Abby Offsides: A Novel (Thousand Voices)

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Editorial Reviews Review “ Abby Offsides , the witty debut from Anna McCallie, shines with sparkling banter and charming characters. This slow-burn sports romance is absolutely worth the wait. . . . Delightful!” —Carley Fortune, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One Golden Summer “This book made me care about soccer—or football, rather—for the first time since Ted Lasso. A charming debut romance that will make you want to fall in love with someone who has both a great accent and fabulous thigh muscles.” —Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow “Irresistibly charming, Anna McCallie has written characters you’ll want to befriend, a leading man you’d leave your husband for! An addictive, funny love story that’s the sweet escapism we all need in our lives right now.” —Fran Littlewood, New York Times bestselling author of Amazing Grace Adams “A big-hearted story about finding love and community in unexpected places . . . A character filled with longing, laughs and a little healthy competition, Abby is as funny and relatable as the novel itself. I found myself rooting for Abby, Lachlan and Mersey Football Club from the opening chapter of this sparklingly life-affirming debut.” —Ella Berman, author of Before We Were Innocent and L.A. Women About the Author Anna McCallie was born in Boston and moved to the small town of Stilwell, Kansas, as a child. She has a B.A. in Arabic from Harvard University and an M.A. in international environmental policy from the Fletcher School, yet has never managed to have a job related to either of those subjects. She lives in London, and when she’s not writing, she can be found solving crossword puzzles, badgering her friends to go to pub quizzes, and watching a tremendous amount of football. Abby Offsides is her first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 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. I can’t tell her the real answer to her question: I’m interested in working here because the club, in Liverpool, is 3,118 miles away from Boston and Steven and misery and heartbreak and the Dunkin’ Donuts where I have recently achieved the ignominy of being on a first-­name basis with the cashiers. No. This isn’t a Netflix movie where the heroine makes a passionate but slightly unhinged confession and the older, wiser woman across the desk raises an eyebrow and then, after an excruciating pause, says something like “Honey, I’ve been there” and pulls out a bottle of Malbec. I mean, Charlotte Collins will certainly be driven to drink after this train wreck, but I’ll be gone by then, slipping onto the next flight back to America with a hat pulled low over my face. 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?”

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Is Abby Offsides: A Novel (Thousand Voices) appropriate for my child?

Suitable for most readers 16 and up.

Romantic comedy about an American woman fleeing heartbreak who takes a job with an English soccer team. Contains mild language and romantic tension but no explicit content.