Game Time

by Kate Christie

  Years later, she had come to understand that Emma had pushed her away the only way she knew how—by “cheating” on her with Tori Parker. It wasn’t cheating, though, as much as it might have felt that way to Jamie. They were friends and nothing more, despite the kiss they’d shared, despite the fact that Jamie was utterly in love with her. She had never told Emma how she felt. Instead, knowing that Emma was leaving for college soon, Jamie had dated other girls in an attempt to get over her. When she found out about Tori, she told herself it was the lying she couldn’t forgive and summarily banished Emma from her life. But at some level she had always known it was the fact that Emma had chosen to be with a girl who wasn’t her that had hurt so desperately.

  Now that they were back in touch, she wanted to be friends with Emma. She had missed her ever since the moment they had stopped talking, and being together at camp had reminded her of how much she had always loved being around Emma. But that was the keyword—love. Could they be friends, or would there always be something more between them?

  Her soon-to-be ex-girlfriend shifted restlessly in bed beside her, almost as if she could hear Jamie’s thoughts. Yeah, this was definitely not the right time to be pondering that question.

  She waited until Clare’s breathing was so even she knew nothing short of a gas main explosion would wake her. Only then did she slip out of bed, pull on sweats and faux fur-lined slippers, and head for the kitchen. She unplugged her phone from the charger and carried it to the couch where she opened her message app and began to respond, at last, to her texts.

  First she sent her parents and Meg a group message letting them know she’d gotten home safely and would be in touch about her holiday plans soon. She had texted her parents to let them know she’d been invited back to camp, but they didn’t know anything about her NWSL plans. From prior experience, she knew it was better to leave that reveal until she had something definite to report. Her mom in particular tended to get swept up in the drama of when—if ever, honey?—Jamie was planning to move home. It would be cruel to dangle the possibility of Portland, the closest NWSL team, in her face and then have to revoke it if those plans didn’t work out.

  Next she wrote Angie and Britt to say that the social media situation was under control. Sort of. Not to worry. But maybe she and Britt could meet for lunch the following day?

  When she got to Ellie’s message, she hesitated. Then she hit dial, not bothering to check her prepaid international minutes. Clare had blown her off so much during camp that she should have plenty left.

  “Max, my man,” Ellie answered, sounding ridiculously cheerful.

  “Sorry, I would have called sooner but I totally crashed when I got back this morning. And then my girlfriend came home a few hours ago and decided to break up with me over the Blakewell thing, so...”

  “What?” Ellie yelped. “Are you serious?”

  Jamie closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. “No. We did break up, but mostly I think it’s because we realized we’re not on the same page. She wants a normal life with babies and a mortgage and a wife who has a regular job, and I want—”

  “A World Cup,” Ellie finished for her.

  “And, you know, Olympic gold, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “Shit.” Ellie’s voice had deflated. “I’m sorry to hear that. She sounded great.”

  “She is, just not for me apparently. Or more to the point, I’m not great for her.”

  She sighed, snuggling under the blanket. Tomorrow was going to be another rough day. She was not looking forward to telling Britt she was leaving, or to trying to track down Charity, the Arsenal GM. Neither of them would be happy she wanted to transfer midway through their Champions League campaign. The quarter-finals were set for the end of March, and their chances at advancing would be stronger with her in the lineup. Not that she was irreplaceable, but most of their set pieces revolved around her and anyways, it was always risky to mess with team chemistry, especially when it was working.

  Ellie seemed to perk up a little: “Does this mean you’re coming back before January camp?”

  “That’s the plan—assuming Arsenal lets me out of my contract.”

  “They will. They can’t afford to piss off the federation, not if they ever went a shot at another player in the pool.”

  Ellie’s confidence was reassuring, and they talked the business of football for a little while. Ellie filled her in on the talk she’d had with the Thorns GM, who was more than willing to schedule a meeting with Jamie. She talked about the Thorns set-up and philosophy, and offered advice on how to prepare for the meeting, which she said was “all but in the bag.”

  And then, inevitably, Ellie said, “By the way, what happened to keeping your nose clean?”

  Jamie stalled. “What do you mean?”

  “Um, hello, Blakewell?” The national team captain sounded more exasperated than angry, though.

  “Nothing happened, I swear.” She hesitated. “Or I guess I did hold her hand at one point, but only because the landing was bumpy and she’s afraid of flying. You know, because of her uncle.”

  There was a corresponding silence at the other end before Ellie asked, “Since when is Emma afraid of flying? And what happened to her uncle?”

  Whoops. Apparently Emma’s uncle’s plane crash wasn’t common knowledge among national team members. Good to know. “Never mind. She’s totally not. Forget I said anything.”

  Ellie sighed. “Max, you’re killing me here.”

  “The point is, we’re friends and that’s how we’re going to stay.”

  “At least everyone agrees on that.”

  Jamie paused. “And by ‘everyone,’ you mean you and me, right?”

  “And Emma.”

  Jamie blinked, focusing on the street light flickering on and off outside their—Clare’s—flat. “You talked to Emma about me?”

  “Jamie. Do you know how many times that original Tumblr post got reblogged?”

  “So what did she say?” Jamie asked, trying to keep her voice casual. And failing—she could almost hear Ellie’s eye-roll through the phone.

  “She said the same thing you did, only without the hand-holding, fear-of-flying bit.”

  “Oh. Well, good.” Jamie pushed away the whisper of disappointment at the back of her mind. She already had enough to worry about. The less relationship drama in the next few months, the better.

  “Jodie’s on her way home from work, so I should get going. Are you okay, kid?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll keep you posted on my plans, okay?”

  “Let me know ASAP what happens at your end. If all goes well, we can set up a meeting with the Thorns management before January camp.”

  “We?”

  “Well, yeah. You didn’t think I’d let you go through all this alone, did you?”

  She blinked at the tears suddenly stinging her eyes, unsurprised by her own weepiness. It had been a freakishly long couple of days. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  “You’re welcome. Hang in there, okay? You’ll be home soon.”

  “Right,” she agreed, even though she currently felt homeless in every sense of the word.

  The call ended, and Jamie sat in the dark, watching lights glint through the window. At least her parents would take her back. They always did. It was just, at some point she hoped they wouldn’t have to. At some point it would be nice to have a lease in her own name, or even, someday, a mortgage like her friends from college who had gone to work for Google and Microsoft. Her Facebook feed featured a steady stream of engagement announcements and work anniversaries—one of the risks of going to a university full of overachievers—and here she was nearly four years later about to ask her parents if she could move back in. Again.

  A car horn sounded in the distance, faint but strident. Their street was quiet, but only a couple of blocks away buses and motorbikes zipped along the Seven Sisters Road in spite of the late hour. She was going to miss this flat, th
is street, this city. She had grown up so much since arriving in this foreign land, sight unseen, for a shot at the soccer career that had seemed increasingly out of reach. Arsenal had taken a chance on her and given her back her dream of playing professionally not once but twice—her club insurance had paid for her ankle surgery and rehab, even though she’d been injured during a US match.

  Despite her early obsession with the Premier League, an English football career definitely wasn’t anything she’d expected. When she graduated from Stanford, she’d been certain that her life was unfolding as it should. At twenty-two, she was a regular on the U-23 national team, a paid professional in the best women’s league in the world, and had just received her first call-up to the senior national team. Then a defender from the Washington Freedom had slammed into her from behind, and she’d uttered what one of her teammates called the “ACL scream” as she fell. She’d known as she lay on the ground, clutching her knee, that her season was over. For a few dark days that fall, Jamie had considered giving up on soccer. But thanks to Britt, a new door had opened.

  Some people say you make your own luck. As a professional footballer, though, Jamie wasn’t sure it was quite that simple. Admittedly, some teams did seem to possess an almost magical energy that elevated them above all others. In 2011, the Japanese earthquake and resulting tsunami and nuclear disaster pummeled the island nation only four months before the World Cup. When Japan defeated the US favorites in the finals, even the American coaches and players seemed resigned to the fairytale ending for their disaster-plagued foes. Jamie remembered watching Emma’s interview later on YouTube, her heart breaking for the exhausted defender who had looked more perplexed than anything else. At least Emma had made her penalty kicks, both in the quarters and in the finals. Ellie and Steph Miller couldn’t say the same.

  Her phone vibrated, and she opened her messages. Her older sister had texted: “#Blakewell? The more things change… Apparently you and I need to chat, kiddo. Call me when you wake up.”

  Jamie texted back. “I’m awake. Wanna Skype?”

  “Yes! Give me five.”

  Why did everyone call her kid? Not Emma, though. Except wasn’t there that one time she’d called her “bean pole” or something similarly embarrassing? Crap. She should not be thinking of Emma right now, only she couldn’t help that her brain kept conjuring memories. It was like Emma was a favorite old song that she’d rediscovered and played constantly for the last two weeks, and now the melody was looping through the back of her mind, ready to leap forward whenever she let her guard down.

  As she waited for Skype to alert her, Jamie tried to plan out what to say to her sister. Meg had been the first person Jamie had told about Clare, the first member of the family to fly to London to meet her new girlfriend shortly after Jamie moved in with her.

  “This one’s a keeper,” she’d told Jamie when Clare was in the kitchen. Then she said in the very next sentence, “But does this mean you’re never coming home?”

  “We don’t really talk about the future,” Jamie had told her, and her sister had rolled her eyes.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Meg, more of a planner by nature, had long considered Jamie’s preference to go with the flow a personal affront.

  Skype beeped at her and Jamie hit accept, smiling in spite of herself as Meg’s face came into view. “Hola, big sis.”

  “Hey James. What are you doing up? Isn’t it late there?”

  “My body is stuck on West Coast time.”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t let Mom and Dad come see you at camp. And now you’re blowing us off to have Christmas with your British in-laws, aren’t you?”

  Jamie blinked as tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t have British in-laws anymore. What were Clare’s parents going to think about her suddenly walking away from their daughter? Would she ever see them or any of Clare’s other family members again?

  On the small screen, Meg’s affectionate smile turned to a frown. “What’s wrong? Is this about Emma?”

  “No. Well, not really.” She took a breath. “Clare and I are breaking up.”

  “Oh, no.” Meg set her chin in her hand. Her hipster glasses were sliding down her nose and her messy bun was hanging in shreds about her face, and she looked so worried and so familiar that Jamie was hit by a wave of homesickness.

  “Yeah,” she said, and sniffed, swiping at her eyes.

  “Because of the online shit storm?”

  “No. Or, I guess it might be part of it. But mostly I think we realized we’re in different places, you know? She’s ready to get married and settle down and have kids, and I…” She trailed off.

  “You, what?”

  “I’m coming home, Meg. I’m coming back to play in the NWSL.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. Assuming everything works out.” Quickly she summarized the events of the past few days, including Ellie’s offer to get her in with the Portland team. “But don’t tell Mom and Dad yet,” she added at the end. “I don’t want to get their hopes up in case it doesn’t work out.”

  “Oh, so it’s okay to get my hopes up?”

  “Well, yeah. When are you and Todd going home?”

  “We’re driving out this weekend.” She squinted at the camera. “What about you? What are your plans?”

  “I told Clare I’d be out by Christmas.”

  “That’s only a week away.”

  Jamie covered her face with one hand. “Don’t remind me. At least I don’t have that much to pack. Most of the stuff here is hers.” It was possible the last part came out more bitter than she intended.

  “Don’t worry,” Meg said. “You’ll get through this. You know, if you do end up in Portland, it’s a pretty cool city.”

  “Right? I could do worse. Like, Kansas City worse. That’s in, what, Missouri?” She shuddered.

  “Perish the thought. The land of Mormons is bad enough. Either way, I’ll help you move, okay?”

  “You have to teach. And aren’t you supposed to be finishing your dissertation?”

  Meg sighed dramatically. “One can only hope.”

  They talked about Meg’s class schedule at the University of Utah where she and her husband were both PhD candidates in music education. At a lull in the conversation, Meg said, “Are you going to tell me what happened with Emma?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Tumblr would respectfully disagree.”

  “Since when has Tumblr done anything respectfully?”

  “Valid point. I did see the photo, though.”

  “So did Clare. I know it looks bad, but nothing happened.”

  “I know. You’re not the cheating type.”

  “Tell my girlfriend—sorry, my ex-girlfriend—that.” She toyed with the tag on the fleece blanket. “But, I don’t know, I think I could feel something more if I let myself. Which I’m totally not going to do.”

  “Because…?”

  Jamie scowled at her sister through the phone’s camera. “Because I’m just getting out of a serious relationship and I don’t need to jump into something else? Besides, I need to focus on soccer if I’m going to make the team I’ve wanted to be on since I was ten.”

  She didn’t mention that Emma apparently wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship, at least according to Ellie. She didn’t feel like admitting that one out loud, not even to her sister.

  “Oh. That makes sense. And here I was thinking you were being a chicken because it’s Emma Blakeley.”

  “Thanks a lot, Meg. And on that note, I’ll see you when I see you.” Jamie’s thumb hovered over the red receiver icon.

  “No, wait! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve had too much coffee and not enough sleep the last couple of nights trying to get grades done. Forgive me? Please?” she wheedled, making a funny face that used to make Jamie laugh when they were little.

  Reluctantly she moved her thumb away. “Fine. But try not to be such a douch
ebag, will you? This is not the easiest time for me, seeing as I am in the process of dismantling my life as I know it for an uncertain outcome.”

  “You know what they say about change.”

  “Change is inevitable; growth is optional?”

  “I was going to say, ‘Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.’ But we can totally go with yours.”

  When they hung up a little while later, Jamie lay back under her blanket feeling a tiny bit better. Knowing she would see Meg and Todd, the coolest brother-in-law ever, at the end of the coming week made it easier to face what she had to do in the interim.

  If Emma was a melody at the back of her mind, Clare was the album she had listened to nearly every day for the last year and a half. Jamie was going to miss the way her girlfriend got excited or teary-eyed when she talked about the kids in her class; miss her calm confidence when they played Monopoly or Cranium with Britt and Allie; miss the way she smiled across the table when they were having dinner at home alone, just the two of them.

  And yet here she was, the metaphorical ink on their break-up not even dry, and she was already thinking about Emma. Clare had treated her with nothing but kindness their entire relationship. Surely she deserved better.

  Jamie opened her messages app, scrolling down the list until she reached Emma’s text. She reread the message and typed a quick reply: “Thanks for checking in. No worries. I won’t hold the entire fandom accountable for the actions of a few. Have a good holiday, and I’ll see you at camp next month.”

  Before she could change her mind, she clicked send. She waited for a few minutes, but Emma didn’t write back. Maybe she was busy, or maybe she recognized the text for what it was: a thoroughly impersonal reply that said without actually saying it, “Don’t call me; I’ll call you.” She and Emma had both told Ellie there was nothing between them, but Clare hadn’t been all wrong, had she?