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

Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

DREW

I knew I shouldn’t have come.

My fingers grip the handrail at the top of the stairs leading down into the sunken ballroom of the lavish Manhattan hotel where the great and good of the league are gathered for the annual end-of-season dinner.

Up until two days ago I was one hundred percent sure I wouldn’t be here.

Miller had sent me an invitation, saying he would understand if I didn’t attend, but the Fab Four would like to speak with me about something.

Of course, my instinct was to tell them to stick it—if I’m not good enough to work for the club, I’m not good enough for the dinner.

And also, seeing Hugo isn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list. Or anywhere on my bucket list.

But then Bakari texted me, saying he hoped I’d come. One from Ramon followed, saying he couldn’t wait to see me to tell me about his extra sessions with Ashanti .

Those two opened the floodgates to texts from other players and club staff.

Their affection and thoughtfulness opened my heart, and now, here I am, gazing down on a room filled with beautifully laid round tables glittering with silverware and glasses, walls swagged with dark red velvet, and light sparkling from the many huge chandeliers. And on the opposite side from the staircase is a stage with a lectern for the speeches and awards.

It’s the Oscars of soccer.

Part of me thinks I don’t belong, part of me is dreading seeing Hugo, and part of me is worrying about my toes pinching in these incredibly cute, but incredibly uncomfortable, sparkly heels.

This dress isn’t exactly comfortable either. But I love it. And, frankly, I want to give Hugo a glimpse of what he’s missing. The nipped-in waist, a sleeveless cut that shows off arms that are the product of training hard every day, and the split to the thigh are sexy as hell.

And then I spot him.

My breath hitches.

Amid all the people milling around between the tables before dinner, chatting with old friends, rivals, and new acquaintances, he’s the one my eyes fall upon, as if drawn there by some extrasensory force. My free hand flies to my quaking chest.

I’d recognize that hair anywhere. Even from this distance, and above. My fingers tremble at the memory of raking through it, of hanging on to it. My nose recalls its smell—sometimes freshly washed and bearing the herb-and-moss fragrance of his shampoo, and sometimes straight after a workout or training when it was damp from exertion and smelled of his own unique essence and the desire to win.

The recollection sparks the jittery sensation in my belly that I’ve been dreading. My body betrays my brain every time I so much as think of him, so there’s no hope of me controlling it with him right before my eyes.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in a suit. And my God does he know how to wear one. It’s either black or dark gray—hard to tell from here—with a crisp white shirt, open at the neck underneath. No tie. Bold move.

He’s angled slightly in profile to me, talking to a coach from Miami and the Chicago goalie. The coach says something that makes Hugo slap him on the shoulder and give a broad smile I can see from here. And, oh shit, look at him laugh. The jitter in my belly dances lower, right to my?—

Something whacks me in the middle of the back, making me stumble forward. Thank God I’m gripping the rail or I could have gone sparkly heels over updo down these stairs.

“Shit, sorry,” a male voice behind me says. “Still getting the hang of these.”

I turn to find Bakari brandishing a pair of crutches.

“Whoa.” His eyes go wide and he leans back in awe, taking me in from head to toe. “Coach Wilcox. Didn’t realize it was you.”

“Well, look at you, all up and about.” I point at his cast.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be resting. But Coach Powers gave me special dispensation for tonight.” He pauses and looks at me like he’s said a banned word. “Sorry.”

“Totally fine.” I wave it away like the mention of the man who has a place at the center of my beloved club—and my heart—is nothing. “So good to see you on the mend. I could also do with an escort down these stairs. I suspect my shoes are harder to walk in than your cast.”

I hook my hand around the inside of his elbow, and together we hobble our way down this vast sweeping staircase toward whatever is going to happen this evening.

“We’re so happy you came,” Chase says.

I’m still not clear why he, Miller, Leo, and Prince Oliver have pulled me away to this deserted hallway off the main room. They appeared out of nowhere right as Bakari and I stepped off the bottom stair, and whisked me straight out.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I say. “I can’t wait to catch up with the rest of the guys.”

“We want to make you an offer,” Leo says.

What ?

I didn’t see that coming.

You don’t not renew someone’s contract then change your mind.

A tremor of relief excites my belly at the thought of being back where I belong.

But it’s instantly washed away by a wave of reality.

If they’re about to ask me to coach another season with Hugo, they can forget it. It was hard enough for us to work together to start with. After everything that’s happened since, it would be impossible. How could I spend every day looking at a man that makes my insides ache with a painful combination of hurt and longing?

Plus, I’m just waiting for the paperwork from Portland to join the coaching staff there—conveniently three thousand miles away from his perfect face, his perfect body, and the mouth and hands that know exactly what to do to me.

“That’s very kind, but I’m actually about to sign?—”

“You’ll like it,” Prince Oliver says with a knowing smile. I’ve never seen him look so formal. He’s almost regal in his royal blue tux with its satin-trimmed lapels and his black pants. Although he’s not given up his sneakers, and the shirt is more Hawaiian than dress.

“Yup,” Chase adds, with that perfect Hollywood smile. “We’ve created a new position.”

A what ?

Okay, I’ll listen. But obviously I can’t take whatever it is. I can’t be around Hugo. I can’t.

“Yes.” Miller takes over. “We love the Commoners.”

“Love them.” Prince Oliver thumps his chest right over his heart.

“But it’s a lot for us,” Miller continues. “I’m up to my eyes in zoning battles and budget overruns. Leo’s got filming for a new season of The Lions’ Lair coming up.”

“I’m executive producing my first movie,” Chase adds.

“And I really need to figure out how to make a living,” Oliver says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“So, while it’s been great being so hands-on this season,” Miller picks up, “and we intend to remain very involved, we’ve come to realize we do all need to step back a little so we can run our main businesses.”

“And lives,” Prince Oliver adds.

Okay. They’ve piqued my interest. But still…Hugo.

“So,” Leo says, “we’d like to offer you the position of general manager.”

My belly leaps to my chest and takes the place of my heart, which has jumped up to somewhere in my throat. I try to replay Leo’s words to double-check I heard correctly but my brain’s scrambled them into a mush I can’t make out.

My brows pinch together from the bafflement of it all. The owners who chose Hugo over me, now want me to manage the club? It doesn’t make any sense.

“Wha—?”

The croaked semi-word is barely out of my mouth when Chase leans back, palms raised, like he’s trying to stop me from losing my shit. “Now, I know you’re probably still upset about how things went at the end of the season.”

I raise my eyebrows rather than say no shit .

“But that was just circumstances,” Oliver says.

“Anyway.” Leo throws Chase and Oliver a look that says he’d rather the Hollywood star and the prince leave the business stuff to the big boys. “Of course we’d be on hand for any big decisions and have weekly check-ins and quarterly meetings to make sure we’re on track for all our strategic goals.”

“But we trust you implicitly,” Miller says, cutting off Leo before he disappears down a corporate-speak rabbit hole. “Essentially, you’d control all day-to-day operations, run the place like it was your own.”

At those final magic words, my heart shudders. Like it was my own. My stomach does a weird floppy thing, and my brain asks whether maybe, just maybe, it is possible.

“Run it like it was my own ?” Definitely need clarity on that part.

“Basically, yes,” Miller says. “It would be almost like you were the owner, rather than the manager.”

“But with some expert advisers on hand,” Leo adds, being extra clear it’s not actually mine .

“And we always loved your idea for the youth academy,” Chase says. “You’d get to start that.”

And there it is, the closest offer to my dream job I’m ever going to get. My childhood dream of going to the stadium every day and running the Boston Commoners. It’s on a plate right in front of me. All I have to do is reach out and take it.

But there’s one big thing that never featured in that dream. Having to work alongside—no, worse—be the boss of the man I’ve fallen for heavy and hard, but who is all wrong for me. And look at him every day, wondering whether he’s carrying a trace of whichever woman he climbed off that morning.

My stomach churns. Is my dream job worth sucking that up?

“Friends and supporters of the MLS.” The booming male voice cuts through the music. “Please take your seats. Dinner is about to be served.”