Page 119 of The Thing About My Rival

“Bullshit,” the guys chorus back.

I cup my hand against my ear. “Sorry? What are they talking?”

“BULLSHIT!” comes the rousing cry.

“Exactly. You’re not a winner unless you win something. So we’re going to go out there, bring the Commoners’ grit to that Orlando turf, and show ’em. We’re going to show every fucker who said we were on the scrap heap, that our heyday was over, that we could never come back from the gutter, that that was bullshit too.”

I’m no psychologist, but it’s obvious even to me that I’m now talking about myself as much as the team. Thattheirstory ismystory.

“BULLSHIT!” they repeat.

They and I are going to prove to everyone today that we are worthy. That we are winners. That the fire in my belly not only never died but, my God, it’s a raging inferno now.

“We are going to show everyone. We’re going to show every naysayer, every nonbeliever, everyone who mocked, every reporter who talked about our demise.” My finger jabs at the air like it’s developed a mind of its own. “We are going to get out there and we’re going to win, and we’re going to show them fucking all.”

They respond with a rousing, “Yeah.”

“Now, get up.” I throw up my hands, beckoning them to stand.

“And come on.” Bouncing on the balls of my feet, just like I did in the hallway a few minutes ago, I gesture for them to join in.

“We’re going to fight,” I shout. “What are we going to do?”

“FIGHT!” the guys shout back.

“Louder. Believe it. In your hearts and the marrow of your bones. What are we going to do?”

“FIGHT!” Their voices ring out around the room as we all bounce in unison.

“We’re going to take them down.” I stab my finger at them. “What are we going to do?”

“TAKE THEM DOWN!” comes the reply in rhythm with the sound of our feet hitting the floor. It’s louder this time and accompanied by a scattering of fist pumps.

“And we’re going to win.” I punch the air as I jump up and down. “What are we going to do?”

“WIN!” Their shout vibrates through me as they all punch the air and start clapping.

This is what I live for. What I’ve always lived for—the adrenaline pumping right before we run out, the smell of the turf, the roar of the crowd.

This is life.

And nothing matters except winning.

“Right.” I point to the door. “Now get the fuck out there.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

DREW

The bar downstairs is so packed that the buzz reaches me in my apartment above.

It might be only three-thirty on a Saturday afternoon, but the Blarney Stone is always a popular place for watching soccer games, and there’s inevitably a big local interest today.

But here I am, the now former co-head coach of the Commoners, sitting in my bedroom instead of standing by Hugo’s side as he gives the pregame pep talk.

How have I let him affect me so much that I walked away from the thing I love most in the world?

How disloyal must the guys think I am that I’m not there with them?

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