Rivalry. A phenomenon as old as time. Rivalry doesn't equal opposition, it doesn't equal jealousy. Rivalry is a certain, almost indescribable type of antagonism.

You can take a look at history. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. A dispute that had been going on for more than twenty-five years and ultimately lead to a mortal wound in Hamilton's stomach.

Michelangelo and Baglione. Rome, a city of immense culture, is marked by both of their talent, but also of their vendetta.
In a city where the sun seems to be kissing the beige stone goodnight, accusations of plagiarism were made.
These lead to petty caricatures and series of vulgar poems shading one another, like a early Baroque version of a diss track. Michaelangelo making the suggestion that Baglione can use his art as toilet paper would definitely have gotten some views on YouTube.
They even managed to get the law involved and Michaelangelo had to spend numerous days in jail. Therefore not even art is safe from the viciousness that is rivalry.

Rivalry in fiction often has an easy streak. It's the Joker and Batman, fighting against each other. For a consumer it is easy, the Joker is the bad guy and Batman is the hero of Gotham City.

Real life doesn't work that way.

Every party considers themselves to be on the good side.

Toral Mistry always had tried to look at conflicts in a differentiated way, even at the ones she was personally tangled up in.

Her grandmother had been born in Muzaffarabad, the capital of Kashmir. A region shaped by conflict. An area that is contested by the Pakistani and the Indians.

Her grandmother had left the region on the foot of the Himalaya when she had been twelve and had moved to the Punjab region, where she had met and fallen in love with Toral's grandfather.

Maybe the estrangement with the homeland was the reason for Toral not being incredibly passionate about the topic. Sure, Toral enjoyed being political and cared deeply for her grandmother's opinion, but she was able to constructively look at both sides of the story.

In almost every debate Toral had tried to be objective and impartial.

There was only one thing that made her heart beat faster and refuse to think before she talked.

Football, and not the American kind.

There was nothing so constant in her life than her love for football. It was vital. She felt like she was playing football since forever. Her older brother Jaspal had taken her onto the pitch when she had barely learnt how to walk. She was so used to wear the claret and blue shirt of Aston Villa that she had even considered marrying in it.

Her mother, however, resented that idea completely. Although having lived in Birmingham for about thirty years, the Punjabi woman couldn't really let go of all traditions. Her mother probably would have let her do it, Toral is an adult after all, but Toral didn't have the intention to hurt her mother – let alone to marry in the near future.

As calming and comforting the colour of the shirt of Aston Villa was, the royal blue Birmingham City had been wearing for over one hundred years that let her experience this feeling of indignation.

Of course, Toral loved being part of a Second City Derby. She loved the atmosphere. It felt like thousand of little bees would sting her, but instead of pain, she was experiencing euphoria. In the masses of people one was hyped up, one was on narcotics of mass hysteria.

Even so, when she was sitting on the wooden bench, looking down to the pitch. She had just finished a long jog and now was watching the men practice.

It was the second year she had been attending Birmingham University. The first thing she had done when she had enrolled into the uni, was sign up to the football team and she had been a good solid midfielder for them.

Toral was wearing the shirt of her team, so were all the men on the pitch. All but one.

There was one in particular who liked to swim against the stream, who mostly actually conducted the stream.

He was proudly standing there, his chest out, his chin raised, his eyes fixed on the ball. The royal blue of his shirt made him stand out. The back of his shirt read: Carton, 9.
Undoubtedly, he was the star of the team, how else did he get away with wearing a Birmingham City shirt for practice.

Toral knew him. Maybe she knew him a bit too well. When she had moved into her flat with several other students, he had turned out to be her next door neighbor.
So far Toral had concluded that he liked three things: Birmingham City, St Patrick's Sloe & Honey Potato Gin, and women.

The American frat guy wasn't a phenomenon in the United Kingdom, but Toral considered him to be a British lad, which came very close.

They were incredibly loud and rude. Colette had tried to reason with the multiple times, but they had turned her down. This had only infuriated Toral more. Dear precious Colette, with her long brown braided hair and wild freckles on her tan skin, was basically the reincarnation of Mother Teresa. How dare they just completely overlook a saint?

Number 9 kicked the ball with his new Adidas shoe.

Adidas. Puma. Adi and Rudi Dassler, another set of rivalry. The rift between the brothers was so extreme that it managed to part their family, business and hometown.

"Are you admiring your boyfriend?" Toral heard a voice next to her.

"Hi, Sutton," she said and looked over at one of her roommate.

Sutton dropped his messenger bag next to her and sat down. He gave Toral a friendly smile, his dark brown eyes were looking at her calmly.
"So?" he said. "Why are you not coming home and instead looking at them play?"

"You always learn by looking at others play," she retorted. "And I mean, someone has got to stalk our neighbors, they are always up to something and El already has about thousands of conspiracy theories as to who they really are."

Sutton's long dark blonde hair was falling down his shoulders elegantly. "You are not doing this for Eleanor," he replied. "You want to see Carton play."

"No," she said. "I mean yes. I do, but not because I have the undying wish to end up between his sheets like all those girls we meet in the hallway. I've seen their faces, guilt and regret is written over it. No thank you, I'll pass on that one. Though I really want to challenge him to a match sometime in the future."

"Okay, so you want to win a match against him," Sutton concluded. "That's all? I'm not the type to hook up with people randomly, but honestly I wouldn't care waking up between his sheets."

"He has a monobrow, Sutton,"she replied.

Sutton laughed. "Come on! Give that guy a chance. He has occasionally hair on his glabella, we all do."

"Even if he didn't have a monobrow, I can think of plenty more people I would prefer over him," she told him, emphasising the last word.

Sutton laughed again, shaking his head, "Fine, whatever you say," he replied, holding up his hands in defence.

The whistle blew, and Toral watched as the men disbanded, walking to the edge of the pitch in smaller groups. Carton seemed to have noticed Toral watching them play, and it almost appeared as if he winked at her, although she disliked the thought of that possibility. Clearly her eyes were deceiving her.

Sutton was glancing at Toral as this happened, a small curiosity resting on his face. After a short pause, he stood up, picking up his messenger bag from next to her. He stretched a hand out towards her. "Come on, let's head home," he said, smiling.