the jasmine one?”

“I asked the guy…you know…the one with the blond spikes.”

“Ah. Well, thank you.”

How can a conversation be so stilted and yet also so brimming with desire?

He turns to leave. “You’re welcome.”

He walks through the door and turns right.

“Training field is the other way,” I call after him.

“Right…yeah,” his disembodied voice calls back. “Going to…er…walk around.”

It couldn’t be more satisfying to know he’s as thrown off-balance by that encounter as I am—so much so that he’s accidentally headed in the wrong direction.

I’ll take one admission of being wrong as enough for today.

I raise my cup to the empty doorway.

“Apology accepted,” I murmur to myself, crossing my legs and clenching against the heat between them as a smile sneaks onto my lips.