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

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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, his mouth 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. All our hard 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 wincing oooh s, aaah s, 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.

The referee reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a card, and holds it aloft in front of Mr. Innocent.

It’s yellow.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell along with everyone in the bar and every other Commoners fan everywhere in the world. Apparently I’m on my feet and can no longer give a shit who sees or hears me.

There’s a tug on my sleeve. It’s Mona, looking confused. “What’s happened? Why is everyone angry?”

“The guy who took out Bakari should have been sent off. He should have been given a red card. But the ref’s given him a yellow one, which is just a warning.”

Mona turns, points at the screen again and shouts, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Guess we’ll make a fan of her yet.

I dread to think what Hugo’s saying right now. Thankfully they haven’t shown him, because I’m sure they’d have to find a way to blur his lip movements.

With Bakari off the field and the yellow card given to the Orlando defender, the ref jogs away, signals a free kick to us, and blows his whistle.

Ramon stands with his foot on the ball, not moving.

The camera cuts to Hugo, who has his hands cupped around his mouth shouting, “Come on!”

Back to a wide shot. Schumann, our captain, and Hammond talking, almost whispering, their eyes darting around the field.

The ref blows his whistle again and gestures for Ramon to get a move on and take the free kick .

But our young, passionate striker folds his arms, back poker straight, foot on the ball, face impassive. I can already see, in decades to come, there’ll be a bronze statue of him in his hometown in exactly this pose.

Schumann and Hammond jog around the field, talking in the ears of the rest of our team.

One by one, they all stand still and fold their arms.

Oh, my God. They’re refusing to play.

Goose bumps ripple over my arms and legs when I realize what’s happening—they’re taking a stand for the injustice served against their teammate. They’re refusing to play until the Orlando defender is sent off.

Hugo’s whole body fills the screen. His toes are as close to the sideline as they’re allowed to be. His face is red, and he’s yelling “Come on!” again as he jabs at the air.

Schumann walks up to the ref and talks to him, a picture of calm reasonableness.

The ref, face like thunder, shakes his head at him. A dramatic, clear shake to be sure the TV cameras catch it.

A close-up of Hugo’s face, mouth forming, “Come the fuck on.”

I know exactly what he’s thinking. We’re twenty minutes from a possible place in the playoffs and the guys are jeopardizing it for a bad call.

Ramon is still in the same position.

As is every one of our men on the field, all standing arms folded.

Schumann plants one foot, then the other, firmly on the turf right in front of the ref. He stares him directly in the face and slowly folds his arms.

They’re all in—Ramon’s refusal to play sanctioned by the whole team and their captain .

The camera’s back on Hugo. It’s funny how I can see his English accent in his mouthing of the words, even when I can’t hear them.

This time he shouts what looks like “What the fuck are you doing? Play on. Play on.” Then something more garbled I can’t quite make out that ends with “…fucking win.”

Behind the bar, Garrett turns up the TV volume.

The sound of the Commoners fans in the stadium chanting “Ra-mon” clap clap clap, “Ra-mon” clap clap clap over and over with the drums of the Goal Getters keeping time fills my heart till it’s ready to burst.

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.

Hugo talks some more.

The ref shakes his head again.

What the hell’s going on? The tension is too much to bear.

Hugo walks back to the players and gives them a nod.

Moving as one, they form a long, solid, straight-as-an-arrow line in front of the ref and stand with their arms folded.

Hugo looks at his men, then stands at the head of the line, stares at the ref, and slowly folds his arms too.

My hands fly to cup my nose and mouth. It’s the most beautiful, moving soccer moment I have ever witnessed. I don’t even try to stop the tears spontaneously rolling down my cheeks.

Hugo’s standing firm with his team and refusing to play on in the face of such injustice. Even though he knows it likely means the end of any playoff hopes.

For once in his life, Hugo has made a decision between winning and something else—and chosen the something else.

“Oh, God. He looks so hot,” Joyce says, and slurps on her ginger beer and mint, which has obviously done the trick.

Although it’s entirely not the point, she’s right. He looks hot, and proud, and in my eyes, definitely like a winner.

“This is quite remarkable,” Frank Sharpe’s voice says from the TV. “An entire team and their coach refusing to play. In my thirty years in the sport, I have never seen anything like this. Obviously the US Soccer Federation and FIFA will have something to say.”

They will. And Hugo knows it. He’s risking everything, his entire career, to stand with the team. And probably to lose.

“As might the fans,” Gilbert Rossi adds. “Our number crunchers say with the scores in the other games as they currently stand, the Boston Commoners would just scrape through to the playoffs. Powers could be throwing away a historic moment for the club.”

The ref blows three long whistles.

A cry of fuck! rings out around the pub.

The ref has ended the match because our players won’t play.

The fucks are drowned out by shushes as everyone strains to hear Sharpe and Rossi explain what’s happening—literally no one knows the rules for this situation off the top of their head.

“It’s a historic day all around,” Sharpe says, as the camera pans along the line of Commoners. “Never seen such a display of team spirit, with players united in their protest against the treatment of their teammate. ”

“Orlando clearly think they’ve won,” Rossi adds, as the shot switches to celebrating Orlando players and fans. “Have they?”

“If the Commoners have officially declared their intention to withdraw from the game, and it certainly looks like they have, then yes,” Sharpe says. “But I only know that because one of our nerds just handed me a piece of paper. So yes, despite their one-nil lead, they have sacrificed the game for?—”

The rest of his words are drowned out by a pub full of noise which is half furious that the Commoners would throw away the chance of a storybook season and half proud of them for standing up for what’s right.

On the screen, Hugo breaks the line and points the team toward the tunnel. They silently walk off in single file, one behind the other. Hugo brings up the rear, the last man off the pitch, shepherding his team home.

I try to wipe away the tears streaming down my face, but it’s impossible to keep up.

They are all my heroes.

But mainly Hugo.

At the start of the season, he would have rather died than lose anything.

Now look at him. Willing to lose not only a game, but a playoff place, on a point of principle.

Maybe I overreacted yesterday and took everything out on him more than he deserved. It’s not his fault he was chosen for the job. And it’s not like I didn’t always think that’s what would happen.

Really, the worst thing he did yesterday was put his foot in his mouth with that stupid comment about the players not taking me seriously. But like he said, he was panicking. And I have seen him mangle his words under pressure before, when he thought the Fab Four might send one of us off on a leave of absence.

Maybe I shouldn’t let that destroy everything I’ve learned about him these last couple months—that he’s not the selfish, ego-driven man I’d originally pegged him as.

And what my eyes have just witnessed shows he’s exactly the man I hoped he was.