Page 102 of The Thing About My Rival

“It can be whatever pain means to you, Drew.” Ashanti encourages me with a tone that must have been a calming port in so many people’s treacherous storms.

Well, maybe I do have something these guys might relate to.

I take a deep breath.

Okay, then. Here goes.

“I went to Penn State on a soccer scholarship. And we made it to the finals of the Women’s College Cup.”

I look down at the ball and roll it between my hands. Have I made a mistake starting this? Maybe I shouldn’t tell this story. Maybe it’s a betrayal.

Oh, fuck it. It’s time for me to follow the examples of the guys who’ve so bravely opened up after never wanting to do these sessions at all.

“My dad said he would come.”

The pain is no less sharp now than it was then. Why does this still sting so much? It was twelve years ago, for God’s sake.

I dig my nails into the ball. “But he didn’t.”

A couple of the guys draw in air between their teeth—men for whom having their families watch their games is everything.

“And he hadn’t mentioned he wasn’t coming.”

I’m taken right back to running out onto the field, looking up at the family area and scanning for his face. My stomach turns over now, exactly the way it did then. Tears prickle my eyes the way they did then. And I blink them back and soldier on exactly the way I did then.

“I hoped and hoped he might be running late. But when we lined up for the anthem and I could take a better look at the family area, I spotted Marietta there, waving at me like crazy.”

I swallow hard and do exactly what I never want the guys to do in these circles, I fight back the emotion.

“Marietta was my nanny.”

There are muffled mumblings of “Jesus,” “Fuuuck,” and, “Never liked him.”

“We’d kept in fairly close contact over the years—she came to my high school graduation and everything, so it wasn’ttotallyweird. But still, it hurt that he’d sent her in his place. And hadn’t bothered to tell me he was doing it. That was pain.”

My hands are clammy around the ball, and my pulse is racing more than I ever would have expected from telling that story.

“Anyway, after the game I had to hide how disappointed and hurt I was because she was so happy to be there and watch me play in such a big event.”

It’s amazing how just a memory of something can make you feel exactly as you did then, all that time ago. “And it’s actually probably a good thing my dad didn’tcome becausehe’d no doubt have had something to say about my failed tackle right before the other side’s winning goal.”

Ashanti leaves a few seconds of silence before speaking. “That’s a good share, Drew.”

I look up to see Ramon has shifted his gaze from the middle distance to me. His eyes are more mellow, his jaw less taut, and he’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

It’s as though he’s seeing me for the first time—or at least seeing me as an equal for the first time. A fellow player, someone who knows what it’s like to be on a field with people judging you. And if that’s the only good thing that comes of me telling that story, if it makes him feel better, even if it doesn’t help me, then it was worth it.

I pick up the ball to throw it to someone who hasn’t spoken yet.

Ramon straightens and holds out his hands.

I’ve always wondered what he was about to say in that first session, right before Hugo barged in like an enraged Kool-Aid Man. Everything Ramon’s said since has been pretty superficial—never mentioned his family or anything.

He catches my toss. “The game has always been the most important thing in my life.”

Those are almost the exact same words Hugo used in the park, when he was telling me about his upbringing.

Ramon balances the ball on a palm, raises it high, and points at it. “I saw some kids kicking one of these around in a back street near my first foster home a few days after I got there. They showed me how to play and that was that. I was obsessed. I practised and watched games on TV and got books on skills from the library. It was soccer, soccer, soccer all the time.”

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