Page 22 of The Thing About My Rival

He rests the ball in his lap and looks at his pals with an arrogant, sarcastic grin. “Not being able to get it up. Because no one wants to disappoint a lady, am I right?”

An adolescent chuckle runs around the circle as he throws the ball to his best pal, our starting goalie, Nowak.

He bounces the ball on the floor between his legs a couple times and appears to be on the verge of saying something a little more profound. Then he looks up at his teammates and winks. “Not being able to get it up twice.”

It’s followed by more snickers.

I glance at Ashanti, who gives me a little nod that says this is par for the course and they’ll calm down in a minute.

Nowak throws to our central midfielder, Bakari.

He sighs and tosses the ball from hand to hand for a few seconds. At least he looks like he’s genuinely thinking about it.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I’m actually scared of flying. I fucking hate it when an away game is too far to use the team bus.”

“Yeah, man,” left fullback Boseman says. “That turbulence during last season’s trip to Miami…” He blows out a long breath and shakes his head. “Thought I was going to throw up.”

There are a few sympathetic nods.

Great. They’re easing into it. I sit on my hands to stop myself from doing a mini fist pump.

Bakari throws to our star center forward, Ramon.

The teenager stares at the ball as he turns it around and around.

No one says a word.

Then he spins it over and over some more.

The silence is broken by a cough, the scraping of chair feet on the linoleum, and someone to my left muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ashanti says in her voice that always reminds me of a mixture of warm honey and heavy cream.

Ramon looks up from the ball and casts his gaze around the circle. I give him a gentle smile when his eyes rest on me.

I’ve learned from previous sessions with Ashanti that the best thing to do is to stay quiet until someone speaks. Not to egg them on. To allow them to formulate their thoughts until they’re ready to speak in their own time.

He digs his teeth into his top lip and rests the ball in his lap.

Come on, Ramon. You’ve obviously got so much pent-up crap inside you. Come on. Share just the tiniest, tiniest bit with us.

“For years,” he says, “I’ve always been afraid that my?—”

Behind him the door swings open with such force it slams against the wall and makes all of us jump.

Hugo charges into the room like a tornado shattering a calm evening, his face blazing, black T-shirt stretched across his thrust-out chest, the force of his stride pulling the matching shorts tight across his defined, muscular thighs. The whistle around his neck swings from side to side, bouncing off his pecs.

“What the fuck is this?” He flings his arms toward us, like he’s caught us stealing from the safe.

A hot flash washes over me. This is exactly likeyesterday morning, yelling at me in front of the team. Putting me down. Making it look like he’s my boss. And this time he’s also doing it in front of Ashanti.

Must stay calm. Must not yell back. Must. Stay. Calm.

I get to my feet as slowly as I can and gesture toward Ashanti. “Coach Powers, meet Doctor Boateng. Highly respected sports psychologist and an old colleague of mine.”

Ashanti remains silent and merely dips her head at Hugo. She’s probably instantly diagnosed him with a hundred and one issues. All of which would likely take extensive one-on-one sessions just to scratch the surface.

“And this”—I gesture to the team around us—“is our first sharing circle of the season.”

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