The Thing About My Rival (The Boston Commoners #1)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

DREW

“I’m going to throw this to one of you,” Ashanti says, bouncing the soccer ball up and down on her lap and gazing at the players sitting in the sharing circle. “When you catch it, I want you to say one thing you’re afraid of and why, then throw it to another team member. Ready?”

I’ve worked with Dr. Ashanti Boateng before, over in Portland. She got great results and the players loved her. So when I heard she’s now teaching in the sports psychology department at Boston University, I just had to get her involved with the Commoners.

I spent ages yesterday clearing out this room, which has been used for nothing other than storage for years. Once I’d thrown out the actual garbage, set aside the old training equipment to donate to the local Boys & Girls Clubs of America, and moved the remaining odds and ends to the corners, it left a good space in the center for us all to gather.

Sweeping up years of dust and mopping the floor took a while, and I became acquainted with more dead spiders than I would have liked, but it came out okay. Andthankfully there were enough folding chairs among the junk in here to seat all the players, Ashanti and me.

“Let’s start by having you all look at me,” Ashanti says. “Just for safety reasons. So no one takes a ball to the head because you’re not watching.”

When I brought the guys in here, the circle of chairs was greeted with an array of rolled eyes, groans, and for fuck’s sake s.

Things didn’t get any better when they sat down. Bodies either slumped back with legs outstretched and arms defiantly folded, or they leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the floor between shuffling feet.

And when we went around the circle with everyone introducing themselves and saying where they’re from, jeez, it was like seventh-grade detention. The mixture of resentment, embarrassment, and barely audible muttering was toe-curlingly awkward.

But it always takes people a while to settle into something new. There’s always some degree of resistance, so I’m not worried.

It took the Portland women a while to come around to it too. But their body language wasn’t as closed off and shut down as these guys’. Even if they didn’t like the idea of it, the women at least pretended to be open to it. I guess they were a little more polite.

Luckily, Ashanti has seen all this a thousand times and probably worse. So I’m confident we’re in safe hands.

The possibility of her throwing a ball at one of their heads has at least diverted their gazes from the floor and the crackling fluorescent light above us.

“Okay, here we go,” Ashanti says. “The thing you’re most afraid of.” She throws the ball to the man with the most skeptical face in the room—left midfielder, Hammond.

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 like yesterday 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.”

“A what-the-fuck now?” He narrows his eyes and leans toward us, like I’m speaking a language he’s never heard before.

While every pore of me wants to tell him not to be so rude and closed-minded, I take a deep breath and keep my tone as gentle and measured as is humanly possible under such asshole-fueled circumstances.

“This isn’t really the energy we need in the room right now, Hugo. Could you please excuse us? You and I can talk about this privately afterward. If you’d like.”

“I don’t need to chat about anything. And neither do these guys. Come on, fellas. Off your arses and onto the field.”

Half the players jump to their feet like they just spotted the life raft on a sinking ship. Most of the rest awkwardly stand up like they’re caught in a fight between their parents. And Bakari and Ramon look at me.

How dare he. How fucking dare he. Tears of frustration fueled by years of clawing my way up in the sport and a lifetime of my dad thinking I should have chosen a non-soccer career prick at my eyes.

But I will not cry in front of Hugo freaking Powers. I will not.

“We still have forty-five minutes left.” Despite my best effort, my breath shakes in my throat. “I’ll send the guys out when we’re done.”

“Bollocks to that.” He grabs the door and points through it. A handful of the players who’d stood up seize the chance to flee to freedom. “Anyone who wants to do your hippie talking-stick bullshit can do it when they’re off the clock. But it’s not going to eat into actual training time.”

“This is part of training, Hugo.” I clasp my hands in front of me in what I hope is a calming manner—for me as much as him—and pray no one can see how white my knuckles are.

“Training, Coach Wilcox, is drills and fitness and practice, learning how to fight, fight, fight, fight for a win.” He punches the air with every fight . “It is not sitting around talking about your shitty childhood.”

I look at Ashanti who meets my gaze, her eyebrows lifting just a tiny hair as if to say, well now we all know who had a shitty childhood.

“Come on.” Hugo casts his eyes over the remaining players and points through thedoorway.

They move away amid a scraping of chairs and some mutterings, including a “Thank fuck for that” or two.

Before he leaves the circle, Bakari turns to Ashanti and says, “Thank you.”

At least someone has manners.

“You’re very welcome,” she replies. “I hope to see you next week. ”

Ramon tosses the ball back to her. “Yeah, thanks.”

Then he follows his teammates—and the man I cannot believe I ever kissed—out of the room.

I stand in the middle of the empty circle as Hugo slams the door behind him.

When I turn back to face Ashanti, she has the most serene smile on her face. “Well done for keeping your composure.”

“You have no idea how hard that was.”

“Oh, I think I do. But they’ll come around. They always do.”

“A few of the players might. But jerkface there is a lost cause.”

“No one’s a lost cause.” Her words are heavy with the insight and experience of someone to whom none of this is new, unique, or even that bad.

And with a comforting smile, she tosses the ball to me.

I catch it and wrap my arms around it, hugging it to my chest. “Me? My biggest fear?”

She nods.

I could say that it’s failing at this job and losing all hope of my father ever thinking I’m good enough to be in the game. Or I could tell her how seeing even just a picture of a snake makes me want to climb onto the nearest high surface and scream for my life.

But instead, I jerk my head toward the door. “Punching him in the face and being arrested.”

Denial. I’m sure that’s the coping mechanism every good psychologist would recommend.