Page 123 of The Thing About My Rival

We’re back to a wide shot of sky-blue and orange players scattered around the field, arms folded, refusing to move.

A lump rises in my throat and tears prick my eyes at the sight of our players standing strong together, risking a season’s work by refusing to play. All in support of their teammate. I don’t even care whether we win any more. This is bigger than any playoff place.

And it’s all led by Ramon, the man who committed that reckless tackle on Bakari in training. But he’s learned from that and knows, just as he had to swallow his punishment, the Orlando defender should be punished too.

Who knows how badly Bakari is injured?

The picture cuts back to a tight shot of Schumann silently facing off with the ref. The ref stares at him hard, pulls out his notebook, scribbles something, then reaches into his pocket for a card.

This time it’s red.

Mona slams her hands over her ears as the whole pub vibrates from the shouts of the Commoners fans both here and on the screen.

Schumann is being sent off for rallying the protest and defying the ref. While the Orlando defender who’s done God-knows-what to Bakari’s leg and career stays on the field.

“Ooo,” Winston groans. “Don’t say anything,” he instructs the tight shot of Schumann’s face. “Don’t say a word. Don’t upset that ref any more.”

Exactly what I was thinking. I nod at wise old Winston.

And Schumann doesn’t. He’s as statue-like as Ramon, as all of them.

What the hell is Hugo going to do?

He’s back on screen.

But this time he’s not shouting.

He’s standing right on the sideline, not daring to step onto the field and risk a red card for himself.

His hands are on his hips.

Teeth biting into his bottom lip.

Gaze roving the field from one end to the other, taking in his players’ silent, dignified protest.

His chest rises and falls with deep, heavy breaths. I know his heart will be thumping right now. I know he’ll be digging his fingers into his sides to stop his hands from shaking.

He closes his eyes for a second and shakes his head.

Then he heaves a giant breath, his T-shirt stretching across his swelling chest. His cheeks puff as he slowly blows it out.

He’s made a decision.

Then his hands are over his head, making sharp claps as he shouts, “Hey. Hey.”

A wide shot shows the players turn their heads to look at him.

Hugo beckons them, and they all obediently break their statuesque stances to jog over.

They form a circle with him, heads bowed in a huddle.

“A truly unique situation we have here.” The TV’s so loud, Gilbert Rossi’s voice is distorted. “Powers will be giving his men a pep talk to get them playing again. I know for sure he won’t let a team he’s brought this far throw it all away. The world knows that if there’s one thing Hugo Powers cares about, it’s winning.”

Hugo’s head reappears from the huddle, and he calls the ref over.

When he arrives, Hugo’s expression is calm, fearless, as he talks. I’m so proud of him for keeping a lid on the absolute fury he must feel about the tackle on Bakari.

The ref shakes his head.

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