Page 121 of The Thing About My Rival

DREW

“How can you not watch?” Joyce asks me for the hundred and forty-seventh time since the second half started.

I’ve sat with my back to the TV, baseball cap pulled down low, ever since I came down here. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be concerned about anyone recognizing me, because generally they don’t, but this is a soccer crowd—a Boston Commoners crowd—and they just might.

I have peeked from time to time. And when Winston became uncharacteristically animated, grabbed my arm, and shouted, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” I did turn around to see Bakari score to give us a one-nil lead.

And I absolutely joined in all the jumping and cheering and clapping and chanting as the bar erupted, the stadium crowd went wild, and the field-side pyrotechnics went off.

I also caught the slow-motion replay of Hugo’s reaction, smoke drifting across his face as he punched the air, both feet coming off the ground at the same time, hismouth open wide as he shouted “Yes!” then “Fucking beauty!”

The players’ faces were a picture as they piled on Bakari, rubbing his head, kissing his cheeks, and yelling in his face. Total joy. Total celebration. Total vindication of all their hard work. Allourhard work.

Even if we lose, they have everything in the world to be proud of.

The goal came soon after the start of the second half, and now, with twenty minutes to go, they’re still leading by a goal to nil.

I can’t bear to watch the rest of it. Can’t bear to see the close-ups of Hugo’s face and lip-read the instructions he’s giving them in case they’re something I completely disagree with. And also because of…well…his face. Eyes everywhere, brain sharp, jaw taut, mouth moving… Yeah, that does me no good at all.

So I stare into my ginger beer and mint, and monitor the game through the sounds from the TV and the reactions of the Oldies.

Suddenly the bar is a mass of wincingooohs,aaahs, and gasps, and Mona springs to life. She’s out of her seat, pointing at the TV, and I’ve definitely never heard her say “shit” before.

Joyce’s hands are over her eyes.

But Orlando can’t have scored because there are no cheers coming from the TV.

Winston gives the screen a look of disapproval I imagine he used on the most disruptive kids in his class and shakes his head. “No, no, no.”

“What, guys?” I peer at them from under the brim of my cap.

Joyce rests a hand on her belly. “I know you’re the one with the upset stomach, but I might be about to vomit.”

“Bastard.” Mona points at the screen. “Total bastard.”

Good God. This must be bad.

As the crowd bursts into a chant of “Send him off,” I lift my head to see a close-up of Bakari rolling around on the ground, clutching his leg.

“You should have seen it before he put his hands over it,” Joyce says and makes a gagging face.

“What happened?” I ask Winston, since he is neither on the point of losing the contents of his stomach nor busy enjoying a previously untapped profane side to his vocabulary.

“That number four there”—he points at one of the Orlando defenders, who’s been pulled aside by the ref—“just took your guy down badly. Really badly.”

True to form, Winston is being the definition of understatement.

“Please don’t describe it to her,” Joyce says, rising carefully from her seat. “I’m going to get Garrett to make me one of those ginger and mint things. You seem much better on it, Drew.”

Please, God, let Joyce be overreacting. Please, God, let Bakari be okay.

Our PT, who’s kneeling next to him, calls the medical team over. Yeah. That’s not a good sign.

The camera cuts away to the ref, who’s writing in his notebook, the Orlando defender facing him, arms incredulously wide, mouth gaping in a way that says, “Me? What did I do?”

Judging from the noise in the bar, the customers would cheerfully tear him limb from limb right now. I can only imagine what the fans who’re actually there are shouting.

A wide shot shows Bakari being stretchered off the field. Oh, God. As soon as the final whistle blows, I’m calling him.

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