Abby Offsides

Chapter One

Here’s the thing: Saying, “I’ve never really cared about soccer” is not a great way to kick off a job interview, especially when you’re applying for a job with a professional soccer team.

Or when you’re in England, where it’s called football.

Or when you’ve just been asked, “Why are you interested in working for this team?” And yet, those are the words that come out of my mouth as I wither under the formidable stare of Charlotte Collins, chief communications officer for the Mersey Football Club.

Not a great start, even under the most generous interpretation—and something about Ms. Collins’s frosty demeanor makes me think generosity is not foremost among her personality traits.

“You’ve never really cared about soccer?” It sounds so much worse repeated back to me, the “r” at the end of the offensive word disappearing into a mix of her posh accent and her equally posh disdain.

To make matters even more uncomfortable, the waistband of my dated polyester pantsuit is digging into my love handles, and I’m mildly concerned it’s cutting off my circulation.

The stupid suit fit the last time I was at a job interview, but that was five years and a few more than five pounds ago.

Charlotte Collins is immaculate in an outfit I’m pretty sure is actually one of Meryl Streep’s costumes from The Devil Wears Prada.

Or maybe I’m projecting, given the very similar ice-cold stare buffeting me from across the desk.

In the absence of an impassioned speech from me—or any speech, period—Charlotte steals a quick glance at her watch.

“Well, Ms. McIntyre, unfortunately an interest in soccer is something of a prerequisite for this position. So…” It’s my first exposure to the legendary British talent for conflict avoidance wrapped up in passive-aggression.

The subtext is clear: Stop wasting my time, you stupid American.

I gulp, an impossible swallow as my mouth has gone totally dry.

On the plane, I had silently wept over my tinfoil rectangle of chicken tikka masala while watching old rom-coms, which felt like a good decision at the time.

Now I’m realizing I probably should have spared a brain cell or two for interview prep.

My hand shoots up to brush back the light-brown bangs that wilt across my forehead, a new nervous tic that has come with the new hairstyle (another impulsive decision, though slightly less expensive than buying a flight to Liverpool on three days’ notice).

I force a sound from my throat and a thought into my brain.

“I completely understand, Ms. Collins. And I meant what I said: I’ve never really cared about soccer. But then I saw your grass.”

“My grass?” One dark, sculptured, skeptical brow arches.

I nod and scoot an inch forward on my chair.

“The field. It was the first thing I noticed as I arrived. That smell, you know? That unmistakable smell of fresh-cut grass. I stood at the wall, the little part of it there by the main road where it dips down and you can see onto the field. The grass is trampled down to dirt and the bricks have all lost their hard edges, I assume from generations of kids being hoisted up to get a glimpse of their heroes practicing. And I craned my neck over the wall and saw that perfect, meticulous green, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been a sports fan all my life: baseball, basketball, American football, you name it.

But never soccer. And yet, when I saw that beautiful field, I realized something: Grass is grass is grass.

Sports are sports are sports. We love them for what they provoke in us, for the memories they give us, for the fact that something as simple as an aroma can transport you to innumerable places, memories, emotions.

” I exhale a deep breath. “So, yeah, I’ve never really cared about soccer—but I think I might love football. ”

She’s quiet for a moment, then: “Well, that’s a pitch.”

“Thank you.” I blush at the unexpected compliment. Maybe I’m closer to the Netflix movie than I thought.

“No, the field. It’s called a pitch.”

“Oh.” My blush slides from the high pink of flattery into the lurid red of embarrassment. Stupid American! “Okay, noted. I guess that’s step one on my journey to becoming a socc—football expert.”

The tiniest little hint of a smile cracks through Charlotte’s stern facade, but when she looks up at me, it’s gone. She folds her hands on top of my résumé. “Listen, Ms. McIntyre—”

“Abby, please.”

“All right, Abby. I’m going to be honest with you: We’ve had hundreds of people apply for this position. Many of them were young women with no interest at all other than the outside chance they’d be able to land a footballer. Are you trying to become a wag?”

I shake my head, making a mental note to figure out what a “wag” is and hoping I’ve sussed out the context correctly.

“Others applied because they’re diehard fans of Mersey F.C. and would take any position we advertised, from janitor on up. And that’s clearly not you.”

“Plus, I’m objectively terrible at scrubbing toilets.”

This time, she actually smiles. “Your CV is impressive: I like that you have video editing experience, I like that you’re a competent writer.

The Red Sox are obviously a massive team, and I like what you’ve done for their social media presence.

Followers up twenty-five percent over the last two years, a consistent and compelling brand message, even a Webby Award.

All very impressive. And I believe you when you say you’ve loved sport your whole life, but the fact remains that you have never followed this sport. ”

Maybe by cutting off the blood to my feet, the pantsuit is forcing more of it to my brain, because an idea rushes up.

“I actually think that’s an advantage. Social media is the perfect way to bring in the casual fan or the new fan.

I’m both, so I’d approach it with exactly the fresh eyes you’re trying to find and hook. ”

“And the American part? The total ignorance about the sport part?”

“Soccer is the fastest-growing sport in America.” I’m not 100 percent sure that’s true, but it feels right, and who among us hasn’t lied in a job interview?

“Especially in cool, young cities, twenty-somethings are really getting into Major League Soccer, and we’re all totally obsessed with Megan Rapinoe and the women’s national team.

As more and more Americans become interested, they’ll be looking for teams to support—not only their local teams, but legacy teams in England, with storied histories and strong brands.

Manchester United. Arsenal. Why not Mersey? ”

“That’s a fairly compelling point,” she says, like it pains her to admit it.

“You can’t walk down the street in Seattle or Portland or Nashville without seeing someone wearing a socc— football jersey. I can bring the perspective you need to hook them, because I speak their language. I’ve been in their shoes. And I’ve found my team.”

Charlotte shuffles the papers on her desk.

“We’re interviewing a few more candidates and aiming to make a decision soon so the person can ramp up over the next few weeks and hit the ground running when preseason starts in July.

I’d like to give you a shot, but given your lack of knowledge, I need you to prove you can learn quickly.

” She scribbles something on a piece of paper and passes it to me across the desk.

“These are three players Mersey is considering signing before next season.”

I glance at the names:

Aliou Diouf

Xavier Martínez

Lachlan Ramsay

Of course I’ve never heard of any of them, but I make a face like she’s handed me a photo of my beloved college roommates.

“Your assignment is to come up with a distinct campaign to introduce each player that would get existing fans excited about the new signing and bring along fans from their old clubs. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am.” I brush back the bangs again.

“Good. You have two days.”

“Thank you so much, Ms. Collins. You have no idea how much I need this job. Want this job.”

“The good news is that if you don’t get it, you’ve already got a passionate speech ready for the open groundskeeper position.

” There’s no hint of a joke in any of the dignified lines of her face—either she’s got the world’s best deadpan or she’s genuinely going to pass my CV on to the facilities staff. Either way: 3,118 miles from Boston.

After arranging the follow-up interview, Charlotte’s assistant walks me back through the labyrinthine halls of the Mersey F.C.

training complex and out into the sunny parking lot.

No sooner has the door to the building shut behind her than a shiny black Range Rover pulls up and stops a few feet from me.

A man steps out, and it’s immediately clear he’s a professional athlete: He’s tall and toned and wearing an outfit that to the untrained eye looks totally casual but actually costs more than my rent.

He’s pale—a rosy, healthy pale—underneath a shock of dark blond hair.

He looks at me and smiles, and it briefly scrambles my insides, a quick whisk of my viscera.

“Hiya,” he says. “Sorry, I’m a bit early. Matilda, is it?” His accent is…Irish? Scottish? Unbelievably sexy?

“Oh, uh, I’m not…I don’t…” I stammer, scrabbling for mental purchase and coming up short. For all I know, I could be talking to the Babe Ruth of soccer, and here I am just flapping my gums like a guppy. It doesn’t help that he’s almost painfully handsome.

A brief look of confusion flits across his face and he scratches at the scruff of stubble on his jaw—stubble with a perfect little hint of ginger in it. “Do you work here?”

“No. Or, not yet. Maybe one day, but maybe never.”

“What is that, a wee riddle?” He snaps his fingers twice and turns his head. “Don’t tell me: It’s time. Or man. Or a river.”

I laugh as my brain finally shifts into gear. “I’m sorry, we were looking for ‘The doctor was his mother.’ ”

His smile stretches wide across perfect white teeth. “Damn. Never was much good at riddles.” He takes a step toward me and extends his hand. “I’m—”

But before he can introduce himself, a harried-looking young woman—presumably Matilda—bursts out of the door and intercepts him. “So sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Come on in, they’re ready for you.”

As Presumably Matilda ushers him inside, the mystery man looks over his shoulder at me, calling, “Send the fox in the boat with the grain first, then go back for the chicken!”

I watch him walk away and I’m filled with a strange sense of buoyancy, lightness.

It’s a feeling that takes me a minute to identify, but then I realize what it is: excitement.

Optimism. Hope. Not just because I’ve had a positive interaction with a man for the first time in months (perhaps years), but also because this job could really be something.

It all seemed so ridiculous a few days ago when I drafted my cover letter, mascara running down my cheeks, half-empty wine bottle on the desk next to me.

Preposterous as I handed in my resignation to the Red Sox before I’d even heard back about the Mersey interview.

Ludicrous, really, as I forked over $800 and squeezed into my middle seat.

It was just an escape, just a distraction from everything that had happened to ruin my life.

But now? Now I want this job, and not only because it comes complete with handsome, witty men.

(Though I cannot lie: That is a tremendous perk.)

I have a few minutes before I need to catch the bus back into town, so I head over to the bit of wall that will hopefully clinch it for me.

I sling my faux-leather attaché case up on the brick wall and rest my chin on top of it.

A gentle, early summer breeze catches the scent of the newly shorn blades of grass and wafts it toward me.

I feel, deep in my gut, a pang of the most complicated nostalgia.

It’s just as I said to Charlotte Collins: a flood of memories.

Playing catch in the backyard with my brothers, spreading blankets on the banks of the Charles on a hot summer day, holding hands with Steven as I took him to see a Sox game at Fenway for the first time—and now a new one: trading facetious riddle answers with a mystery man in a city that I’ve never been to but that I might soon call home.

The distant sound of a lawnmower shakes me out of my trance and I step back from the wall.

Now is not the time to lose focus. Too much is on the line, and I’ve got work to do.

This job is the cornerstone of my plan to reboot my life.

I take one last deep breath, the grassy scent mixing with the earthy, rusty smell of the bricks.

Then I hike up the pantsuit, brush back the bangs, and head for the bus.