Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DREW
Five minutes to go and it’s one-all.
If I were rigged up to a heart rate monitor, it would have exploded by now. And I’m not sure I’ve ever sweated so much in my life—and it’s not only because of the disgusting Atlanta humidity.
A less-stressful first game at the helm would have been appreciated.
On the upside, if the score stays like this, at least we will have drawn and not lost.
Swear to God, Hugo hasn’t had his backside on the seat next to me for more than two consecutive seconds the whole game. He’s been bouncing around like an overcaffeinated yo-yo.
But at this tension-fueled stage of the game, we’ve now both permanently left our chairs and stand side by side on the touchline, a united front in the face of the ticking clock.
The sound of the fans cheering, shouting, whistling and singing reverberates within the stadium. Almost everyone is on their feet, waving flags and scarves—each side trying to drown out the other.
We’re lucky that among the Commoners’ extreme fans is a band of five guys who attend every game—home and away. Armed with two drums, a trumpet, a tuba, and a cow bell, they rouse the crowd into song. They’ve become known as the Goal Getters and have followed the team around for years.
Once, last season, their flight was delayed and they missed a game in Nashville. Apparently the atmosphere just wasn’t the same without them. And we lost five-one. So they’ve also become something of a talisman.
My theory is that being surrounded by the same sounds, despite playing hundreds of miles from Spirit Field, makes the team feel at home and provides a sense of comforting familiarity even at an opponent’s stadium.
Right now they have our fans singing the loudest version of “We Are the Champions” I’ve ever heard. Which is both optimistic and premature.
Hugo has been the one to call out to the players. His voice is so much bigger than mine and has way more chance of competing in this cauldron of sound.
Three minutes to go, and an Atlanta striker breaks free and has a run on our almost open goal.
“Shit,” I shout helpfully.
“Get back!” Hugo yells, making a scooping motion with his arms as if trying to physically drag our defenders back toward the goal.
My heart climbs to my throat as our guys try to keep up with the Atlanta player.
Hugo grabs his head with both hands as the striker takes his chance.
It’s a bit high, but not high enough to miss .
Nowak, our goalie, jumps like he has springs in his cleats and gets his fingers to the ball just enough to tip it over the crossbar.
I hop up and down and scream so loudly it hurts my throat, my pulse racing from abject fear followed so quickly by overwhelming relief.
“Fucking brilliant.” Hugo punches the air, and our supporters go wild. “Brilliant fucking save.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder and bounces with me.
Nowak sets the ball down for what is probably our final hope of the game, and Hugo pumps his fist.
“Come on, lads,” he hollers. “Come on.”
Nowak hoofs the ball beyond the halfway line.
Bakari leaps and chests the ball down to his feet.
But he’s surrounded by Atlanta players.
“To Ramon. Ramon ,” Hugo and I shout together, pointing at Ramon, who’s run into a space out to the right.
Not that Bakari can possibly hear us, but I’d be yelling and pointing whether I was watching at home on TV or here on the sideline.
I grip the little log cabin charm dangling from my jacket zipper—it was given to me by a Portland fan, who built cabins for a living, in my first week on that team’s professional coaching staff. It’s been with me for every game since.
Bakari finds a gap and passes between the Atlanta players, straight to Ramon, who’s onside and belts toward the goal.
The pursuing Atlanta players block my view of the action, and the next thing I know, the crowd is a roaring sea of orange and sky blue flags and scarves, feet pounding the stands as our fans jump up and down, the Goal Getters bang their drums even harder, and Ramon has disappeared under a pile of teammates.
My heart rate soars.
Is this real?
Did Ramon really score?
Have we really won?
It certainly looks like it from the way the Atlanta guys are either hanging their heads or pointing accusingly at one another.
But I didn’t see it with my own eyes, so I can’t let myself believe it.
My pulse now pounds in my ears and my hand trembles around the cabin charm.
Then the ref blows the whistle.
It’s over.
I turn to Hugo. We stare at each other, stock-still and in total silence for a fraction of a second, seemingly checking with the other that what seems to have just happened really did happen.
Hugo’s eyes flash to the scoreboard. I follow his gaze just as the numbers change to Atlanta United 1, Boston Commoners 2.
“We won.” Hugo punches the air so hard his feet lift off the ground.
Goosebumps ripple through me and I launch myself into jumping and cheering along with the fans.
This is so much more than a win. This is my first win with the Commoners. My first win with the team that feels like my home. It gives the players a phenomenal psychological start to this new phase, and it validates our coaching—my methods, as much as Hugo’s.
Hugo grabs my cheeks with both hands, his face inches from mine. “We motherfucking won, Wilcox. ”
Before I can even nod, his lips are on mine. A big smacker of a kiss. A kiss that’s minty from the succession of sticks of gum he’s been chewing aggressively since kickoff.
He holds my face so tight and pulls me up to him so hard, I’m convinced he’s about to lift my feet off the ground.
Or maybe I’m floating a little.
My arms have certainly levitated out to my sides, seemingly of their own accord.
The tens of thousands of people around us fade away in a mist of cheers, drumbeats and whistles. I’m consumed by the pressure of Hugo’s mouth on mine, the slight graze of his stubble on my chin, a faint trace of his fresh sweat.
But what the hell is going on?
We just won our first game of the season and now Hugo Powers is kissing me. If you can call this enthusiastic lip-smushing thing a kiss.
But his eyes are closed. Who closes their eyes for a joke kiss?
Mine are definitely wide open. In a mixture of shock, horror, and ecstasy.
Shock because my colleague, who’s only recently learned to almost tolerate me, has his mouth on mine.
Horror because it’s happening in front of our entire team, approximately forty thousand strangers, and Lord knows how many more on TV.
And ecstasy because we’ve led this struggling team to a glorious victory.
Also, his lips do feel quite nice.
Hugo lets go of my face, beams down at me, then resumes bouncing up and down, arms raised over his head. “We fucking won! ”
I’m frozen to the spot, stunned. The only movement I can manage is a slight nod.
Plenty of European soccer players kiss each other when they score. So maybe it’s just a hangover of his old habits. And I just happened to be the nearest person. But they usually do it on the forehead or the cheek. I’ve never seen anyone plant a smacker on a teammate’s lips.
Bakari jumps on my back, jolting me back to reality. The rest of the team pile on, and Hugo and I are swamped in a sweaty sea of the happiest people to wear sky blue and orange that I have ever witnessed. Our arms are around each other’s shoulders, forming one bouncing joyous mass.
As Hugo said, we motherfucking won.
And he motherfucking kissed me.