Page 21 of The Thing About My Rival

“Then there’s no way we can work together.”

“I completely agree. You are way too selfish, close-minded, stubborn, and…” I’m all out of words. Hugo Powers has driven me to the end of my ability to construct sentences. “… infuriating.”

He smirks and shrugs as if I’ve just given him exactly what he wants. “Then you have to quit.”

Now my fury is back. How dare he play me like an under-par opponent, trying to put me off my game enough that I make a mistake or give up. “Not a fucking chance.”

Out of the corner of my eye I catch several players and Jed, the intern who’s warming them up, stop what they’re doing and look at us. That must have come out a bit loud. I can’t let Hugo freaking Powers push me so far I lose control. That’s how he wins.

I lower my voice, but my throat is tight, my jaw rigid. “This is my club.” I jab at my chest with a trembling finger. “And I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You take all the physical training. All the daily on-the-pitch stuff. Leave the rest to me.”

“There isn’t anythingbuton-the-pitch training, Coach Wilcox.” He laughs like a sarcastic teenager. “This is a football team, remember? We play football. We train. We get fit. We practice and practice. And then we score more goals than the other side.” He shakes his head, smirking.

“And that one-track mind, Coach Powers, is why youwill not be the one to keep this job. You don’t understand what it’s like to be a fully rounded human.”

“Got to hand it to you, though, Wilcox.” He gives me a slow clap. “I like this idea. Like it a lot. It’s the best one you’ve had. Yup, I’ll do the training, while you light candles and manifest our way to victory. Or whatever the hell it is you do. As long as we stay out of each other’s way, everything is fine by me.”

Could not be better. The less I have to see of him and his obnoxious, flawless face the better. “Perfect. But not until after this training session. I am not walking off this field and making it look like I’ve deferred to you.”

Without stepping back, I snatch up the whistle hanging around my neck and blow it so hard that Hugo slams his hands over his ears and screws up his face.

“Okay, guys.” I spin around and march back toward the orange cones. “Dribble training. To prevent injuries, we’re going to start with the cones far apart, then move them closer together as you warm up.”

The players, who were all in various stages of a lunge or stretch look at Hugo for his approval.

I turn back to find him staring right at me. Silent.

“Come on, team,” I call out. “Let’s start as we mean to go on.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

DREW

“I’m going to throw this to one of you,” Ashanti says, bouncing the soccer ball up and down on her lap and gazing at the players sitting in the sharing circle. “When you catch it, I want you to say one thing you’re afraid of and why, then throw it to another team member. Ready?”

I’ve worked with Dr. Ashanti Boateng before, over in Portland. She got great results and the players loved her. So when I heard she’s now teaching in the sports psychology department at Boston University, I just had to get her involved with the Commoners.

I spent ages yesterday clearing out this room, which has been used for nothing other than storage for years. Once I’d thrown out the actual garbage, set aside the old training equipment to donate to the local Boys & Girls Clubs of America, and moved the remaining odds and ends to the corners, it left a good space in the center for us all to gather.

Sweeping up years of dust and mopping the floor tooka while, and I became acquainted with more dead spiders than I would have liked, but it came out okay. Andthankfully there were enough folding chairs among the junk in here to seat all the players, Ashanti and me.

“Let’s start by having you all look at me,” Ashanti says. “Just for safety reasons. So no one takes a ball to the head because you’re not watching.”

When I brought the guys in here, the circle of chairs was greeted with an array of rolled eyes, groans, andfor fuck’s sakes.

Things didn’t get any better when they sat down. Bodies either slumped back with legs outstretched and arms defiantly folded, or they leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the floor between shuffling feet.

And when we went around the circle with everyone introducing themselves and saying where they’re from, jeez, it was like seventh-grade detention. The mixture of resentment, embarrassment, and barely audible muttering was toe-curlingly awkward.

But it always takes people a while to settle into something new. There’s always some degree of resistance, so I’m not worried.

It took the Portland women a while to come around to it too. But their body language wasn’t as closed off and shut down as these guys’. Even if they didn’t like the idea of it, the women at least pretended to be open to it. I guess they were a little more polite.

Luckily, Ashanti has seen all this a thousand times and probably worse. So I’m confident we’re in safe hands.

The possibility of her throwing a ball at one of their heads has at least diverted their gazes from the floor and the crackling fluorescent light above us.

“Okay, here we go,” Ashanti says. “The thing you’remost afraid of.” She throws the ball to the man with the most skeptical face in the room—left midfielder, Hammond.

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