Chapter 1

: Andi

E very interaction with my ex-husband is an opportunity to practice my poker face. Two years of marriage plus four years of divorce is a lot of time to hone this skill, not to mention the 32 years that came before that. It doesn’t matter that we’re on the phone and he can’t see my reaction. I stop packing my suitcase and turn to the mirror to verify my eyelid is not twitching.

Still as stone.

My blue eyes stare back. Not a single dirty blonde hair on my head moves.

Perfect.

“Andi, are you sure you want to do this? You can always back out. I’m sure Nathan will understand.”

I’m tempted to blink in an attempt to decipher his true message, but I don’t even let myself have that tell. I know what he’s saying.

Quit.

Back out.

Back down.

It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

That would probably explain why he’s my ex- husband. FYI, they don’t let you list blind ignorance and weaponized incompetence as reasons for divorce, at least not in Massachusetts.

But they totally should.

Lucky for me I got to list adultery. But that’s not the point.

After all this time, Mike should know the best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t. I mean, he was the one who said, “It’s not like you’re ever going to leave me.”

Some people are just slow learners, I guess.

Because, while I may seem passive and quiet, that’s only on the exterior. I will die before I back down, especially when it’s important.

Like now.

I’ve worked the last 15 years to get to this point. No way in hell I’m letting this slip through my fingers. I don’t care what a logistical nightmare it’s created for me. I don’t care that it’s the worst-case scenario. I don’t care that Mike thinks I should back out.

But I do want to know why Mike thinks I should.

“That’s an interesting option. Why should I consider it?” He’s likely to explain more when he thinks I’m actually looking for his advice. This is yet another time when I wish I didn’t work with my ex so I could leave him in the past like most people do when they divorce.

“Oh, you know what these two teams can be like.”

I don’t even need to look at the text from our manager, Nathan Forget, to know what game I’ve been asked to officiate.

Boston Buzzards vs. Baltimore Terrors.

It’s the big time.

The big time.

I’ve been dreaming about this day for years.

That’s right, an official USSL game. To be more specific, the MUSSL. Men’s United States Soccer League . Not to be confused with the WUSSL, which is the Women’s version of the league.

Except, as is true in our society, men are the default, so when people refer to the USSL, they’re generally talking about the men’s teams. But they always make sure to call the female side the WUSSL, probably because of the resemblance to the word wuss.

Chauvinists.

Obviously, there were no women on the planning board when acronyms were being discussed. Hell, I don’t think there are any women on the board even now.

Anyway, I’ve been a ref for the WUSSL for the past seven years, with over 70 games under my belt with me as the head official, and at least double that me working as other staff. I’ve been an alternate and an assistant in numerous men’s games. This is the first time I will be the head ref in a men’s game. In fact, this is the first time for any regular season play in the MUSSL that a woman will be in charge.

To quote Lizzo, it’s about damn time .

About 15 years ago it looked as if the MUSSL was changing its boys’ club ways when Tara Roberts officiated an exhibition match. It was a one-and-done though, and no female has been the head ref since. I don’t know if something happened, or if the board thought it was enough to check a box so the womenfolk were happy.

I’ve earned my spot. No box-checking for me. I’ve passed all the fitness tests, reporting to the training facility in Atlanta three times a year to participate in the three-day camps where they put us through our paces. My outcomes aren’t based on my gender. I’m as fast with just as much endurance and fitness as my male counterparts.

My ex-husband, whom I met at one of those camps by the way, likes to overlook this. It irritates him that we’re still competing for the same jobs. That I didn’t go away after our divorce.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to get my feet wet sometime. At least you’ll be there to back me up as my assistant.”

Okay, I probably didn’t need to needle him that way, but it was a softball lobbed in my direction. This time, I let my mouth slide into a smirk. He can’t see it anyway, and it’s not like he’s ever been adept at reading my tone of voice.

“Do you know why Nate asked you?”

Okay, maybe he did get the jab. Or maybe not. I could read this in a multitude of ways. Is Mike asking why he didn’t get promoted to head ref and slide me in as assistant? Is he asking why there is an opening to begin with?

I do know why there’s a last-minute vacancy. A large portion of the male staff of the USSLRA—United States Soccer League Referee Association—is heading over to Paris for the Global Games. This is the last regular season game before the world tournament starts in three days. Calvin Memment, who was scheduled for this game, decided to fly to Paris a few days early to get some sightseeing in before the chaos of the games starts. There are no men’s games scheduled for the rest of July.

It left an opening, and Nathan thought I’d be the best candidate to fill it. I’m sure that’s not what Mike wants to hear. Considering we have to work together tomorrow, I simply respond, “I don’t know.”

It’s better to pretend to be ignorant than to have to deal with his fragile bruised ego. Speaking up for myself has never yielded positive results.

Even as I talk to Mike, I’m wading through the logistical nightmare of changing flights and booking new ones, as well as finding hotels and transportation on short notice. Though I live right outside of Boston, I just did a Wednesday night game in Louisville, Kentucky, which is where I am currently. Now I’ve got to hightail it to Baltimore for a Saturday noon game instead of going home. I had planned to get a fair amount of work done today for my day job, not to mention my workouts. It’ll be challenging with the travel and game prep. It means a few long days so I can meet my work deadlines as well as referee. But there’s no way in hell I’m turning down this opportunity.

My celebratory happy dance was not only cut short by the phone call from my ex-husband but also by processing the teams I’ll be officiating. I have worked games with both of these teams, and I hate them both equally. The Terrors play super dirty. It wouldn’t surprise me if there is mass corruption within the organization. The head coach, Ted Masters, is a douche, but he’s a walk in the park as compared to Baltimore Terrors owner Vinny Camacho. Vinny’s like a character from a mob movie, complete with greasy hair and pinky rings.

And then there are the Boston Buzzards.

Overall, they aren’t a bad team to officiate for.

With the exception of Brandon Nix.

His reputation precedes him in the league. He’s amassed enough penalty cards to wallpaper a room. While the majority of his game expulsions are due to getting two yellow cards in one game rather than committing a major offense to draw a red card, he’s still missed three games so far this season due to expulsion. Considering we’re only about halfway through the 40-game season, that’s a high percentage.

He really needs to learn how to check himself before he wrecks himself.

Long story short, any game with him is bound to be difficult. He’s sure to challenge call after call, and then his legions of fans, “Nixens,” can get equally as rambunctious and raucous.

Let’s put it this way, if my car is going to get egged or keyed after a game in retribution, I’d bet the fan was wearing a jersey with Brandon Nix’s name and number on it.

It doesn’t matter though. It’ll be worth it.

I, Andrea Lynn Nichols, will be the very first woman to officiate a regular season MUSSL match. I’ll be in the history books. I’ll prove that I’m just as good, if not better than a male ref. And despite what some may say, not having a penis will not impact my ability to call a good, fair soccer game.

Hate is a very strong word. Sure, I’ve used it in the past, but I’m not sure I’ve actually meant it. I hate the cold. I hate it when people are late. I hate raisins, especially when they are masquerading in cookies as chocolate chips.

Okay, the last one might be true.

But until this very moment, I’ve never truly understood the depths and visceral power of hate. For the first time in my 38 years of life, I can honestly say I understand what hate is.

Because I hate this man standing in front of me. I hate Brandon Nix.

I hold my ground, my feet firmly planted shoulder-width apart. My arm, ramrod straight, holds the red plastic rectangle in the air for the entire stadium to see. The roar of the crowd is deafening, but I barely process it. I’m trying to keep my chin held high and my gaze unwavering. It’s difficult with Brandon Nix mere inches from my face, screaming at me. He’s been on this tirade for a solid two minutes. The things he’s saying are not exactly kind.

His brown eyes blaze, his sweat-drenched hair bobs in a stupid man bun on the top of his head. I can feel his hot breath and spit dance across my face. It takes everything I have not to wipe it off in disgust. He’s practically pounding his chest like the ape he is.

“Are you blind? He’s been up my fucking ass all game.”

My poker face doesn’t move. My hand stays high in the air.

Brandon Nix keeps yelling, now his hands go to his hips. I’ve watched enough nature documentaries to know this is typical male posturing to make him seem bigger. We’re practically nose to nose.

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

I just need him to take a step—or ten—back.

Though I want to knee him in the ’nads, I don’t move a muscle. I’m not lowering my hand until he stops screaming in my face.

The goalie, CC Campbell, finally pulls Brandon back. I continue on with standard procedure, documenting the player’s name, foul, and time of foul. I repeat the information into my headset and am ready to move on with game play.

Without Brandon Nix.

It’s not my fault this is his second yellow card during the game. In soccer, yellow cards are cautions for offenses that are larger than a minor foul but not serious. When a player receives two yellow cards, it equates to a red. Soccer math. I didn’t make the rules; I strictly enforce them.

Red cards are used for serious misconduct and discipline. For egregious offenses, they may result in suspension over multiple games. At a minimum, the player cannot start the next game. And the most damaging impact is the player is not replaced with a substitute for the remainder of this one, leaving his teammates shorthanded. It can be a long second half when a player gets sent off early in the game.

Brandon Nix should have considered that before he kicked Trevyon Wallis-Smalls while they were both attempting to play the ball. Hell, that kick would have been a red card all on its own.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I immediately shrug, jerking it off. It’s also a high offense to touch a referee. I turn, ready to issue another red card only to see Mike.

He puts his hand over his mic and leans in. “Are you okay? Do you need to leave? I can step in.”

I forget my stoic face for a moment as my brows raise in surprise. “What? Why? No.”

I turn around, shaking my head, and position the ball for the indirect penalty kick that will start the game back up.

I cannot believe my ex-husband thinks a blowhard like Brandon Nix is enough to shake me. I may hate the way he plays soccer, and I hate the way he conducts himself as a player even more. But to step down simply because Brandon Nix got in my face and questioned my call?

That’s ridiculous.