Page 124 of The Thing About My Rival

Hugo talks some more.

The ref shakes his head again.

What the hell’s going on? The tension is too much to bear.

Hugo walks back to the players and gives them a nod.

Moving as one, they form a long, solid, straight-as-an-arrow line in front of the ref and stand with their arms folded.

Hugo looks at his men, then stands at the head of the line, stares at the ref, and slowly folds his arms too.

My hands fly to cup my nose and mouth. It’s the most beautiful, moving soccer moment I have ever witnessed. I don’t even try to stop the tears spontaneously rolling down my cheeks.

Hugo’s standing firm with his team and refusing to play on in the face of such injustice. Even though he knows it likely means the end of any playoff hopes.

For once in his life, Hugo has made a decision betweenwinning and something else—and chosen the something else.

“Oh, God. He looks so hot,” Joyce says, and slurps on her ginger beer and mint, which has obviously done the trick.

Although it’s entirely not the point, she’s right. He looks hot, and proud, and in my eyes, definitely like a winner.

“This is quite remarkable,” Frank Sharpe’s voice says from the TV. “An entire team and their coach refusing to play. In my thirty years in the sport, I have never seen anything like this. Obviously the US Soccer Federation and FIFA will have something to say.”

They will. And Hugo knows it. He’s risking everything, his entire career, to stand with the team. And probably to lose.

“As might the fans,” Gilbert Rossi adds. “Our number crunchers say with the scores in the other games as they currently stand, the Boston Commoners would just scrape through to the playoffs. Powers could be throwing away a historic moment for the club.”

The ref blows three long whistles.

A cry offuck!rings out around the pub.

The ref has ended the match because our players won’t play.

The fucks are drowned out by shushes as everyone strains to hear Sharpe and Rossi explain what’s happening—literally no one knows the rules for this situation off the top of their head.

“It’s a historic day all around,” Sharpe says, as the camera pans along the line of Commoners. “Never seen such a display of team spirit, with players united in their protest against the treatment of their teammate.”

“Orlando clearly think they’ve won,” Rossi adds, as the shot switches to celebrating Orlando players and fans. “Have they?”

“If the Commoners have officially declared their intention to withdraw from the game, and it certainly looks like they have, then yes,” Sharpe says. “But I only know that because one of our nerds just handed me a piece of paper. So yes, despite their one-nil lead, they have sacrificed the game for?—”

The rest of his words are drowned out by a pub full of noise which is half furious that the Commoners would throw away the chance of a storybook season and half proud of them for standing up for what’s right.

On the screen, Hugo breaks the line and points the team toward the tunnel. They silently walk off in single file, one behind the other. Hugo brings up the rear, the last man off the pitch, shepherding his team home.

I try to wipe away the tears streaming down my face, but it’s impossible to keep up.

They are all my heroes.

But mainly Hugo.

At the start of the season, he would have rather died than lose anything.

Now look at him. Willing to lose not only a game, but a playoff place, on a point of principle.

Maybe I overreacted yesterday and took everything out on him more than he deserved. It’s not his fault he was chosen for the job. And it’s not like I didn’t always think that’s what would happen.

Really, the worst thing he did yesterday was put his foot in his mouth with that stupid comment about the players not taking me seriously. But like he said, he was panicking. And I have seen him mangle his words underpressure before, when he thought the Fab Four might send one of us off on a leave of absence.

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