Game Time

by Kate Christie

  As she neared baggage claim, her text alert sounded. Her heart leapt insanely, but when she checked the screen, it was Ellie’s name flashing at her. Clearly she was not about to be ignored. Emma clicked on the message thread.

  Ellison, one minute ago: “Please tell me you’re not still with her.”

  Ellison, twenty minutes ago: “#Blakewell? WTF Emma? You were supposed to be good!”

  Emma stopped walking so suddenly that the elderly couple behind her almost tripped over her carry-on. “Sorry,” she murmured, stepping out of the stream of harried travelers to huddle against a wall, staring at her phone.

  Blakeley. Maxwell. Blakewell. A handful of hours on their own in public and they had already been ’shipped. Christ. This was the kind of thing that sometimes made her want to hide out in her apartment and only come out for practices and games.

  Another text from Ellie popped up, this one with a link to a Tumblr account Emma recognized as belonging to a college student from New York who claimed to be her biggest fan. The girl certainly worked fast. She had already posted screen captures of the Twitter photos of Emma and Jamie posing separately with the girls from their flight and together with the group of guys from the food court. But it was the accompanying text that made Emma wish she was on her couch curled up under a blanket bingeing on Orange is the New Black: “It would appear that after spending two weeks at camp together, Blake traveled home to Seattle accompanied by gorgeous (and gay as fuck) Jamie Maxwell. Looks like a new ’ship in the building to me… #ahem #USWNT #Emma Blakeley #Jamie Maxwell #Blakewell #you heard it here first.”

  Emma glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. Sometimes it was hard to remember that being stalked online didn’t equate to being stalked in real life. If you were lucky.

  Her phone rang as she rode the escalator to the ground floor. She peeked at the screen, debated a moment, and finally hit answer.

  “Her flight was delayed,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “I was only being nice!”

  Ellie exhaled in annoyance. “Jesus, Blake. You know better than to pose next to her. The fan always goes between you. What were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.”

  “I know they say there’s no such thing as bad PR, but the last thing she needs right now is to be splashed all over the Interwebs with you.”

  “Ellie, come on. You know how the fans are. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s the federation’s for putting us on the same flight. Look at us. We were always going to be ’shipped. Am I right?”

  The striker laughed reluctantly. “You’re so full of shit, Blake.”

  Emma smiled, glad she’d distracted Ellie from the warpath even momentarily. “Which reminds me—why should the Thorns get her instead of some other equally deserving team in the Pacific Northwest?”

  “Jamie and I need time to work on our chemistry, which obviously is not an issue for the two of you.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “Not trying to be funny. Did you at least warn her about the impending WOSO meltdown?”

  Crap. Stupid champagne. “Um, no?”

  “Fine, I’ll take care of it. But you two are on official radio silence until next camp. I’m serious, Emma. I don’t want to see you liking her Christmas photos or her training videos or anything. Got it?”

  “But Elle…”

  “But nothing. You need to calm this shit down, and the only way to do that is to refrain from feeding the fan thirst.”

  She scowled at her phone before returning it to her ear. “Fine. Why are you going all mama bear over her, anyway? Is it because you think she can help you break the scoring record, or is there more to it?”

  “The thought might have crossed my mind. But mostly she reminds me of myself at her age. There was no one like me on the team back then. They were all a bunch of straight-looking girls with ponytails (no offense), and everyone kept telling me to tone down who I was, to grow out my hair and stay in the closet. It was a rough period in my life, and she shouldn’t have to deal with that. No one should.”

  Emma slowed near the baggage claim desk. “I didn’t know it was like that for you.”

  “What am I going to do, bad-mouth the people who gave me the chance at having the life I always wanted? Besides, they meant well. In their own way, they were trying to protect me. Who’s to say they were wrong? Things have changed a lot in the last few years.”

  “Thanks to you.” She knew it hadn’t been easy on Ellie. She claimed she stayed off social media for years because she was technophobic, but Emma was pretty sure her avoidance had more to do with being bullied online—and in person—for most of her career. For that matter, most of her life.

  Ellie dodged the compliment as she always did. “More like because of gay marriage.”

  “Still, thanks for looking out for her.”

  “I’m not doing it for you, Blake.”

  Emma rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired. “I know. Hey, I gotta go find my bag. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Keep me posted on the contract negotiations.”

  “I will. Remember, radio silence.”

  “Aye-aye, captain.”

  She turned off her phone, resisting the urge to check her and Jamie’s Twitter mentions. She already knew what she would find. Fuck, it was starting again. This was why she couldn’t have nice things. At least she was home for a few days before she had to fly out for the holidays. Time to hunker down and hide out.

  As she stepped up to the baggage claim counter, she remembered her warning to Jamie about fan harassment: You’ll see. Apparently she was going to see sooner than either of them had anticipated.

  Chapter Six

  Jamie shouldered her duffel and tugged her carry-on behind her as she reached the front of the taxi line. The London morning was rainy and dark, and she’d been planning to take the train home from Heathrow. But with US Soccer footing the bill, she figured she might as well get home sooner—not to mention drier.

  “Do you give receipts?” she asked the driver who got out to help with her bags, and he nodded, his teeth a white flash against dark skin.

  “Yes, receipt,” he said in a heavy accent as he placed her duffel in the trunk.

  Jamie thanked him and slid into the back seat. Another immigrant from North Africa, probably, trying to make a better life for his family in the West. London was filled with people from other places. That was one of the things she’d always loved about living in the British capital. Hang out at Leicester Square for half an hour and you were likely to hear conversations in half a dozen languages.

  “Where to go?” the driver asked, turning down the sound on his radio.

  “Holloway, please.”

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, Jamie relaxed in the warm interior. Finally, after what felt like the longest day ever, she was almost home. Returning to economy for the second leg of her trip had been less than pleasant, but at least she’d had a window seat near the front of the plane. She couldn’t sleep, her mind too busy trying to process everything—January camp; Clare’s reticence; Ellie’s offer to talk to the Portland GM on her behalf; and Emma. She probably should have said no when the flight attendant offered to upgrade her to first class, but it was FIRST CLASS, and anyway, she hadn’t wanted to hurt Emma’s feelings. The same excuse didn’t hold for why she had accepted the mimosa. Really, though, Emma’s seemingly genuine excitement over her invitation to January camp had been difficult to resist. A voice in the back of her head had noted darkly that the flight might be her one and only chance to celebrate—lord knew Clare probably wouldn’t be toasting to her successful residency camp anytime soon.

  Slouched down in the back of the cab, Jamie pulled out her phone. She’d set it to airplane mode while waiting in line to board, but as soon as they landed, she’d switched it back and watched in stunned silence as it blew up with notifications. The people seated in her row, a twenty-something French couple who lived in South London and had prev
iously attended a women’s football match—more rare to find in Europe than America—had laughed at the cascade of sounds that spewed from her phone before she’d quickly set it to silent.

  “What is that about?” Eva, the woman, had asked, squeezing Jamie’s arm for easily the hundredth time since they’d exchanged names.

  “My friend and I agreed to a photo with some football fans at the airport,” she said, turning the screen so the other two could see the picture of her with Emma and the USC guys.

  “That is your friend?” Michel said.

  “Put in your tongue, sweetie,” Eva said. “Mais oui, she is very attractive. And popular, it would seem.”

  Jamie shook her head. “I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.”

  “You and she are a pair of angels together.” Eva glanced at her husband. “N’est-ce pas, Michel?”

  He nodded. “Exactement.”

  When they asked her for her number while waiting in line at customs, she politely declined, using the excuse that the team owned her phone and she wasn’t allowed to distribute the number widely. Stereotypes existed for a reason, and this particular French couple was a bit too handsy for her comfort. Talkative, too. Thanks to them, she hadn’t had a chance to text Clare yet to let her know she’d arrived.

  As the cab headed toward the city, Jamie opened her message app and stared at the list of new texts. One from Clare, two from Ellie, one from Angie, one from Britt—and one from Emma. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering how she’d practically stolen Emma’s phone from her right before they said goodbye. That must have been the mimosa’s doing, as it had been when she’d held Emma’s hand on the plane and hugged her for the photo. She wasn’t sure which was worse—holding her hand during turbulence or tugging her close to keep her out of her fans’ clutches. Christ. What would Clare think when she saw the photo? But Jamie knew what she would think. What was worse, she wasn’t entirely sure her girlfriend would be wrong, not after the last twenty-four hours.

  The question came back to her again: You don’t still have feelings for her, do you? If Clare asked her that same question now… Damn it. Why did Emma have to be so great? Why couldn’t she be hostile or rude or even simply neutral? Instead, every time Jamie had turned around the last couple of weeks it had seemed like Emma was there to help her negotiate team personalities, to tease her about her borderline obsession with Pitch Perfect, to get her through a panic attack. Although, to be fair, Jamie wouldn’t have had the panic attack if it weren’t for Emma. But it wasn’t even like she had treated Jamie any differently from the rest of the team. Fame and success in the world of international soccer hadn’t turned her hard or self-involved, and as far as Jamie could tell, she was still driven to take care of the people around her. Whether or not she had anyone to take care of her was… not a question Jamie was in any position to worry about.

  Sighing, she tried to push Emma from her mind as she read Clare’s generic safe flight, text me when you land message and sent a quick reply to let her know she was on the ground. Britt and Angie were next, both razzing her for her sudden popularity on social media. Britt also asked her to get in touch once she got home so they could “talk,” which sounded uncharacteristically serious. Ellie’s most recent text promised good news to relate after a phone call to the Thorns’ GM. Jamie started to fist pump, but her surge of excitement quickly faded as she scrolled up to Ellie’s earlier text: “Have a good flight and don’t worry too much about the #Blakewell stuff. We can talk about how to handle it when you’re back on the ground.”

  #Blakewell? What the hell was—oh, shit. Clare was going to kill her.

  The voicemail icon blinked and she checked the log. Ellie had left her two voicemails, one at the beginning of the flight and one in the middle. Portland was eight hours behind London, which meant it was roughly two in the morning there. She left the voicemails untouched for now; it wasn’t like she could call Ellie back anytime soon. Besides, there were more pressing things to attend to.

  She switched back to her texts again, staring at Emma’s name in bold. What had Emma texted her about? Had she seen the Blakewell thing and wanted to kill Jamie too? Not that it was solely her fault, even if she had been the one to initiate the pose for the frat boy’s photo. Emma could have pulled away, but instead she’d burrowed closer, her hand on Jamie’s hip equally possessive.

  Her finger hovered over Emma’s name. Somehow texting felt like more of a transgression than letting Emma pay for lunch or drinking airplane cocktails together. Well, maybe not more than drinking together. She stared at the bolded message another few seconds before giving in to temptation. The message was long, and she could hear Emma’s voice in her head, low and slightly raspy: “Hey there. You’re probably over Greenland right about now. Hope some polar bears grace you with a sighting this time around. By the time you get this, you’ll either have seen the Tumblr craziness—”

  Tumblr. Of course.

  “—or you’re about to, so I wanted to say I’m sorry that me dragging you to lunch resulted in a fan meltdown. When I told you earlier that you would see what I meant about some of our fans, I didn’t mean today. Ellie feels very strongly that you and I should not be in touch on social media until this dies down, but you can text or call me anytime. Congratulations again on everything. I’m really happy for you, Jamie. And good luck with the Thorns. They would be lucky to have you. Hope to talk to you soon!”

  Jamie reread the message a few times, smiling reluctantly at the image of polar bears and, well, pretty much the whole thing. It was so Emma: equal parts teasing, caring, and ego-boosting. Which was why she should close her message app and think of something else—for example, how she was going to explain to her girlfriend why the Internet had decided to freak out over an imaginary relationship between her and the first girl she’d ever kissed.

  The forty-five minute cab ride seemed to fly past as she scrolled through Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, and L Chat. The women’s soccer fandom had indeed blown up while she was over the North Atlantic. Someone had cropped the college guys out of the photo, leaving her with her arm around Emma’s shoulders and Emma leaning into her side, their heads and bodies angled toward each other. No wonder the lesbian fans of the national team—and they were legion—were flipping their lids. They looked about as coupley as you could get without actually being a couple. She only hoped Clare was currently too busy at school to have noticed.

  Her eyelids felt exceptionally heavy as she paid the driver and headed into the flat. An hour of sleep would make everything more tolerable, she decided, kicking off her shoes and dragging her bags to the bedroom. One hour, and then she would face the chaos.

  Groaning, she collapsed onto her side of the bed. Her last traitorous thought before sleep took her was that it was nearly morning in Seattle.

  “You are here,” someone said in a relieved tone. Then it changed. “For fuck’s sake, Jamie, I thought you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

  Jamie blinked slowly, trying to remember why Ellie would be yelling at her. Was she late for training? Then she realized she wasn’t at the hotel and the angry person had an English accent. Quickly she rolled over and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Clare was the voice, not Ellie, because she was at home, not in LA. Everything came flooding back—Emma, the first class flight, the flirty Frenchies, L Chat, Tumblr, Blakewell. Fuck.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” she asked.

  “Because it’s half past four. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.” She was standing in the door to their bedroom, arms folded across her chest, perennial smile noticeably absent. She looked pissed.

  Still, maybe she’d only been worried when Jamie hadn’t responded.

  “Sorry, my phone must have died,” she offered, smiling tentatively up at her girlfriend. “Come give me a hug? I missed you.”

  “Obviously.” The word dripped with sarcasm.

  Jamie’s smile faded. “Do you want to tel
l me why you’re so angry?”

  “Are you fucking serious right now?” Clare turned on her wool-socked feet and padded away down the hallway.

  As the sound receded, Jamie slipped out of bed. So much for her usually reliable internal clock. She should have plugged in her phone and set an alarm, though to be honest, she felt significantly better rested after the day of napping. At some point that she didn’t remember, she’d stripped down to her boxers and undershirt and crawled under the feather down comforter. Now she paused to pull on fleece sweats and socks and a soft wool sweater Clare had given her on her last birthday. Except Clare called it a jumper, a word Jamie had previously reserved for a dress worn by small children. Another of her cute British quirks.

  Too bad Clare was currently in any mood but cute.

  Jamie followed the sound of clattering dishes to the kitchen where she found her girlfriend making afternoon tea. Usually this time of day was relaxed and casual, and Jamie would stop whatever she was working on to join Clare for a cuppa in the living room. She thought about going up and hugging her from behind, but she wasn’t convinced Clare wouldn’t smack her if she tried. Instead she leaned against the counter and waited.

  At first Clare ignored her to focus on buttering toast and preparing tea in her favorite teapot, part of a simple, white porcelain set that she had inherited from her grandmother a few years before Jamie met her. The pink and yellow roses on the side were chipped and faded, but the signs of use added charm, Clare always insisted. Jamie had grown up seeing her own grandparents only a couple of times a year, so she thought it lovely that Clare had been so attached to hers. Then again, England was only eight hundred miles from tip to tip. It made sense that families had an easier time bridging that kind of distance than in the US where the miles could measure in the thousands.

  Clare took a bite of toast without looking at her. Then she sipped her steaming hot tea—and promptly whirled to spit it into the sink. “God damn it,” she exclaimed, her voice unusually thick as she slammed her cup down, and only then did Jamie realize she was crying.