Page 1 of The Thing About My Rival

CHAPTER ONE

HUGO

There’s no stench in the world like that of a bunch of sweaty jockstraps, and that’s exactly what this locker room smells like. It also smells like Loserville.

“Well, your first season in Major League Soccer wasn’t exactly a, erm, roaring success,” Miller, one of the four new owners of the Boston Commoners tells the team.

The players shift uncomfortably on their benches, looking as dejected as a bunch of kids who’ve been told they’re not getting their allowance this week, and stare back at me, Miller, and his three co-owners.

“And we all watched the rocky start to this season.” Miller needs to work on his pep talks. “But we’ve been delighted to see things pick up with some wins and draws these last couple months, which is why we were delighted to have the chance to buy the club.” He nods toward the other owners.

“We appreciate that it’s hard for any team to make the jump to playing with the big boys after decades in a lowerleague,” Miller goes on. “But it’s time to get you fully on track to the glory we all want. And to that end, we’ve brought with us this great man, the crème de la crème of English soccer, who’s going to turn things around completely.” He gestures toward me with a confident smile.

The players shuffle their feet, glancing at each other as if they’ve heard it all before.

“And we get that it must feel disruptive for the club to change hands three-quarters of the way through the season,” he tells them. “And for a group of new owners to swoop in and show up with a new head coach with just two months to the playoffs. But please know we all want the same thing you guys want. To win.”

He pauses, as if expecting some sign of winning spirit from the squad.

Nothing.

“Anyway,” Miller continues, “I’m going to hand you over to your new leader, who I’m certain needs no introduction. But I’m going to give him one anyway.”

The billionaire property developer known as the Boston Condo King pulls a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “Hugo Powers was spotted as a schoolboy by Manchester United and went on to be the highest scoring midfielder in their history. At seventeen years and sixty-three days old, he became the youngest player ever selected for the England team. He played in three World Cups?—”

“It would have been four”—I can’t stop myself from chipping in—“if it hadn’t been for that Achilles issue right before Russia.” At least I woke up some of the players, who’re now actually looking at us.

“Yeah, that was bad luck,” Miller says, then returns tohis notes. “And he famously set up the goal that took England through to the World Cup quarterfinals just two years ago.”

Two of the players give that list of my entire life’s achievements a half-hearted clap.

“Basically, the sport is all this man has ever known.” Miller is off-script now. “He lives it, breathes it. This is Mr. Soccer. Or maybe we should start saying ‘football’ now that we have an Englishman in charge.”

Ramon, one of the few players here with actual promise, scratches the back of his head and mutters something to the guy next to him, who snickers.

I recognize Ramon from God knows how many appalling match videos I’ve forced myself to watch in the extremely brief three weeks since the Fab Four—the name the sports press has given the new owners—started talking to me about this job.

Miller goes on. “If it hadn’t been for a fateful knee injury just over a year ago, I’m sure Hugo would still be setting the turf alight across the world, even at the ripe old age of thirty-four. But the pitch’s loss is our gain. So, gentlemen, please give a big Boston Commoners welcome to Coach Powers.”

Miller says it as if he’s introducing Beyoncé at Madison Square Garden, but the response he gets couldn’t even be described as tepid. Even with all of them clapping, they’re making no more noise than when just two of them did.

Okay, you bunch of lazy wankers, here we go.

I rub my hands together.

I need to gee these fuckers up, resuscitate them from their scoring coma, light a fire in their bellies, and get them ready to win some shit during the remainder of this season. Not just for their sake, but for mine too.

“Thank you, Miller, for your kind words. And for giving me this amazing opportunity.” It’s actually theonlyopportunity anyone’s offered me, but we don’t need to discuss that.

“Thanks toallthe members of the new ownership consortium, I mean.” I nod toward Miller and the other three men who make up this bizarre combo of people. There’s Hollywood heartthrob Chase Cooper, billionaire investorLeo Johanssen from theLions’ LairTV show, and Prince Oliver.

Yup, an actual fucking British royal.

I met him a couple years ago when he brought a sick kid from a charity he works for to one of my matches. After the game I got the team to quickly sign a ball and the royal security guards let me give it to the boy. Prince Oliver sent me a note a couple days later saying the little lad was still talking about it. So that was nice.

Anyway, I bet these four guys never thought they’d see themselves standing together in the shabby, stinky locker room of last season’s losingest team in the league.

To be fair, neither did I.

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