Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HUGO
Wilcox knocks my arm off her shoulder and glares at me.
Fair point. We are standing on the sideline of a football pitch surrounded by about forty thousand chanting, singing fans and a whole bunch of TV cameras and press photographers.
Things have been a bit strained for the three days since I found out she’s trying to line up a backup job in Portland. The work stuff’s been fine, but both nights I invited her over she said she was tired and needed to rest up for today’s match.
And I don’t like it.
I don’t like not having Wilcox in my bed—it feels big and cold and totally un-Wilcoxy. And the prospect of not having her in my life after the end of this season makes my chest feel even emptier than my bed.
So, I guess I was using this game as an excuse to casually put my arm around her, like we’re just great colleagues, because I’m so fucking desperate for any form of physical contact. Touching her was also a way to calm my nerves, because this is a real fucking nail-biter.
Her eyes are glued to the ball. And she’s clutching the little cabin charm that always dangles from her game-day jacket zipper so tight her knuckles are white. None of which I should have noticed because my total focus should be on the game.
It’s the penultimate match of the regular season, and we need to win this one and the next one to have any hope of qualifying for the playoffs. Sure, it’s a slim hope—as slim as the chance of my knee making it through a marathon—but it’s still hope.
A draw will not do today. But, with ninety-three seconds to go, that’s what we have. Two-all.
It’s so fucking hard to know what to do in this situation. We need to drive play toward the other end, but we also can’t risk abandoning our goal and giving Toronto a lead when there’s no time to claw it back. When I was on the pitch I had all the answers, was always certain. When you wear the coach’s hat, these decisions aren’t so easy.
But the guys are doing a storming job, essentially keeping Toronto at bay in midfield.
What we absolutely must not do is give away any stupid free kicks. A well-worked set piece from the other side could be curtains for us.
We were in the lead until Toronto equalized ten minutes ago. And with every tick of the clock since then my nerves have gotten tighter and tighter.
My attention is distracted from the pitch by Wilcox’s hand on my shoulder as she stretches on tiptoe to shout in my ear. “Think I might throw up.”
That’s the first time she’s voluntarily touched me for three days. Man, how I’ve missed that citrusy aroma .
I glance at the clock. “Thirty-seven seconds.” I shrug. “Almost out of time.”
She grabs my jacket and yanks me down to her level—that’s two touches in almost as many seconds. Thank God the tension of the game seems to have suddenly shattered her no-contact policy.
She cups her hands around my ear. “Don’t contemplate losing. It’s not how you win.”
I look at her to find a giant smile spreading across her face. Wilcox, you fucking marvel.
If there was time to kiss her, I would. Instead, I nod and turn back to the pitch, pumping my fist. “Come on, lads. Think. Concentrate.”
“Holy shit.” Wilcox clings to my arm in exactly the same way as she does when she comes, but this time it’s because Ramon’s made a break for it and is heading toward the Toronto goal.
“What the fuck?” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Ramon. Easy. Easy.”
The team’s under strict instructions to not do anything risky—to do nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, to risk the other side getting the ball.
But it looks like Ramon’s thought Fuck it, what is there to lose in the dying seconds? And at his age, I’d have thought exactly the same thing and be doing exactly the same thing.
He bobs and weaves between the other side’s defenders. One of them slides at him and misses, ending up on his arse. Of course he grabs his leg like it’s broken when he can’t possibly have suffered anything worse than a grass stain. He gestures to the ref, but the ref, God bless him, waves play on.
Bakari and Hammond are belting after Ramon as fast as they can to support him, but they’ll never make up the ground.
Ramon is making a one-man run on goal.
Fifteen seconds on the clock.
Fucking hell.
My heart can’t take this. I need a fistful of blood pressure pills and an oxygen mask.
As he reaches the penalty box and the final Toronto defender tries to block him, Ramon pulls off the most beautiful curved shot I have ever seen in my life.
The ball floats gracefully over the defender’s head, past the fingertips of the goalie, and dips perfectly into the far corner of the net.
Holy fuck.
Three-two.
Holy fucking fuck.
Bakari and Hammond catch up with Ramon and jump on him. Wilcox jumps on me.
The ref blows his whistle.
The hope of the playoffs is alive—still slimmer than a wafer-thin piece of paper that’s just been steamrolled, but it’s alive.
I grab Wilcox’s face and plant my lips on hers just like I did in the first match of the season in Atlanta.
Except this time it’s different. This time she leans into it, her lips pressing back against mine with the sweet taste of not just victory, but passion, and something new that runs even deeper.
I tear my mouth from hers and ease back just enough to look right in her eyes, eyes that are leaking tears all down her face.
“I love you, Wilcox. I fucking love you.”
After victory laps, applause for our amazing fans, and the flinging of shirts into the crowd—our kit manager’s going to be furious—each of the Commoners stops to give me and Wilcox a hug when they pass us and head into the tunnel.
Behind us the Goal Getters have roused the crowd into a rendition of a Commoners fan favorite, Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.”
When the last player is on his way inside, I turn and raise a victory fist at the owners’ box where Miller, Chase, Leo and Prince Oliver are celebrating.
Leo calmly acknowledges my fist with a lift of his champagne glass, Miller stops clapping for a second to check his phone, and Chase pats Prince Oliver on the back while he sticks two fingers in his mouth and releases a whistle so piercing it’s audible over the crowd that shows no sign of leaving the stadium.
Not our supporters anyway. The side for the opposition fans is almost empty.
There’s suddenly a sharp stabbing pain in my left arm. Christ, am I having an actual heart attack?
Thankfully, for many reasons, it’s Wilcox’s hand again. More specifically her nails digging into my flesh. If she was dragging them down my back while screaming my name I could deal with it, but this just plain hurts.
Something is obviously wrong, though.
I follow her gaze back up to the owners’ box, where a fifth person has now appeared alongside the Fab Four.
An older man. In a suit.
Shit, it’s her dad.
He’s been to a few matches since we took over, but he’s never hung around long enough afterward for me to meet him, so I’ve only seen him from a distance of approximately fifty yards.
Wilcox continues to stare at the man who looks like he hasn’t smiled this century.
I put my arm around her and pull her to my side. Thankfully she doesn’t resist this time. I’m not sure how this thing with her dad is going to go. But I do know I’m here for her. If she’ll let me be.
“Do you want me to go up there with you?”
“No.” She shakes her head and emerges from her temporary state of shock. “It’s fine. I just didn’t know he was coming. He didn’t mention it. And it took me by surprise. Sorry.”
She looks up at me, her eyes still shiny with victory tears, the corners of her beautiful mouth toying with the idea of a smile. “Let’s go tell the guys how proud we are of them.”
“Not too many beers,” Wilcox calls to the final stragglers as they wander past our open office door on their way out. “And get some good rest.”
She walks into the empty locker room and heads toward an old radio that someone’s left playing. Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi’s voices are coming out of it.
“A victory to be proud of,” Gilbert says.
“Absolutely, Frank,” Rossi replies. “Ramon is a world class player and that was a world class goa?—”
“Hey,” I call to Wilcox. “You turned it off just as I was starting to like them. ”
On her way back, she stops, leans against the doorway and folds her arms. “Guess we should go upstairs.”
I swing from side to side on the chair at my still completely unused desk next to my completely unused shelves. “I’ve been hoping you’d say something like that.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile behind them. “You saw Miller’s text, right?”
I nod. He’d sent a joint message to me and Wilcox, asking us to join them in the owners’ box for a celebratory drink when we were free.
“Right, then.” She straightens and yanks her ponytail tight. “Let’s go up.”
“Do you want me to ask if your dad’s still there?”
“Nope. If he’s there, he’s there. If he isn’t…” She shrugs. “Up to him.”
“Okay.” I hold out my hand at full stretch as she approaches.
But as soon as she’s close enough she bats it away. “I can’t hold that. Someone might see.”
Movement over her shoulder catches my attention.
Her head turns to follow my gaze, her eyes turning wide and steely, cheeks flushing.
Mr. Wilcox is standing outside our open door to the hallway. Neatly trimmed hair, graying at the temples, his chin and neck red from razor burn, a pale blue shirt and an orange tie visible under his beige trench coat.
He looks like a dick.
“Congratulations,” he says, his gaze shifting from Wilcox to me as if she could not possibly be where the congratulations should go.
“Hugo,” she says. “This is my father, Brent Wilcox.”
He doesn’t offer me his hand, so I don’t offer him mine. I don’t even get up. And I can’t possibly bring myself to say it’s either good or nice to meet him. Because it’s not. He’s been a total arsehole to the woman I love. And left her with wounds I’m not sure will ever heal.
I settle on a two-letter word. “Hi.”
He’s very lucky he’s not getting a four-letter one.
“How come you didn’t let me know you’d be here?” Wilcox says, the hurt in her voice obvious—to me, anyway. That man looks like he wouldn’t know compassion if compassion ran up to him holding a giant flashing sign reading “Hi, I’m Compassion.”
“I wasn’t sure I was until the last minute.” His voice is weaker than I expected. “And I didn’t want to bother you. Knew you’d be busy, obviously. So I called Miller just before the game.”
If no one else is going to mention our amazing fucking win out there, I sure as hell am. “It was a great match, Brent. We’ve turned this team around from winning nothing last year, to still being in with a chance of qualifying for the playoffs this year.”
“Yes. You did well,” he says.
We did well ? Fuck off, Brenty Boy.
“Ramon is a real star,” his humorless face continues. “I bet he’ll be off soon.”
Okay, now I get to my feet. “Not if your daughter has anything to do with it, he won’t.” I’ll big her up to him if she won’t do it herself.
Realizing what I’m up to, Wilcox shakes her head. “No, don’t, it’s fine,” she mumbles.
“Don’t be silly, your dad should know what a great job you’ve done.” I turn to her God-awful father. “Your amazing, talented, and incredibly smart daughter has brought this team together in ways I never would have thought to. It’s thanks to her they pull together on the pitch. It’s thanks to her that Ramon is so happy here he might not leave—as long as we can give him a hefty pay rise next season, of course. And it’s thanks to her that I’m a better coach than I ever would have been without her by my side.”
I don’t need to look at Wilcox to know her eyes are boring holes into the side of my head. I can feel them.
Brent adjusts the belt on his coat. “Right. Well. Like I said. Congratulations.”
He takes one step, then pauses to look at Wilcox. I’d like to think that the microchange in his expression is a glimmer of love and affection for his daughter, but I’m more inclined to think it’s gas.
“We have a buyer for the apartment,” he says. “Maybe you’d like to come over for one last dinner in the city before we leave.”
“That would be great.” And she even sounds like she means it. The look on her face certainly says she does. Maybe it’s another case of not giving up hope until you’re absolutely certain you’re out of the game.
“I’ll get Suzanna to sort it out,” he says to her. “And good to meet you, Hugo.” He gives me a short, sharp nod, then continues his journey along the hallway and hopefully out into oblivion.
“Oh, actually,” Wilcox pipes up, with the expression of an eager puppy.
Brent the blowhard takes a step backward and reappears in the doorway.
“ You could text me about dinner if you like.” Her voice is hesitant, almost childlike. “Rather than Suzanna. I mean, it’s okay if she does. But you could do it. If you’d like.”
Seeing her revert to a kid pleading for her dad’s interest and attention is fucking heartbreaking .
But I swear to God Brenty Boy’s mouth twitches up a little at the corners. Is this what keeps her coming back for more? Faint flickers of hope that a breakthrough might be possible?
“Sure. Yeah,” he says. “I’ll do that.”
And with all the emotion of a drill sergeant he marches off again.
I’m happy for her that she seems to have squeezed the tiniest drop of blood out of that stone, but fucking furious with him that this must be the way he’s been with her all his life.
I kick the door shut and turn to Wilcox. “Is that it? He doesn’t hug his daughter when she’s pulled his crap-arse team up from Loserville to a chance of the playoffs?”
She folds her arms and tilts her head. “And when exactly was the last time you hugged anyone in your family?”
Okay. Fair point. “Look, I know he’s your dad and everything. But what a fucking arsehole.”
It’s not a nice thing to say about someone’s parent, but in my defense, this is a great day—a great day for the Commoners, a great day for us, and it should be one of the greatest, proudest days of Wilcox’s life, but her ass-dad has to take the fucking shine off it for her.
“I’m actually not sure he looked very well,” she says quietly before heading to her desk, pulling a tissue from the box and blowing her nose.
“Anyway.” She tosses the tissue in the trash and takes two long slow steps back toward me. “Let’s not talk about him right now.”
Her eyes are red-rimmed but full of mischief. Her teeth tug on one corner of her top lip. And it’s as sexy as hell.
“Agreed. Who cares if we’ve got shitty families when we have each other.” I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her against me. “What would you like to talk about?”
“That thing you said.” Reaching up and lacing her fingers together around the back of my neck, she looks right into me. “You told me you love me.”
Her reminder of my words sparks a quiver low in my stomach.
I drop a kiss on her forehead. “I did.”
“Were you just carried away by the moment, the atmosphere, and got caught up in the excitement?”
“No. Well, I mean, yes, I was. But it’s true. And I’ve wanted to say it for a while. But I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear it. Particularly after the whole Portland thing.”
“You know what?” She runs her finger around the edge of my lips. “I wasn’t sure either. But I am now.” She plants the softest of kisses on my lips. Hers are a little salty. “I love you too, Hugo freaking Powers.”
Well, I never knew it was possible to feel like a thousand budding flowers had just burst into full bloom in my chest, with fluffy puppies frolicking through them and rainbows in the sunny sky above.
This woman fits every part of me and fills me to overflowing.
I wrap my arms so far around her, they circle back on themselves. I can’t pull her close enough. Can’t kiss her deeply enough to show her how much she’s become to me.
“Maybe we’ll skip the drinks upstairs,” she whispers, sliding her hands down my chest and not stopping till she hits my waistband. “Come here.”
She drags me by the pants as she backs up toward the door to the locker room and kicks it open behind her.