Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HUGO
Why did the Fab Four take Wilcox aside like that?
I push the dessert plate away, just one bite taken out of whatever that fancy chocolate and raspberry thing is. Usually, I never leave a crumb behind, but I can’t stomach another mouthful tonight. And I only managed half the main course.
Thank God Wilcox is at the other Commoners table. And thank God she has her back to me, because when I caught sight of her in that long slinky dress, slashed to the thigh, showing a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth skin I’ve sucked on more than once, Mr. Happy was very ready to say hello.
My stomach is definitely not happy, though. It’s been twisting itself into an ever-tightening tangle since she came down the stairs with Bakari.
If things had panned out the way I’d wanted, it would have been me she arrived with, my arm she was holding, me she was laughing and smiling at. And it would be my, or rather our , hotel room she’s going back to tonight.
I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off her since we sat down, my gaze drawn to her bare shoulders, the back of her neck where it leads to her pinned-up hair, and a flash of that little cloverleaf birthmark below her left ear every once in a while when she turns her head.
“Maybe we’ll win something,” Schumann, who’s sitting next to me, says.
“What?” I take a sip of water and snap back to reality.
He drops his spoon onto a plate so clean it could be fresh from the dishwasher and nods toward the stage as music strikes up, the lights dim, and our hosts for the evening—the always annoying duo of Frank Sharpe and Gilbert Rossi—take the stage.
“I doubt that very much,” I tell him, and join in with the applause.
“And now to our final award of the night,” Sharpe tells the crowd that’s probably averaging around three sheets to the wind. “The biggie. The Sportsperson of the Year.”
“And here to announce it is last year’s winner,” Rossi adds. “Goalkeeper for the LA Stars, Kaden Zoff.”
Thank God, it’s almost over. I down the last of the beer I finally managed to persuade one of the “It’s champagne only, sir” servers to bring me. As soon as this award’s presented, I’ll be out the door and as far away from the torture of Wilcox’s neck, shoulders, leg, smile, heart, mind and spirit, as I can possibly get.
Zoff holds the envelope in both hands and concentrates on the teleprompter. “This year’s recipient of the Sportsperson of the Year is someone who’s faced adversity and blasted right through it, who’s shown unrivaled team spirit…”
Schumann puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ramon?” he whispers.
Could be.
“This person has led from the front, put their career on the line for others, and set an example to us all.”
At the other Commoners table there’s certainly a lot of eyebrow raising in Ramon’s direction. He humbly shakes his head.
“This person has lived and breathed soccer their whole life,” Zoff continues.
Christ, why does there always have to be such a big buildup to these things? And if it is Ramon, bang goes my plan to run out of here straight away. I’ll have to hang around to celebrate with him.
While I’d be delighted for the guy, I’m not in much of a celebrating mood. I’m in more of a sitting on the couch with another beer, letting whatever movie is on TV wash over me while I try to scrape the last remnants of Wilcox out of my head mood.
Zoff is still reading from the teleprompter. “There was talk of him being a bad choice, a reckless man who could be a danger to himself and others. But at the end of this season, he showed himself to be a man of principle and honor. A man with the right priorities.”
Ramon makes eye contact with me over the hair piled on top of Wilcox’s head. I raise my glass to him. But he replies with a headshake.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the greatest soccer league in the world, this year’s Sportsperson of the Year is…”
A dramatic drumroll blasts from the speakers and spotlights swirl around the room as Zoff makes as big of a deal of ripping open the envelope as he did of that save against the Houston Dynamo early in the season.
I catch the eye of the server who got my beer and wave him over. If I’m going to have to stick around here to support Ramon, I’m sure as hell not doing it without another beer in my hand.
“…Hugo Powers!”
What ?
I look up at the stage to see Zoff’s tucked the envelope under his arm and is staring right at me while he claps.
What the fuck?
My stomach feels like it’s hooked to the back of a truck that’s straining to pull it from my body.
What the actual fucking fuck?
Everyone at my table stands and applauds. It actually sounds like everyone at every table has stood up and is clapping, but I can’t see beyond those in my immediate vicinity because everything’s gone blurry around the edges.
The server arrives at my side and dips his head to me. “Did you want something, sir?”
“Yeah, a teleportation device to get me out of here.”
He cups his hand to his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. Loud clapping.”
“Another one of those, please.” I point at my empty glass.
But it’s going to take a lot more than another beer for me to make sense of what’s happening right now. Of how Hugo the fuckup, Hugo the man who willingly threw away a playoff spot—so is, in fact, Hugo the loser—could possibly be winning this award.
This should be Ramon. He needs this. He deserves it. He’s played like a fucking demon this season. And he has his whole future ahead of him. This award would mean the world to him.
I pull the napkin off my lap and toss it onto the table, offering what I hope is a smile that looks more grateful than absolutely fucking mortified.
As I get to my feet, my legs wobble in a way only ever previously induced by Wilcox’s breath on my neck as her fingers slid in a crotchwardly direction.
Except this time it’s a wobble of dread, a wobble of embarrassment. A wobble of absolute shame.
Yes, I like to be the center of attention. Yes, I like to win. But I don’t deserve to win for losing.
And I most definitely don’t deserve to win for something that wasn’t even my idea.
As I straighten my jacket, my eyes somehow make bull’s-eye contact with Wilcox’s.
She stares back at me, clapping, but with a steeliness in those green eyes that says she thinks I deserve it even less than I think I do.
And that makes me the biggest loser of the night.
Then somehow, in a slow-motion, out-of-body experience, I’ve made it through the sea of handshakes and backslaps, have climbed the steps to the stage, am taking the trophy and am standing behind the podium, staring out at a room packed with the best in US football in various stages of inebriation.
How can I make a speech when my lips feel like they’re made of rubber, my throat’s as tight as a chafing jockstrap, I have no fucking clue what to say, and the woman of my dreams is staring at me like I’m the biggest dipshit on the planet ?
The applause finally dies down and everyone takes their seats.
I look from the award to the crowd. “If you’re shocked I won this, imagine how shocked I am.”
Thankfully that gets a big laugh.
“This is…well, it’s pretty fucking unbelievable.”
Out of the sea of people swimming before my eyes, one person comes into crystal clear focus. One person in a long, dark blue dress who is the most gorgeous vision I have ever seen. The only person in the room—fuck me, the world—who matters, who means anything.
She eases herself out of her chair, turns away from the stage, picks her way between the tables, and disappears through the big gold doors.