Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HUGO
“And that ”—I take a cool slurp of beer—“is why Wilcox wasn’t at the game yesterday.”
I put the bottle onto the coffee table next to Tom’s face staring out of my phone, which is propped against the weird doughnut-shaped vase thing that the designer who furnished my Boston apartment thought needed to be here.
Telling Tom the story of me getting the job for next season or, perhaps more pointedly, Wilcox not getting it, and everything that led up to her telling me she never wants to see me again, made me so parched I had to get up partway through to fetch a second beer from the fridge.
“It’s been quite the thirty-six hours, huh?” Tom says.
“That’s quite the understatement, my friend.” I lean back on the sofa and stretch my legs out on the table, my feet coming to rest near Tom’s head.
Since we walked off the pitch yesterday, it’s been one interview after another. What with everything that happened on the pitch and the announcement of me taking over the head coach role solo, I felt like I was on a carousel of revolving sports and news reporters.
There was just time for what felt like a quick nap between the news on the West Coast wrapping up last night and the East Coast waking up this morning to start it all over again.
I’m absolutely fucking exhausted.
Beyond my feet and phone, the Boston city lights shine against the dark sky that stretches forever outside my windows. It might only be eight-thirty, but I am about ready to turn in.
“Have you heard from Drew since the game?” Tom asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you going to contact her?”
“Nope.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I do. But she, quite clearly, does not like me.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“How do I feel about it?” I reach for my beer bottle. “The California air really must be getting to you if you’re going around asking people about their feelings.”
“Not people. You ,” he says. “But if you’d rather talk about the match, what made you change your mind after the team stopped playing? Because, to start with, it looked like you were yelling at them to carry on.”
“I was. Couldn’t believe what they were doing. I mean, one-nil up with twenty minutes to go and they refuse to play, knowing it could forfeit the match?” I shake my head. “Thought it was bonkers, mate.”
“So what changed your mind? ”
I take a long slug of beer. There’s absolutely no point discussing this part with Tom.
I shrug. “Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Riiiight,” Tom drawls, giving me one of his wise man looks.
“What?” I rest the beer bottle on the arm of the sofa.
“You did it for her, didn’t you? For Drew? Because you knew she’d think it was the right thing to do.”
“Oh, fuck off. What’s that music in the background? Sounds live. You got a band there or something?”
“It’s Dylan practicing guitar. Loudly. And don’t try to change the subject. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“When every one of our players on that pitch stood still and folded their arms, I was fucking furious.” Just thinking about it again tightens my chest. “I wanted to run out there and smash their heads together. I mean, we were on a roll. A place in the playoffs was possible.”
“Buuuut…?” Tom drums his fingertips together under his chin.
I am not about to admit to anyone, even Tom, that after I’d yelled at them a few times, Wilcox’s voice popped into my head.
Not just her voice, also her face—her beautiful face with those three freckles on her nose, and the gold sparks in her eyes, and those lips that feel so delicious on mine that just thinking about them makes my mouth water.
I could hear her saying that doing the right thing is more important than winning. That being united is the way we win, that standing together is the way we win, that looking after each other, appreciating each other, and respecting each other is the way we win.
“Sure, yeah,” I say. “Wilcox would have said it was the right thing to do. That if all the players are united in something, we should support them. But so what?”
“Hmmm.” Tom’s suspicious. “Well, when I was watching, all I could think about was that the league might fine the players. Or you. Or the club. Or all of you. Or that the Commoners might even be thrown out of the league, or at least suspended for next season. And that all the hard work you’d done to restore your reputation might be flushed down the toilet with that one decision to stand with them.”
“It’s nice that your first concern was for me. And I guess mine usually would have been too. But it felt like a risk worth taking.” Not just for the players, but also for Wilcox.
She was so disappointed in me on Friday. So hurt when she really believed I was the same type of selfish dick as the father who looked down on her and her beliefs and skills. She might not want me, but I couldn’t have her think even worse of me. It was a chance to redeem myself in her eyes.
But apart from all that, it was the right thing to do. In the seconds I had to make the decision, I felt it deep in my bones.
“And, anyway, all the replays show that the Orlando defender should have been sent off. The players’ and coaches’ unions have already issued statements saying they back us for standing up for player safety and good rule enforcement.”
“What about the Fab Four? Aren’t they pissed off you threw the game away?”
“Couldn’t be happier. The publicity is possibly even better than if we’d won. Huge sponsors are already calling with big offers for next season. And Leo was over the moon because his new private jet company flew us home and most of the photos of us all walking down the stairs show the name on the side of the plane.”
I take another swig of beer. “Miller, Chase and Oliver are gunning for the ref. They’ve called for an inquiry—they want him struck off or dewhistled or whatever it is you do to a referee. And the marketing team’s already working on shirts and hats that say The Spirit of the Commoners or There’s No Team Like a Commoners Team , or something.”
“And how’s Bakari?”
“It’s a break. A bad one. But he’s young and fit and will heal eventually.”
“Unlike you, huh?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, I wasn’t just talking about your knee injury.” He tips his head to one side. “Don’t you wish you had Drew to talk all this through with?”
More than anything in the fucking world. I’ve checked my phone a thousand times since the end of the match. Started a message to her, then deleted it, a thousand times.
I shrug. “Makes no difference. I’ve got you, mate, haven’t I?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same as talking to the love of your life about things.”
I pull a big shocked face. “Are you saying you think Wilcox is the love of my life?”
“I’m saying that you’ve never dated anyone for more than five minutes before. And this was what, weeks ?”
“Now you’re taking the piss, you sarcastic wanker.”
“I’m not. I’m serious. Relatively speaking, weeks is huge for you. ”
“Okay, fair point.” I swallow more beer along with my pride.
“I know I only met her for a few minutes that night in Paris,” Tom says. “And not under the, er, best of circumstances.”
“Please stop reminding me.”
“And then again for just a few seconds at the stadium, when she was a bit stressed. But you obviously have a lot in common. And, more important, she got to you. Like no other woman has ever gotten to you.”
Yes. I know. “Shut up.” Another slug of beer. “It’s okay for you with your cozy new family and the endless California sunshine beating down on you constantly. I mean, just look at that picture-perfect sunset behind you. Looks totally fake. It rained here all day.”
“You’re welcome to come out for a visit. You look like you could do with some sun. And to chill out for a bit.”
That sounds like bliss. “Yeah, I’m fucking knackered. But I need to be here for the end-of-season gala dinner bollocks the weekend after next.”
“That’s plenty of time. Come in a couple days, after you’ve slept off the stress of this weekend. Stay for a week, then you’ll be back well before the gala dinner bollocks.”
The tension racking my body eases at just the thought of that. “You know what? Fuck it. I will.”
“Good. Because I need to talk to you about being my best man.”
Bugger everything that’s happened in the last thirty-six hours. That’s my win, right there. I take my feet off the table and sit up. “Seriously? You want me to be your best man?”
“Of course I do. Who the hell else would I ask?”
“Er, your brother? ”
“Ha. He’s fine. He even joked that of course I’d want you.”
“Man, it would be an honor, thank you.” I thump my chest, a lump in my throat at how touched I am he would choose me over his own family. “Oh, in my speech, can I tell the story of how I knew Hannah was the one for you the second I met her? Like, even before you did.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “When I’m your best man, can I tell everyone how you wooed Drew in a Parisian janitor’s closet?”
“Fuck off.”
“Anyway, I did know Hannah was the one. I just didn’t want to admit it. Because it wasn’t convenient timing.” He pauses for a second, then turns his head so he can side-eye me. “Remiiind you of anyone?”
“Fuck. Off.”
“The intellectual power of that response confounds me. So, will Drew be at the gala dinner bollocks?”
“No idea.”
“Would it be better if she was, or better if she wasn’t?”
Now there’s the hardest question of all. Seeing her would be the greatest thing. But it would also be the worst thing—because is there anything worse than looking at something you want with every pore of your being but know you can never have?
“Also no idea.”