Page 103 of The Thing About My Rival

He was a foster kid, wow. I didn’t know that. And from the looks on most of the other faces, neither did his teammates.

Ramon lowers the ball to his lap. “And yes, I loved it. But also, I needed to fill my head with something that would push everything else out of it. If I was thinking about soccer, I didn’t have to think about anything else.”

He stares down at the ball. “Other foster kids I knew kept getting chosen for adoption. Even ones who entered the system after me. That hurt. That was pain. I was never even with the same family for very long.

“That first family, they were nice, but they moved west and couldn’t take me. Then there was a bunch of others who either seemed to be in it for the money, or the power trip, or…” He shakes his head. “God knows what one of them was in it for.”

The room is silent for a second. It’s broken only by Nowak sniffing.

“I don’t know why no one wanted to keep me,” Ramon continues. “I wasn’t a bad kid or anything. I just wasn’t very good at school stuff. So sometimes I thought I was too dumb to be adopted.”

He spreads his legs and bounces the ball between them. “The only time I was ever chosen over other people was at recess for soccer teams. Then, I was always the first to be picked.”

My chest aches for the kid whose entire self-worth was based on his sports skills. Maybe it still is. It was the only thing that made him feel wanted, valuable.

“I mean, yeah, I was good at it,” he says. “Had some sort of natural ability. But I also worked fucking hard.” He holds the ball still and glances at Ashanti. “Sorry.”

She smiles and gives him an encouraging nod.

“I kept training and practicing.” He returns to bouncing the ball again, as if that’s what’s getting him through the story. “I loved it, but also I wanted to tire myself out so I didn’t lie awake at night. And I always tried to be the best player on the field. But at the end of the game, the others would have their parents congratulating them…and I had no one.”

He catches the ball and leans back. “Then last year I got picked up by the Commoners and was able to get my own place. And now this club, you guys, are my family.”

He turns to me, eyes glossy. The young tough nut of our team showing his vulnerability for the first time. “So while you had a shitty dad who didn’t show up, Coach Wilcox, I didn’t have one to show up at all.”

I don’t know what I want to hug him for most—the fact he’s matured enough to open up like that, that he’s recognized he has something in common with me, or his acknowledgement that I am a coach of this team.

But I can’t hug him. I can’t tell him how very, very proud of him I am, both as a player and a human. Reacting to someone’s story or talking when they have the ball is banned in the sharing circle.

“When Coach Wilcox benched me for the DC game”—he’s addressing his fellow players now—“that was pain too. I pretty much wanted to punch a hole in the wall. And when you guys won”—he circles his finger at his teammates—“I leaped off the bench and punched the air. But deep inside was the pain of knowing you could do it without me. That I’m dispensable. And that was worse than the pain of being benched.”

He sits forward and looks right at me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Coach Wilcox. And disrespected you. And Bakari.” He turns to his teammate. “I’m sorry about thattackle in training. I deserved the punishment. I was an asshole. And I apologize.”

Pride blooms within me like a warm glow to fill my whole being. How I don’t jump to my feet, bounce up and down and clap over my head, I will never know.

I could not be more proud of him for the maturity he’s just shown. And I could not be more proud of myself that standing my ground and sticking to my guns to not play him has led to this cathartic moment for him.

The kid’s had it tough, and has obviously had to grow up pretty damn fast. And now, hopefully, he’ll start to mature on the pitch too.

These last few weeks have been quite the roller coaster—the high of Hugo in the pub, Hugo in the park, Hugo in his bed, and winning every match, followed by the low of realizing Hugo and I can never be, and now a different kind of high with this remarkable breakthrough with Ramon.

Hugo and I might be a complicated mess and I might not get this job, but at least the team is coming together.

This last week of the regular season is going to be one hell of a ride.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

HUGO

Wilcox knocks my arm off her shoulder and glares at me.

Fair point. We are standing on the sideline of a football pitch surrounded by about forty thousand chanting, singing fans and a whole bunch of TV cameras and press photographers.

Things have been a bit strained for the three days since I found out she’s trying to line up a backup job in Portland. The work stuff’s been fine, but both nights I invited her over she said she was tired and needed to rest up for today’s match.

And I don’t like it.

I don’t like not having Wilcox in my bed—it feels big and cold and totally un-Wilcoxy. And the prospect of not having her in my life after the end of this season makes my chest feel even emptier than my bed.

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