Page 117 of The Thing About My Rival

Trouble is, Wilcoxismy game.

She’s my every-fucking-thing, for God’s sake.

But she’s going to Portland. And that’s that.

She obviously hates me as much now as she did thefirst day she walked into the locker room and found me already standing there with her job.

I guess the part in between—the part where she loved me—was the anomaly. But that part felt the most real.

It made me understand why people want to build a life with someone. And made me realize how they know who’s the best person for them and that there’s no point looking any further—because you just know.

Turns out, that part wasn’t real at all.

I should have known better.

I check my phone again on the off chance she might have texted even just a simple good luck.

Nothing.

I flick back to my middle-of-the-night conversation with Tom and his last message.

TOM

Just put her out of your head until the final whistle. After that you have your whole life to sort it out.

He’s right. It’s like he’smycoach.

I have to pull myself together. The team buzzing with life and chatter in the room behind me have come so unbelievably far in such a short time and are depending on me to lead them to victory in our most crucial match of the season so far.

Resorting to tried and tested old tricks, I jump up and down on the spot, ripple my lips in a series of horse-breaths, shake my head from side to side, roll my shoulders, and generally try to turn myself from pining lovesick teenager to inspirational leader.

This is as good as I’m going to get. But I’ve been too distracted to prepare a single thing to say. I’ll just have tohope that I’ll open this door, open my mouth, and pearls of wisdom will spontaneously spew forth.

“Hey, Coach!” Ramon gets to his feet and claps as I enter the locker room. The other players follow suit.

People talk about things that humble them. And I’ve never understood that. Because doesn’t someone telling you you’re great give you a big head rather than make you feel humble?

But in this moment I realize exactly what they mean.

I am unworthy of this reception. I’m unworthy of their cheers. And, in many ways, I am unworthy of their respect.

I’ve just fumbled my way along in this job, teaching the guys the things that worked for me, and adapting them if I thought something might work a better way for them.

Wilcox, however, would deserve a reception like this.

Her thought, her care, her belief, and her absolute undying love for this club that lives in the core of her being deserve it.

And yet she’s not here for the biggest moment in its history.

It would be like me being in the England team and breaking my leg the night before our World Cup Final—incomprehensibly horrific.

“Coach Wilcox still sick?” Bakari asks, looking over my shoulder to see if she’s followed me in.

When I boarded the team bus yesterday, I told them she wasn’t feeling well enough to travel and that she would try to fly down this morning.

In truth, I’d hoped she would. Hoped that after she’d slept on it, she wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of not being here and would hop on a plane. If not to be by my side, at least to be in the stands.

“’Fraid so, guys.”

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