Page 2 of The Thing About My Rival

But here we all are.

Them, because they love football—which I willnevercall soccer—and have enough money to buy a team just for funsies. And me, because I can’t sit around on my arse feeling sorry for myself any longer.

No amount of going to the gym on my own makes up for not training every day with a team. And Miller is right—the game is all I’ve ever known. I can’t exist without it. In fact, there were a few months last year where I’m not sure I actuallydidexist. So here I am. They might be a crap team, but they’re a team. And the only one that will have me.

“I couldn’t be more excited to be here,” I tell them.

“Yeah, you turned down Inter Milan, Bayern Munich, and Argentina to coach us, right?” Ramon nudges the guy next to him and a titter runs around the room.

Fuck these guys. I’ve had to take shit like that from the British press ever since the knee injury that benched me for life, and I’m not taking it from this pile of losers.

“Sure. Yeah. You can all have a laugh at my expense. Go on.” I rest my hands on my hips and look around the room. Every man not staring at the floor gets a hard glare right in the eyeballs for a second before I move on to the next.

“Please, be my guest.” I gesture for them to take the floor. “Let’s get all the wisecracks about drinking, partying, shagging, and punching reporters out of the way now.” I beckon them to bring it on. “Let’s purge it from your systems. I’ll wait.”

I fold my arms and stare at them as the room falls completely silent.

The four owners shuffle a little, Prince Oliver letting out an awkward cough. I don’t know why he’s so uncomfortable—he should be used to being part of a dysfunctional family.

Ramon mutters something in the general direction of his big toe.

I think I made out what he said. But the whole room needs to hear it.

“What was that?” I ask.

I’d had no intention of setting off on a confrontational footing, but if they think they can yank my dick because I’ve spent more than a decade on the front pages of the tabloids for things other than football, they’ve got another thing coming. I might have had to suck up that treatmentfrom the media, but I do not have to accept it in what is nowmylocker room.

“Ramon?” His surprised face jerks up to look at me. “Yeah, I know your name. You’re quite the talent. That pass in the first game of last season to Bakari…” I jerk my thumb to another player, who now looks equally stunned I know his name. “It was fucking beautiful. And your goal last month against Toronto? Beckham would have been proud of that.”

Ramon sits a little taller. No faces are staring at the floor anymore.

“Now tell everyone what you just said.”

“Sorry, Coach,” he mumbles, barely moving his lips.

“And once more for the room.”

“Sorry, Coach,” he says louder.

“Thank you. Now if you’ve all got that bullshit out of your systems, perhaps we can get on with things. Because you need to start winning. And, like it or not, I’m your only hope.”

And they’re mine.

Yes, they need me. But I might need them more.

Ramon was right, though. Despite all my years at the very top of the game, not a single European or South American club would touch me for a coaching role. Too much of a liability, they all said. The press claimed I’d either yelled at or pissed off in some other way anyone who might have taken me on now my playing days are over. Either that or I’d shagged their daughter. And they probably weren’t far wrong.

Also, punching that reporter at the press conference where we announced my career-ending injury didn’t do me any favors. In my defense, he did follow me off the stage and shove his mic in my face while shoutingquestions about my private life rather than my knee. Also in my defense, he was an arsehole who’d been asking me the same fuckwit questions for years.

I glance at the Fab Four. They couldn’t be more different characters. Miller in his sharp suit and tie; Chase Cooper in a sparkling white polo shirt and dark jeans; Leo Johanssen, entrepreneur extraordinaire, sporting a gray T-shirt and black leather jacket that’s completely unnecessary in Boston’s late August heat; and Prince Oliver, wearing a hoodie and artfully ripped, faded jeans.

Oliver and I had a brief chat before this locker room gathering. He said his nephew still keeps the football I gave him in pride of place on a stand in his room. And we bonded over the fact he’s pretty much the only person to get a harder time from the British press than me. So hopefully that bodes well.

These four men have taken a big chance giving me this job. Sure, The Boston Commoners don’t have much to lose—last season was their first in the big league and they didn’t win a game—so frankly, I can’t exactly make things worse.

And maybe they only bought the team for fun, like a billionaire’s version of foosball. But I know they’re all passionate fans of the game. And one thing I’ve learned about rich people since becoming one of them is that winning means more than money.

If all I cared about was the cash, I’d spend the rest of my life sitting on my arse, drinking beer and watching TV. Thanks to being hooked up with financial advisers way wiser than me right at the start of my career, I don’t need to work another day for the rest of my life.

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