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

Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DREW

Martinez finishes his memory of falling off his bike when he was a kid and how much the stitches in his chin hurt, then tosses the ball to me.

It’s not the first time someone’s chosen me to speak in one of our weekly sharing circles, but it doesn’t happen often.

“Okay, Drew,” Ashanti says. “Your turn to give us a memory of being in pain.”

My brain immediately shoots back to yesterday morning and sobbing in my office at the whole new brand of hurt that is the harsh reality that, however things turn out, in the very near future Hugo and I will be thousands of miles apart.

It’s hard to fit that thought together with the last two amazing weeks spent in his arms and in his bed, two amazing weeks of having the best person in the world to talk soccer with, and two amazing weeks of back-to-back wins and skyrocketing team spirit .

It’s been a glimpse into a dream life, both personal and professional. Something I don’t expect anything else to ever live up to.

And I still swoon every time I think about him spontaneously coming up with the perfect first date. Most men swimming in cash would want to show off and take me somewhere flashy. But no. Hugo’s right—he gets me. And hot dogs in the park to watch a talented kid play a pickup game could not have been better.

Since then, this larger-than-life Englishman has rapidly become an addiction.

It’s not fun having to hide what’s going on between us. But I have to admit, keeping it secret does add an unexpected edge of excitement.

At the back of my mind, though, I’ve known the whole time that pain is on its way.

There’d be no point in attempting a long-distance relationship. No matter how much he’s stirred up previously untapped feelings in me or how much he says he likes me—which he’s done through a series of groans and pants, as well as when bringing me breakfast in bed—we’d both be so busy it would be impossible.

I stare down at the ball in my lap.

Other than burning my hand on a pan from the oven a couple weeks ago, I can’t think of any other pain story to tell. And the pan thing is pretty dull.

I gaze around the room at the guys who’ve taken to these sessions so well. After the first few weeks of awkwardness, mumbled snark, and floor-staring, they’ve relaxed into the process.

We’ve even had a couple times when one of them has wanted to say something extra at the end, something that wasn’t part of the topic of the day .

Our reserve goalie talked about his fear of actually being called onto the pitch and letting everyone down by not being as good as our starting keeper.

Another player moved the room to tears when he described his kid taking his first steps after being told he’d never walk.

I glance around the circle as all the faces look at me expectantly. All except Ramon’s. He’s sitting there, arms folded, jaw set, staring across the room.

He’s barely communicated with me in the more than two weeks since our spat, and when he has, it’s mainly been grunts and shrugs. Winning that game against DC without him must have been an even bigger dent to his pride than being benched.

“It can be whatever pain means to you, Drew.” Ashanti encourages me with a tone that must have been a calming port in so many people’s treacherous storms.

Well, maybe I do have something these guys might relate to.

I take a deep breath.

Okay, then. Here goes.

“I went to Penn State on a soccer scholarship. And we made it to the finals of the Women’s College Cup.”

I look down at the ball and roll it between my hands. Have I made a mistake starting this? Maybe I shouldn’t tell this story. Maybe it’s a betrayal.

Oh, fuck it. It’s time for me to follow the examples of the guys who’ve so bravely opened up after never wanting to do these sessions at all.

“My dad said he would come.”

The pain is no less sharp now than it was then. Why does this still sting so much? It was twelve years ago, for God’s sake .

I dig my nails into the ball. “But he didn’t.”

A couple of the guys draw in air between their teeth—men for whom having their families watch their games is everything.

“And he hadn’t mentioned he wasn’t coming.”

I’m taken right back to running out onto the field, looking up at the family area and scanning for his face. My stomach turns over now, exactly the way it did then. Tears prickle my eyes the way they did then. And I blink them back and soldier on exactly the way I did then.

“I hoped and hoped he might be running late. But when we lined up for the anthem and I could take a better look at the family area, I spotted Marietta there, waving at me like crazy.”

I swallow hard and do exactly what I never want the guys to do in these circles, I fight back the emotion.

“Marietta was my nanny.”

There are muffled mumblings of “Jesus,” “Fuuuck,” and, “Never liked him.”

“We’d kept in fairly close contact over the years—she came to my high school graduation and everything, so it wasn’t totally weird. But still, it hurt that he’d sent her in his place. And hadn’t bothered to tell me he was doing it. That was pain.”

My hands are clammy around the ball, and my pulse is racing more than I ever would have expected from telling that story.

“Anyway, after the game I had to hide how disappointed and hurt I was because she was so happy to be there and watch me play in such a big event.”

It’s amazing how just a memory of something can make you feel exactly as you did then, all that time ago. “And it’s actually probably a good thing my dad didn’t come because he’d no doubt have had something to say about my failed tackle right before the other side’s winning goal.”

Ashanti leaves a few seconds of silence before speaking. “That’s a good share, Drew.”

I look up to see Ramon has shifted his gaze from the middle distance to me. His eyes are more mellow, his jaw less taut, and he’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

It’s as though he’s seeing me for the first time—or at least seeing me as an equal for the first time. A fellow player, someone who knows what it’s like to be on a field with people judging you. And if that’s the only good thing that comes of me telling that story, if it makes him feel better, even if it doesn’t help me, then it was worth it.

I pick up the ball to throw it to someone who hasn’t spoken yet.

Ramon straightens and holds out his hands.

I’ve always wondered what he was about to say in that first session, right before Hugo barged in like an enraged Kool-Aid Man. Everything Ramon’s said since has been pretty superficial—never mentioned his family or anything.

He catches my toss. “The game has always been the most important thing in my life.”

Those are almost the exact same words Hugo used in the park, when he was telling me about his upbringing.

Ramon balances the ball on a palm, raises it high, and points at it. “I saw some kids kicking one of these around in a back street near my first foster home a few days after I got there. They showed me how to play and that was that. I was obsessed. I practised and watched games on TV and got books on skills from the library. It was soccer, soccer, soccer all the time. ”

He was a foster kid, wow. I didn’t know that. And from the looks on most of the other faces, neither did his teammates.

Ramon lowers the ball to his lap. “And yes, I loved it. But also, I needed to fill my head with something that would push everything else out of it. If I was thinking about soccer, I didn’t have to think about anything else.”

He stares down at the ball. “Other foster kids I knew kept getting chosen for adoption. Even ones who entered the system after me. That hurt. That was pain. I was never even with the same family for very long.

“That first family, they were nice, but they moved west and couldn’t take me. Then there was a bunch of others who either seemed to be in it for the money, or the power trip, or…” He shakes his head. “God knows what one of them was in it for.”

The room is silent for a second. It’s broken only by Nowak sniffing.

“I don’t know why no one wanted to keep me,” Ramon continues. “I wasn’t a bad kid or anything. I just wasn’t very good at school stuff. So sometimes I thought I was too dumb to be adopted.”

He spreads his legs and bounces the ball between them. “The only time I was ever chosen over other people was at recess for soccer teams. Then, I was always the first to be picked.”

My chest aches for the kid whose entire self-worth was based on his sports skills. Maybe it still is. It was the only thing that made him feel wanted, valuable.

“I mean, yeah, I was good at it,” he says. “Had some sort of natural ability. But I also worked fucking hard.” He holds the ball still and glances at Ashanti. “Sorry.”

She smiles and gives him an encouraging nod .

“I kept training and practicing.” He returns to bouncing the ball again, as if that’s what’s getting him through the story. “I loved it, but also I wanted to tire myself out so I didn’t lie awake at night. And I always tried to be the best player on the field. But at the end of the game, the others would have their parents congratulating them…and I had no one.”

He catches the ball and leans back. “Then last year I got picked up by the Commoners and was able to get my own place. And now this club, you guys, are my family.”

He turns to me, eyes glossy. The young tough nut of our team showing his vulnerability for the first time. “So while you had a shitty dad who didn’t show up, Coach Wilcox, I didn’t have one to show up at all.”

I don’t know what I want to hug him for most—the fact he’s matured enough to open up like that, that he’s recognized he has something in common with me, or his acknowledgement that I am a coach of this team.

But I can’t hug him. I can’t tell him how very, very proud of him I am, both as a player and a human. Reacting to someone’s story or talking when they have the ball is banned in the sharing circle.

“When Coach Wilcox benched me for the DC game”—he’s addressing his fellow players now—“that was pain too. I pretty much wanted to punch a hole in the wall. And when you guys won”—he circles his finger at his teammates—“I leaped off the bench and punched the air. But deep inside was the pain of knowing you could do it without me. That I’m dispensable. And that was worse than the pain of being benched.”

He sits forward and looks right at me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Coach Wilcox. And disrespected you. And Bakari.” He turns to his teammate. “I’m sorry about that tackle in training. I deserved the punishment. I was an asshole. And I apologize.”

Pride blooms within me like a warm glow to fill my whole being. How I don’t jump to my feet, bounce up and down and clap over my head, I will never know.

I could not be more proud of him for the maturity he’s just shown. And I could not be more proud of myself that standing my ground and sticking to my guns to not play him has led to this cathartic moment for him.

The kid’s had it tough, and has obviously had to grow up pretty damn fast. And now, hopefully, he’ll start to mature on the pitch too.

These last few weeks have been quite the roller coaster—the high of Hugo in the pub, Hugo in the park, Hugo in his bed, and winning every match, followed by the low of realizing Hugo and I can never be, and now a different kind of high with this remarkable breakthrough with Ramon.

Hugo and I might be a complicated mess and I might not get this job, but at least the team is coming together.

This last week of the regular season is going to be one hell of a ride.