“No shit. I meant what he’s doing here, at the match.”
They were the first words we’d exchanged all day. We’d greeted each other with stiff nods in the locker room, and I suppose I had to thank him later for agreeing to play at the last minute. However, I preferred to live in denial about that for as long as possible.
Was it mature? No.
Did I care? Also no.
I didn’t have an answer for why Rafael was in London when he lived in Brazil and played in Spain, but one of the other Reds piped up with an explanation.
“I heard he’s thinking of transferring back to the Premier League. Maybe he heard about the match and wanted to participate,” he said.
A low growl rumbled through my chest.
I’d never been a big fan of Rafael, but after Scarlett told me about the shitty, cowardly way he broke up with her, I despised that man with every fucking fiber of my being.
Judging by Vincent’s scowl, he felt the same way. He regarded the Brazilian forward with more loathing than he’d ever directed toward me.
The match resumed, cutting our conversation short, but a new tension suffocated the pitch. The first half had been for fun; this half was for vengeance.
I didn’t want to win against the Greens. I wanted to crush them.
Unfortunately, despite his assholishness in his personal life, Rafael was a good player, and he managed to score with a header ten minutes into the half.
Frustration poured through my blood.
Rafael and I matched each other step for step for possession of the ball. I triumphed after I successfully kicked the ball away from him and caught it before another player could swoop in, but I barely had time to gloat before he fell to the ground, clutching his knee.
The ref blew his whistle, and the match paused. Boos rose from crowd.
“He tripped me,” Rafael said when the ref came over to investigate. He gestured toward me, his eyes gleaming with…were those tears?
Jesus Christ. He should quit football and go into acting.
“That’s bollocks. I didn’t touch him!” I fumed.
Vincent came up beside us. “Ref, you saw that play! We all did,” he argued. He pointed at Rafael. “He always pulls this crap. Like Donovan said, he didn’t touch him.”
Either he wanted to win enough to swallow his distaste and defend me, or he simply hated Rafael more than he hated me. Or both.
I cut a glance in his direction.
It was ironic Vincent was backing me up on this when he’d done the same thing as Rafael during the World Cup. In fact, what he did had been a million times worse. The difference between getting red carded in the World Cup and giving the opposing team a penalty kick during a charity match was the difference between Mount Everest and a molehill.
However, Rafael had a history of diving, a.k.a falling to the ground and/or feigning injury in order to draw a foul. Vincent only did it once-on the biggest stage possible with the worst consequences for me imaginable, but it was still once.
Sadly, our combined efforts weren’t enough to convince the ref. He awarded the Greens another penalty kick. They’d missed their last one, but this time, Rafael kicked the ball firmly into the net.
The Greens were now up, three to two.
I clenched my jaw.
Goddammit.
It was a charity match, but the stakes felt as high as those of a championship. I refused to let Rafael bloody Pessoa take home a win. The mere thought caused bile to rise in my throat.
Even if he hadn’t screwed Scarlett over, I would’ve hated him. Maybe it was my lingering bitterness from the World Cup, but I firmly believed that any player who engaged in regular diving didn’t deserve a place on the pitch.
“Tough luck,” Rafael said the next time we were close enough for him to shit talk without anyone else hearing. “Guess the golden boy of football isn’t so golden anymore. Can’t wait to follow Holchester’s footsteps and kick your and DuBois’s asses.”
I shouldn’t take the bait. Players trash talked each other all the time, and I was usually pretty good at letting their taunts roll off my back.
However, my frustration over the direction of the match and the ref’s earlier calls had already reached a furious simmer. The mention of Holchester turned it into a full boil.
I might still have been able to contain it had I not glanced at the crowd and seen Scarlett in that moment. Her worried expression blended with the image of her face when she shared what’d happened with Rafael. How forlorn she’d seemed and how sad she’d sounded. She said their breakup turned out for the best, but no one liked being abandoned when they were at their lowest.
I pictured her lying in bed and in pain while he ditched her to date someone else.
I imagined how heartbroken she must’ve felt.
And I snapped.
Red crept into my vision. Anger burned reason into ash, and instead of brushing off Rafael’s taunt, I turned and shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.
At that moment, we weren’t playing a match. We were fighting for real, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug smirk off his face.
A collective gasp reverberated through the stadium.
Rafael recovered and spat out something in Portuguese. He shoved me back. Vincent grabbed the back of my shirt to prevent me from punching him, but when Rafael issued another taunt that I couldn’t hear, he let out a growl and released me.
Vincent swung for him and would’ve made contact had another Green not stepped in at the last minute. The rest of our teams jumped in, blinded by their temporary loyalty to their colors. From there, it devolved into a dirty, all-out brawl.
The crowd’s shouts thundered across the pitch, drowning out a flurry of swear words and threats.
“What is your problem?” Rafael shouted.
“My problem is you.” I had more choice words for him, none of which were appropriate for the venue, but before I could unload on him, a shrill, prolonged whistle cut through the chaos.
“Enough!” The ref shoved his way into the middle of the brawl. He’d been trying to get us under control for the past two minutes, and he’d clearly had enough.
The man’s face matched the color of my kit as he glared at us, his shoulders quivering with outrage.
“This is a charity match for kids,” he hissed. “I don’t care who you are or what bad blood you have. This is a bloody disgrace. Look at them! Do you think you’re setting a good example for them right now?”
I followed his finger to where a group of kids sat in the front row. They ranged from maybe six to thirteen in age, but they all wore matching Sport for Hope T-shirts and round-mouthed expressions of shock.
Shame snuffed out the hostility faster than rain over fire.
My blood pumped with the dregs of fury, but the reminder of the children’s presence and why I was doing this-for the kids, yes, but also for Teddy’s memory-chastised me enough to step back from Rafael.
The other players hung their heads, equally abashed.
It wasn’t a regulation match so the ref couldn’t red card us, but he awarded the Greens yet another penalty kick since I was the one who made first contact.
Once again, they scored. They were now up four to two.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.