Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
TWO WEEKS LATER
DREW
“Why do you always do this?” I’ve stayed over at Hugo’s gorgeous apartment about half a dozen times now, and every morning after it’s the same thing.
Here I am scrabbling around on the floor by his bed, bare butt in the air.
I look up to see his sleepy face appear over the edge.
His hair’s all over the place after everything we did last night, and my favorite affectionate smirk is on his lips. “If I didn’t toss your underwear somewhere you couldn’t find it, what fun would it be?”
It’s a super-cute running joke. And adorable that we even have our own jokes after such a short time. Being with him is so easy, so relaxed, like it’s just the way things are meant to be.
If it were up to Hugo, I’d have spent every night here after that evening eating hot dogs and watching the kids on the Common. I’ve wanted to—Lord, I have. But I’ve had to find the willpower to say no sometimes.
Because every time he touches me, every time he kisses me, every time I snuggle up between the sheets with him, I fall for him a bit more. It’s the most euphoric feeling I’ve ever had. And also the most terrifying. I mean, how long can this possibly last?
But right now, here in the cold, hard reality of this Wednesday morning, my priority is locating my underwear.
“I’m not after fun right now. I’m after getting dressed and going home to get showered and changed in time for my meeting.” My stomach churns with the guilt at not telling him who that meeting is with.
Hugo lets out a loud yawn. “Am I supposed to be at it?”
“Nope.” Thank God he can’t see my reddening face.
I might now be thoroughly immersed in the thoughtful, considerate depths that he hides from the rest of the world, but I’m not ready to talk to him about this. There’s a good chance nothing will come of it anyway, so there’s no point rocking the boat for possibly no reason.
With only just over a week to the end of the regular season now, we’re ever closer to finding out which one of us will be shown the door. And nothing’s happened over the last couple of weeks to give me any reason to think there’s any less chance of it being me.
“Something with the budget?” he asks.
“Hmm, maybe.” Okay, that’s verging on lying, and now I’m completely uncomfortable and need to get out of here before I dig myself any deeper.
Giving up on ever seeing my blue thong ever again, I take my head out from under the bed and grab my leggings.
When I sit on the edge of the mattress to put them on, he circles his arm all around my waist and kisses my bare hip. “Going commando, eh, Wilcox? You should do that more often.”
The touch of his mouth on the sensitive area so close to my center sends a quiver to my clit, making me want to flop back and get down to business with him all over again.
Hell, this man knows how to drive me wild. And he hasn’t run out of new ways to do it yet.
I slide my fingers into his thick, luscious hair, always unable to resist it. “I have to go.” He circles his tongue around my hip bone. “Argh. You know I have to go. I can’t go into the office smelling of you.”
“And what do I smell of, Wilcox?”
I cry out as he rolls onto his back, pulling me down on top of him so I’m lying across his stomach. “Annoyance. Workplace inappropriateness.” I crawl up his warm, naked body that actually smells of sleep and sex and me, until my face is over his. “And the hottest damn hotness in the world.”
“Good, because you staying over has brought us luck.” He buries his face in my neck and kisses the spot just under my left ear that he’s so fond of.
I fight the shiver running down my side and ease back to look at him. “You mean because since the first night I slept here we’ve won every game?”
“I do.”
“Yeah, even the one where Ramon sat on the bench,” I can’t resist adding.
“Yes, oh wise one. Even that one.” He trails his fingers up and down my spine in a way that does not encourage me to leave.
“You athletes and your superstitions.” I kiss the end of his nose because if I kiss his lips I’ll be here for another hour, maybe two, and definitely miss my meeting.
In fact, it’s harder and harder to say goodbye each time I see him. Dragging myself away is as difficult as trying to pull an extremely sucky suction cup off glass—I just slide around on top of him without actually breaking free.
But I force myself to roll off him. “Gotta run.”
As I stand to pull up my leggings, Hugo slaps my bare ass. “Fuck off then, spoilsport.”
And if he knew what I was heading off to do, he might actually mean that.
Why, oh why, oh why, did the pub’s Wi-Fi have to choose today to die?
The office is the last place on earth, actually in the universe, where I would ever want to take this meeting. But after getting home from Hugo’s and discovering there was no connection, I had no choice but to head straight here.
I would have used one of the meeting rooms upstairs for privacy, but Amelia was in one, making goodie bags for Kids’ Day, and had candy, pencils with soccer ball erasers on the ends, bobble heads and other goodies laid out all over the table.
And Prince Oliver was pacing around in the other, brow furrowed, talking into his phone. Even with the door closed I could make out him saying, “I’m not coming back, Grandpa. I’m not.” And I figured it was best not to interrupt a domestic dispute with an actual king.
The stadium Wi-Fi’s never reached the old storage room where we hold the sharing circle, so that leaves me with one spot—the least private place of all—my desk. And, to make matters even worse, without headphones or earbuds. Because in my panicky scramble to get from the pub to here in time, I totally forgot to pick them up.
I did remember to lock the office door before I sat down, though.
I run my hands over my hair to smooth down the flyaways and stare at the message on my screen that says, “Please wait for the host to start this meeting.”
It’s hard to know whether my heart is racing because of the panic of wondering whether I’d be late, the risk of being caught, or the prospect of the imminent conversation.
With a tinkle of electronic bells, my screen changes and there’s Jill Clements sitting in her office three thousand miles away with a Portland Cedars banner on the wall behind her.
“Hello, stranger.” The voice of my old boss, who gave me my first job in soccer, booms from my laptop. I tap the volume key frantically to turn her down to a whisper.
“Hi, thanks so much for being willing to chat.”
“Of course,” she says with a big smile. “When I got your text, I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased to hear from you or worried that there’s a problem.”
“Ha.” My laugh is awkward and makes me feel even more embarrassed for myself. “Well, you know…and I’m sorry to get right to the point, but I’ve ended up talking to you from work, which isn’t an appropriate location for this co nversation, but I didn’t want to cancel or postpone and let you down, so I thought?—”
“Ah, Drew.” She leans back in her chair and gives me a knowing look. “You’re bringing back memories of those days when I kept telling you that you didn’t need to overexplain everything, that you should have confidence in your decisions because you’re so damn good at what you do. What was that, ten years ago now?”
“Closer to eleven,” I say.
“Jesus, yes.” She shakes her head in despair at the speedy passage of time. “Anyway, even then I knew you were a special talent. And would be phenomenal if you’d just believe in yourself. And look at you now.” She points at me. “The first top-level female head coach of a men’s team. I could not be more proud.”
“You’re amazing, Jill. Thank you for always believing in me. But I doubt I’ll be in this position much longer.”
“Why not?” She leans forward, brow furrowed. “Something to do with your dad?”
“No. Well, probably. I mean, it would have been better if he’d told the new owners he’d contracted me right before they bought the place. Then everything would have been perfect because they wouldn’t have taken on Hugo freaking Powers.”
“Ah, yes. God’s gift to soccer balls and women.”
My cheeks heat at the comment that reminds me I’m just the latest in a career littered with female castoffs.
No need to linger on that topic. “Thing is, they can afford to keep only one of us on beyond the end of the season. And it’s bound to be him.”
“Like I was just saying—believe in yourself, Drew. Being a natural-born player like Powers doesn’t make anyone a great coach. But you, my friend, are a proven great coach.”
“That’s very lovely of you, but I’m scared. So…” I lean closer to the screen and whisper. “I wanted to start putting out some feelers. Just in case. And was wondering if you might have any openings for next seas?—”
The door handle jangles and a body thuds into it on the other side like they were going at full tilt and expected it to open.
“Oi. Wilcox.” Hugo’s voice booms from the other side. “Are you in there?”
“Shit.”
“What’s up?” Jill asks. “You look like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. By the human-eating monster who guards it.”
“It’s him ,” I whisper.
“Ah, right. Okay. You go and we’ll talk another time. But yes, I get what you’re saying. I will definitely see if anything’s coming up.”
I’m still staring at the door to the hallway when the one from the locker room swings open.
Shit —totally forgot to lock that one.
Hugo strides in, two thick vertical lines between his brows. “What’s going on? Why’s the door locked?”
I jab at the trackpad to end the call but, amid a surge of hot panic, somehow turn up the volume instead.
“For a job next season, I mean.” Jill’s voice booms out of the speakers so loudly it distorts.
Fuck, fuck, fuck .
“Gotta run,” I tell her. “Talk to you later.”
I slam the lid shut and look up at Hugo, my heart galloping, hands shaking, armpits as sweaty as a jockstrap after an August game. “The door was locked? Maybe I closed it too hard and it knocked the lock into place by accident. It’s so old and crappy. You’ve said that yourself.”
“Was that your meeting?” he asks.
I smooth imaginary stray hairs off my face. “No, no. That was just an old friend.”
He folds his arms and looks down at me. His eyes are big and brown and sad. “Are you lining up another job? And lying to me about it?”
My heart plummets to my stomach, where it continues to race.
He can see right through me. Knows every nuance of my expressions. Even if I had a poker face, he’d still spot my tell.
I can’t lie to him. I already feel racked with a lifetime’s worth of guilt for referring to Jill as an “old friend” even though she is.
Oh my God, this is an awful situation I’ve gotten myself into. Just awful.
I drop my head into my hands to hide my face and nod.
“Shit, Wilcox. Why? What are you doing?”
I sense the heat of his presence before I uncover my eyes to discover he’s walked around and rested his backside on the desk right next to me.
Shame and embarrassment grip my throat like a tightening rope. If I try to speak, I’m certain it’ll push my welling tears over the edge and complete my humiliation.
But the warmth of his big, caring hand on my back nudges me beyond the brink instead.
“Hey,” he says softly, when one tear, then another rolls silently down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I just about squeeze the words out. “I don’t want to lie to you. But I’m scared. ”
“Scared of what?” He rubs his hand up and down my spine.
“You’re bound to get the job. The team’s doing well. We’ve got the Under Riggs sponsorship, and they want you in the ads as well as the players. And there’s this.” I re-open my laptop and flick to a tab I’ve had open in my web browser for the best part of a week.
Hugo looks at the British newspaper article emblazoned with a picture of him punching the air in victory with the most glorious, alive smile on his face, next to the words. “He Powers Back.”
“What’s this shit you’ve been reading?” he asks.
“It says how well you’re doing here. How much everyone likes you. And how the team has won more consecutive games since you’ve been in charge than in their history.”
“So?”
“This is what you wanted. What you came here for. To clean up your image. To get the British press to respect you again. So someone over there will give you a job.” I swallow back a sob. “It’s all working out for you. Even if you stay at the Commoners next season, you’d be back in the UK or somewhere in Europe for the one after. So it wouldn’t make any difference anyway if I was in Portland.”
“ Portland? ” He leaps to his feet. “Please tell me there’s a Portland in Massachusetts. Or New York. Or New Hampshire. Or in whatever other bloody states border Massachusetts. And you’re not talking about the one three thousand fucking miles away.”
I nod. “Oregon.”
“Jesus Christ, Wilcox. I’m crazy about you, and you’re planning to run off to the other side of the fucking country?”
More tears spill out in pure frustration. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the Fab Four to kick me out, jobless, onto the street? I have to have a backup plan.”
“How about the US women’s team? At least that’s only DC. That’s not far, right?” He crouches beside me, his hand on my arm, looking up at me with a half-smile that verges on pleading.
“I can’t go back there. I gave them almost no notice when I left to come here. I’d need to wait for the management to change before I could ask.”
“Fuck.” He pushes a fistful of fingers through his hair.
“What’s your backup plan, Hugo? If the Fab Four keep me, what will you do?”
“Not thought about it. I never contemplate losing. It’s not how you win.”
“You’d go back to London, right?”
He closes his eyes and sighs.
“See?” I snatch a tissue from the box on my desk. “You criticize me. But you’re planning on doing the same thing.” I wipe my nose. “If you don’t get the job, you’ll move three thousand miles away too. So don’t point your finger at me and say I’m the one running.”
He rises silently to his feet and turns away, walking toward his desk, his shoulders sagging.
“Anyway.” He reaches into the top left drawer and takes out a roll of Joyntz medical tape. “I only came in to get this. Nowak caught the ball weirdly and bent a finger back. I need to tape it up for him.”
Without looking at me, he moves toward the door to the hallway, unlocks it, walks through, and pulls it shut behind him.
The click of it closing is the trigger that opens the floodgates and sends me crumpling forward on top of my laptop in a pile of stress, worry, guilt and uncontrollable sobs.
I know I have to look out for myself because no one else will.
But… fuck .
“So why do you look so mopey this evening?” Mona asks.
Despite the dark puffy circles under my eyes, I thought I’d been putting on a solid brave face for drinks with the Oldies. “Maybe because I can’t stop thinking about how fast the clock is running down. It’s only ten days, and two games, to the last match of the regular season.”
“What does that mean?” Joyce knows as much about soccer as she does about subtle hair color.
“The last game of the regular season decides who qualifies for the playoffs. Every club plays at the same time to make it fair, because whether a team gets through can depend on other teams losing.”
“Can the Commoners still qualify?” Mona asks.
Winston chuckles.
“It is mathematically possible,” I tell him.
“Sadly, not likely, though,” he says.
“I don’t care how likely it is. Possible is possible.” I turn back to Mona. “But we definitely have to win to have any chance at all.”
“And a whole bunch of teams above them in the league also have to lose,” Winston adds .
“Yes. But I never give up hope until the numbers tell me I should.” My mind flashes back to Hugo crouched next to my chair this morning, looking up at me with those hurt eyes. “A wise man once told me you shouldn’t contemplate losing, because it’s not how you win.”
“And will you find out about the job after that?” Joyce asks.
“I’m not sure. If we make it to the playoffs, they’d probably wait till after that to make a decision.”
“Well, you don’t strike me as someone who sits around waiting for someone to decide your destiny for you,” Winston says.
“Funny you should say that. I’ve been worrying about it since the moment I knew I had to compete against Hugo for the job, so I finally decided to do something about it. I can’t control anything about this situation, but I can create a contingency plan. So I spoke with my old boss in Portland earlier.”
“ Portland? ” Joyce shrieks in a response similar to Hugo’s.
Half the people in the bar turn their heads to see who’s taken such loud offense at the mention of a perfectly lovely city. “Sorry.” She overcompensates and lowers her voice to a shouty whisper. “But why would you want to move a continent away from Hugo the Hottie?”
“I think we’re all very aware that Hugo the Hottie isn’t exactly known for his lasting relationships,” I tell her, mimicking her shouty whisper. “And I suspect that once they announce they’re keeping him and not me, he’ll forget about me as quickly as he forgot the Paris janitor’s closet.”
Mona reaches across the table and squeezes my wrist. “We would miss you. We’ve been missing you already. Not that we begrudge you spending all your time with Mr. Sex on Legs.” She giggles at her use of a word as scandalous as “sex.”
“He doesn’t look at you like you’re a flash in the pan,” Winston says.
Hugo has joined me a couple times for drinks with the Oldies since that fateful first night when he strolled in here. Of course, he’s charmed Joyce and Mona to within an inch of their lives. But, more surprisingly, he’s also earned the respect of Winston.
Winston has a high bar for liking people. But even he told me, “Hugo’s not as bad as I’d expected.” Major praise indeed from the man who once met Tom Hanks on a school trip to a film set and found him to be merely “mildly pleasant.”
“Winston’s right,” Mona says. “He looks at you adoringly. Like you’re the most special gift in the world.”
“Or like he’s undressing you with his eyes,” Joyce adds, playing with the shiny red addition to her bangle collection.
“Well, I’m not sure about any of that,” I tell them.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me.
JILL
Was great to chat earlier. Would LOVE to work with you again. There might be something…I’ll be in touch!
My stomach lurches, roiling with an unsettling mixture of relief and dread.
But I know that speaking with her was the right thing to do. I have to make sure I have something real to work on when both Hugo and my final connection to the Commoners are history .
When I lose Hugo, which I inevitably will, it’ll rip out a chunk of my heart.
And losing my job and my last link to the club at the same time would definitely demolish what’s left of it.
In those circumstances, the farther I can be away from both of them, the better.
It would be bad enough to watch them on TV. But to be here in Boston where Hugo and the Commoners both are, and not be able to have either of them, would be intolerable.
“Okay, folks.” I point at the huge old clock over the bar that my uncle salvaged from an Irish rail station when it was being torn down. “I don’t know about you all, but I’ve got shit to figure out. That clock might be ticking on closing time, but it’s also ticking on my future.”