Game Time

by Kate Christie

  How was it already time to go home? It seemed like she’d only just arrived at LAX to find that Jamie had been on her flight all along.

  They exchanged a look, and Jamie gestured awkwardly at the nearby gate. “I guess that’s you.”

  What could she say? That she would rather forego her usual flight protocol to keep talking with Jamie until the last possible moment? Because that was the truth. Now that the time had nearly come to say goodbye, she was beginning to realize how used she’d gotten to seeing Jamie every day. How much she was going to miss—nope. Not going there.

  “See you on there?” she asked, reaching for her bag.

  “Right.” Jamie offered her a small smile. “See you, Emma.”

  She didn’t look back as she joined the small line near the desk and followed a harried-looking woman with two small children onto the plane. Once on board, she stowed her carry-on and arranged herself in the window seat. Only instead of shutting out the rest of the world as she normally did, she kept an eye on the cabin door, watching people file past as the plane loaded. A pair of teenaged girls stared at her, elbowing each other, and she knew she’d been made. But she continued to face forward until, at last, a familiar head ducked through the door.

  Jamie smiled at the effeminate male flight attendant who was greeting passengers, and Emma was unsurprised when he smiled back in that knowing way gay men and lesbians reserve for each other. She had witnessed similar exchanges many times, though she’d only rarely been the recipient of such a look. Jamie turned down the aisle, smile fading as she appeared to search the handful of rows between them. When her gaze fell on Emma, she nodded and Emma returned the gesture.

  “Hey,” Jamie said as she passed, smiling a little as if to say, Here we are again.

  “Hey,” Emma echoed. But she didn’t smile as Jamie barely hesitated before walking past. That was it. They wouldn’t see each other again until next month. They had compared itineraries at breakfast, and she knew that Jamie would have to run once they got to Seattle. Her brief layover would only allow time for a brief goodbye. Which, probably, was just as well given that Emma’s thoughts were threatening to cross into the non-friendship territory.

  She blamed the Premier League. If she hadn’t started watching EPL games in Ellie and Jamie’s room, she might never have begun to find herself remembering how Jamie’s voice sounded first thing in the morning, all rough and sweet. Or the way she kicked her covers off before she got out of bed, as if their constrictive presence was the most irritating thing in the world. Or the way she squeaked like a puppy when she stretched, eyes shut adorably against the sunlight pouring into the room.

  Emma settled back into her seat, pulling on her headphones and closing her eyes against the images flooding her mind. Maybe this break away from the team would be good. Maybe she would come back in January miraculously cured of inappropriate thoughts, the kind she couldn’t afford to have toward someone who might well end up as her teammate for the World Cup. Sure. Because the next three and a half weeks were likely to undo what ten years apparently hadn’t. She turned her music up, wishing she was already home by herself instead of preparing to spend two plus hours on an airplane trying to ignore the fact that Jamie Maxwell was sitting somewhere behind her just out of reach.

  Take-off went without incident due no doubt to her habitual appeal to any and all supernatural and/or deistic powers that might be in listening range. She didn’t hate flying. She hated the take-off and landing parts, that was all.

  Once they were in the air, she finally started to relax. The crew had just begun the beverage service when she felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up into the smiling gaze of the flaming flight attendant. He waited for her to pause her music and pull off her headphones before asking, “Is that your friend sitting in economy?” And he pointed toward the rear compartment where the curtain had been pulled back for the beverage cart to pass.

  Emma undid her seatbelt and half-rose, glancing over her seat-back to see Jamie seated on the aisle a dozen rows back. Jamie looked up, caught them eying her, and gave a quick if somewhat surprised wave. Emma waved back and nodded up at the flight attendant as she took her seat again. Tom, his nametag read.

  “Would you like her to sit with you?” he asked. “I noticed you were together at the gate, and since the seat next to you is open…”

  “Oh,” Emma said, thinking quickly. The smart thing would be to say no. But Jamie obviously knew they were talking about her, and the flight only lasted a couple of hours. What could go wrong?

  Tom’s knowing smile had started to slip by the time she nodded up at him and said, “That would be nice.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t have to…”

  “No, I’d love the company,” she said quickly. Perhaps a bit too quickly because his former sly smirk returned in full force.

  “I thought so,” he said, and winked at her as he sashayed away.

  Oh, god, even strangers could see it. The only thing she could hope for was that Jamie would be as clueless as she always had been. But what were the odds, really?

  She craned her head around, peering through the gap in the seats as Tom stopped beside Jamie’s seat. The two talked briefly and Jamie frowned. Was she going to refuse? That possibility had not occurred to Emma. And even though that outcome would be, you know, for the best or whatever, she couldn’t help the way her stomach clenched at the thought. But then Jamie was nodding and Tom was pulling her carry-on from the overhead bin and escorting her up to Emma’s row. This would be fine. Or maybe it wouldn’t, but either way it would be over in a couple of hours.

  Dani was never going to believe the upgrade to business class wasn’t her idea. Or Maddie, for that matter. Then again, they didn’t actually need to know, did they?

  “Hey.” Jamie stopped at her row, brow slightly furrowed. “Are you okay with this? Or would you rather be alone?”

  “No,” she said. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  Tom helped Jamie stow her bag before she slid into the empty aisle seat beside Emma. Then he gave them another smile and left them to sit silently for a moment, both of them staring straight ahead.

  “I’ve never flown first class before,” Jamie confessed after a minute, her fingers on the seat belt that she had fastened as soon as she was seated. “I guess every once in a while there are perks for being queer, huh?”

  Emma gnawed on a loose cuticle. “I guess so.”

  She knew she was probably giving off crazy chick vibes—yes, stay and no, don’t—but she didn’t have the energy to fight both her fear—wariness, really—of flying and her dread of doing or saying the wrong thing with Jamie. She had resigned herself to the idea of a Jamie-less flight only to now have her so damned close all of a sudden, their thighs almost touching despite the roomy seats. It was as if anytime they came near each other, some sort of magnetic tracking system activated and Emma found herself drifting even closer, unaware she had done so until far too late.

  Beside her, Jamie rubbed the tops of her legs nervously. “Are you sure this is okay? Honestly, I don’t mind going back to my seat.”

  “No, don’t. I want you to stay.” Some part of her brain decided that touching Jamie’s arm would be appropriate. Her hand lingered, again without her conscious consent, and then she pulled it away quickly as she registered the heat rising from her seatmate’s body.

  “Oh. Well, okay, then.” Jamie lowered her head, toying with the buckle on the seatbelt again.

  Emma clasped her hands in her lap. Great—only two hours to kill before they were on the ground. Not that anyone was going to be killed on this airplane that was currently defying gravity by flying miles and miles above the earth’s surface.

  “As long as I’m here,” Jamie said, tucking one leg under her so that she could turn sideways, “can I ask you something?”

  She hoped her abrupt intake of breath wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Um, sure?”

  “I was kind of hoping to get you
r perspective on the whole NWSL thing.”

  Soccer. She wanted to talk about soccer. Whew. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “I guess I’m wondering if you think being back in the States would make that much of a difference.”

  “You mean for your chances at making the roster?” When Jamie nodded, Emma hesitated, wondering if she could be even remotely objective about the possibility of Jamie moving back. “Did Melanie say it would?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then yeah, I think you should listen to her. The coaching staff have scouts at most league games. Not only are they keeping an eye on existing players but they’re also watching out for new talent. That’s how Steph made the pool—she wasn’t on anyone’s radar until the WPS launched.”

  “That’s what Ellie said, too.”

  Good to know. Apparently she could do objective.

  “Besides,” she added, “as a major investor in the NWSL, the federation can call us up at any point and the teams have to comply. That makes players here more attractive than those playing for European clubs that might have a vested interest in preventing an American from joining the national team.”

  Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Do you think Arsenal will let you out of your contract?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s still a lot to work out.”

  And yet, she was obviously leaning toward coming home. She was a West Coast native, and the NWSL liked to keep players close to their hometowns or where they went to college, which for Jamie was one and the same. Was there any chance she could end up in Seattle? Emma rejected the idea almost immediately. Portland was closer to the Bay Area. Wait—Portland.

  “That’s what you and Ellie were talking about on the van, isn’t it? Where you would play?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Ellie thinks the Thorns might be interested in me.”

  Who wouldn’t be interested in her? Fortunately, Emma didn’t say that out loud. There would be no recovering from that particular double entendre.

  Tom paused beside them, cocktail napkins in hand. “Hello again, ladies. Can I bring you a drink?”

  Alcohol was definitely a bad idea. And yet her brain must have decided otherwise because Emma’s mouth opened and she heard what was undoubtedly her own voice enquire, “Do you have mimosas?”

  “We do,” he said, clearly approving the choice. “Back in a jiffy!”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Jamie nudged her. “Mimosas?”

  “It’s your first time flying business class,” she reasoned. “Besides, you had an amazing residency camp and got yourself invited back. We definitely have to drink to that.”

  Jamie smiled, shaking her head. “It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s very amazing. I’m really happy for you. I know how hard you’ve worked to get back into the pool. You deserve this, Jamie.”

  “Thanks, Em,” she said softly. “That means a lot.”

  Tom returned, interrupting the moment to place glass champagne flutes on their seat-back trays with an exaggerated wink.

  “To kicking ass and making January camp,” Emma said, lifting her glass.

  “And to hanging out with old friends,” Jamie added.

  They clinked the flutes together and sipped, eyes on each other. As they drank, it occurred to Emma that simply sitting together on a plane was probably not the antithesis of being good. But sharing sentimental toasts and long gazes over champagne? Bad. Definitely bad.

  “So Portland, huh?” she asked, trying to reel their interaction back to the professional side. They were colleagues, after all. Or they might be one day soon. “That would be a big move.”

  Jamie nodded. “Huge.”

  Something in her tone alerted Emma. “Do you not want to come back to the States?”

  “That’s not it. I mean, I love England. The WSL has given me the pro career I always wanted. But for a shot at a World Cup?” She shook her head. “It should be a no brainer.”

  “Somehow it isn’t, though.”

  “No. I don’t know. We’re midway through Champions League and I still have a year left on my contract. I don’t want to bail on my friends, you know?”

  “They’re professionals, too. They’ll understand this is business, not personal. Won’t they be happy for you?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not so sure my girlfriend will,” she admitted, looking down at the champagne flute.

  Emma stared at her. “You mean you haven’t told her yet?”

  Jamie flinched as if she had suddenly realized she had told someone who might or might not qualify as an ex about a potentially life-altering choice before telling her current girlfriend. “I thought about it last night, but I didn’t want to tell her over the phone.”

  “Right. No, of course not.”

  Emma released a slow breath. She had nothing to add to this conversational offshoot that wouldn’t be self-serving, so she glanced out the window and peered through the clouds to the flashes of green and brown earth below. They should be nearing the Bay Area soon, not that they would fly directly over. But somewhere down there were Jamie’s parents. Did they know she was thinking of coming home, or were Ellie and Emma really the only people who had any idea of the enormity of the decision she was facing?

  They finished their drinks in silence, both shaking their heads when Tom offered to top off their glasses. The bubbly was making Emma’s thoughts skitter about even worse than Jamie’s proximity. She pulled an energy bar from her bag, holding up an extra questioningly.

  “Protein boost?”

  “Hell yeah,” Jamie said, tearing open the wrapper. “Thanks. After all the two-a-days, I feel like I’m permanently hungry.”

  “I know, it’s like college pre-season all over again. Only without the heat and humidity, thank god.”

  The conversation shifted to safer topics then—college experiences, favorite foods to binge on in season, and finally, Jamie’s recent cooking lessons. Her face flushed either from the alcohol or enthusiasm or possibly both, she described the community kitchen where she’d volunteered her time and, in turn, learned the art of English cookery.

  “I don’t know,” Emma interjected. “I’ve had British food. I’m not sure the word art applies.”

  Jamie slapped her arm lightly, actually giggling. Must be the champagne, Emma decided, feeling her own semi-permanent smile creasing her face. She tried to focus as Jamie returned to the topic of community kitchens, essentially restaurants that serve anyone and everyone regardless of ability to pay.

  “The one I go to has a motto: ‘A hand up, not a hand out.’ The volunteers range from professional chefs who donate a little bit of food and time each month, to pensioners who are in there every day.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Emma said. “I wonder if Seattle has any.”

  “Probably. I know Berkeley does.”

  “Aw, I love Berkeley. Are your parents still in the same house?”

  Jamie nodded. “I think they’re afraid to downsize in case I need to move back in.” She sighed. “Sometimes I think I should have gotten a job in my major.”

  “Which was?” Emma asked, pretending she hadn’t been stalking Jamie online since college.

  “Design.”

  “With a minor in Queer Studies.”

  “Right.”

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” Emma said truthfully.

  “I’m not. Not like my mom, anyway. Illustrator is my medium of choice. I’m more of a techie like my dad.”

  Emma rested her hand on her chin. “I don’t think I would have predicted a tech career for you.”

  Jamie’s head tilted. “No? What would you have predicted?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe sports psychology.”

  “I thought about it but decided I could always go that route later in life.” She paused. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

  Emma tried not to smile too widely at that, but it was a losing battle—li
ke most contests that involved Jamie. Instead she changed the subject. “Want to guess what I majored in?”

  “Non-profit management with a minor in public relations.” As Emma’s eyebrows rose, Jamie grinned. “You’re an American hero. There’s not much about you that isn’t available at the click of a button.”

  “And?” Emma asked. “Is that what you would have predicted for me?”

  “Honestly?” Jamie leaned closer, the magnetic force apparently influencing her, too. “It is.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.”

  “Good, definitely.”

  Emma hummed a little. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”

  “Because you’re exactly who you seem to be on the surface.” Jamie’s voice was soft again, and Emma leaned even closer to hear her. “You’re a good person, Emma. You always have been.”

  “How do you know all of this—” her wave was meant to encompass business class, the national team, her various endorsements—“hasn’t changed me?”

  “I just do.”

  Her eyes dropped to Jamie’s lips, and she found herself wondering if they would taste more like chocolate energy bar or mimosa. Then she blinked, realizing where her champagne-befuddled brain had taken her. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

  “Where’s the nearest restroom?” Jamie asked, looking away as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “I need to pee.”

  “Up front. I have to go, too.” As Jamie glanced back at her, eyes wide, Emma added quickly, “I didn’t mean—I meant after you.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll be right back.” And she practically jogged away.

  While she was gone, Tom stopped by to retrieve their glasses and smile conspiratorially at Emma. “You two are adorable together.”

  She thought about telling him they weren’t together together, but instead she allowed herself a giddy moment to imagine what it would be like.

  “Thanks,” she said, and then shook her head at the both of them as he winked again and moved away.

  Once she was on her own, though, the champagne haze started to fade and guilt began to intrude. She made herself picture Clare, Jamie’s actual girlfriend, a cute, blonde Brit who worked with kids. She was a real person who didn’t deserve to have Emma flirting with her girlfriend. Fortunately, flirting was as far as things could go, seeing as they were on an airplane surrounded by other people. If you ignored the fact that Jamie had apparently thought she was suggesting they join the mile-high club, there wasn’t much chance they could get into trouble.