Page 20 of The Thing About My Rival

“The way Boseman squared up for that kick it was obvious the ball was going to curve and hit you right between the shoulders,” he says. “Anyway, I don’t care what goes to Ramon’s or anyone else’s head as long as we fucking win some shit.”

I rub my arm where Hugo’s strong hand had grabbed me and wiggle my bruised nose in an effort to shake off the disorientation, and the annoying tremble in my belly, from faceplanting right between his pecs.

If the shock of the unexpected physical contact isn’t causing him to miss a beat, then neither can I.

“So.” I set my feet firmly on the turf. “You don’t care if his head gets turned with drinking and partying? Or he gets hit with a lawsuit? Or some charlatan tries to rip him off?”

“I care about winning. What happens off the pitch is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is what happens between kickoff and the final whistle.”

“You are so shortsighted. Do you really not realize that it’s impossible to separate what happensoffthe pitch with what happensonit? That one feeds into the other. If you’d bothered to research?—”

“I’ve watched videos of these guys till my eyes have gone square. That’s my job.”

“I was going to say, if you’d bothered to research who these men are aspeople, not just as players, you’d know Ramon has already been clubbing way more than is good for his game, he’s bought a car that goes faster than any car should, and he always refuses to talk about his family—so God knows what the terrible story is there.”

“His personal life is nothing to do with me.”

“Right, and what you did in your personal time never affected your game, right?” I mock the ridiculousness of the idea.

“Absolutely.”

“So the time you got sent off for yelling at a ref had nothing to do with the news that you’d been sleeping with the performance coach’s daughter being splashed all over the media that morning? The time you screwed up that England free kick against Finland had nothing to do with your buddy’s boozy birthday party the night before? And the Man United manager refusing to play you for the finaltitle match of the season had nothing to do with you having a locker room tantrum and throwing a cleat at him?”

He stills. “Well, you have been following my career, haven’t you, Wilcox? You must be a very big fan. I’ll sign your arm for you later, if you like.”

Ass jerk.

I take a breath to try to calm my blood pressure. This man is not good for anyone’s health.

“Look,” I say in the most reasonable tone I can muster. “The point is that players need to be nurtured as well as trained. They’ll perform better, we’ll win more, and they’ll have better, longer careers.”

He does that thing where he puffs out his chest and folds his arms across it like he owns the place. “The only thing that matters is burying the ball in the back of the net more times than the other side.”

“And that short-term attitude is what’s held this club back for years. I’ve seen it. You haven’t. You’ve come in here with that same macho garbage of squeezing everything you can out of the players with no thought for longevity, for how to keep them mentally as well as physically fit.”

“Oh, here we go with the mental health as well as physical health bullshit. They just need to play their nuts off on the pitch. They do not need to sit around sniffing your stinky oils and chanting.”

This man is way more like my father than I can deal with right now. “No. I’m not having it. I’m not letting you repeat this club’s mistakes of the past. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I will not sit back and watch you drive these players into the ground untilthey burn out or injure themselves. I want them to be happy and healthy and love playing here so much they never want to leave. Ramon included.”

“Oh, do me a favor,” Hugo scoffs. “Once I’ve finished with Ramon he’s going to have such a fucking great season that we’ll win the cup and then he’ll be snapped up by LA Galaxy, or DC United, or one of the European big boys.”

“And you would see him leaving as a job well done?”

“Yes. It would mean I’d made him too good for us, and he was moving on to bigger and better things. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

It might behiswhole point. But it is definitely not mine.

“And the same goes for you too, right?” I sneer.

“What do you mean?”

“That you’re here just to prove yourself to whoever you’re trying to impress. And right now that seems to be mainly yourself.”

I gesture from the top of his ruffled brown hair down to his black cleats. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? The only reason you want us to win is so you can keep this job for next season and then shop yourself around to bigger and better clubs as the glorious Hugo Powers who’s redeemed his shitty reputation by dragging this poor little team up by its bootstraps and leading them to victory. You don’t give a crap about the Commoners.”

“And you want to stayhere?” He tips his head toward the rundown buildings around us. “Forever?”

“I fucking love this club, Hugo. I’ve loved it since I was a kid, and I love it today. If my dad hadn’t had to sell it because he needed the cash, he would have passed it on to me and it would be mine right now. And if it were, there’sno way I’d ever allow you to set foot on a single blade of this grass. But if the coach’s job is what I have, then coaching the team is what I’m going to do. And if I have to do it with you for these few weeks, then that’s something I just have to suck up. But I am not going to do it by drilling the players till they drop.”

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