Game Time

by Kate Christie

  Her phone buzzed while they were on the train. Chris had uploaded the photo to Instagram and tagged her and Cara, the old college buddy. The caption read, “Look who Beth and I ran into out on the town celebrating New Year’s Eve? #CalBearsRule #FCGoldPride #USWNT”

  That last hashtag had Jamie wincing a bit because she knew the federation’s social media mavens would be monitoring it closely. She stared at the photo, but she didn’t look drunk, only flushed and happy. What would Clare think if she saw it? Not that it mattered what her ex-girlfriend thought. What would Emma—? She stopped the thought before it could form completely.

  “What happened to the redhead?” Becca asked as they waited for the train back to the waterfront. “One minute you were dancing with her and the next you disappeared.”

  “I was thirsty.” As Becca waggled her eyebrows, Jamie slapped her arm. “For water, asshat.”

  “I apologize for my wife,” Rhea said, corralling Becca and tugging her close. “That pig emoji is perfect when it comes to this one.”

  “Hey.” Becca narrowed her eyes at them. “No ganging up.”

  “Oh, so you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

  Becca reached across Rhea to flick Jamie—her traditional method of inflicting abuse on her younger brother and anyone else who pissed her off—but Jamie’s reflexes saved her and she danced away, her laughter drowned out by the screech of an approaching train.

  Twenty minutes later they were parked on a blanket at Rincon Park as colorful lights exploded overhead, music blasting accompaniment on nearby speakers. Jamie gazed up at the sky, the Bay Bridge and city skyline glowing in the background, and watched the fireworks rise and fall only to be replaced by more new shapes and colors. Their two families had come to this show—or watched it from Indian Rock in Berkeley—every year that she could remember. Even after she moved to London, she came home each winter, purposefully timing her trip for the holiday season. As far as she knew, she’d never missed a single New Year’s Eve fireworks on the Bay.

  Came home—the phrase repeated in her head, and she realized: London had never felt like home, not really. She loved the city, yes; loved her girlfriend and friends and teammates there, even loved her job more than anything else she’d ever done except maybe those first giddy weeks with FC Gold Pride at the end of her senior year of college. But London and the WSL had always felt temporary. Or rather, she had always felt temporary there. Now, sitting on a blanket at Rincon Park flanked by her parents on either side, her UK life seemed almost like it had never happened.

  Her dad slipped his arm around her shoulders and leaned closer. “Happy New Year, kid. I hope 2014 is your best year yet.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

  The coming year certainly had the potential to be the best yet. She might end up playing for the Portland Thorns; Arsenal might make it past the quarterfinals of Champions League for the first time in several years; and she might win a roster spot on the national team in time to play in the 2015 World Cup—on the top-ranked team in the world, no less. Then again, she could fail on all fronts and end up living at home with her parents pursuing Plan B—a graphic design job at Google or some start-up that didn’t even exist yet. She had gone to Stanford, so while failing at international soccer was an option, failing at life most decidedly wasn’t.

  An image of Emma flashed into her mind, and as soon as the fireworks ended, she pulled out her phone to check her Insta feed. There were NYE photos from all over the country and even the world, given that the West Coast was one of the last spots in the western hemisphere to hit midnight. Sure enough, Emma had uploaded a photo of her and Dani on a balcony overlooking Seattle with the city skyline behind them, fireworks shooting off the top of the Space Needle. There was a man’s arm resting on the balcony railing next to Emma, but he had been cropped out of the photo. Was she dating someone? The caption—“Happy New Year!”—gave nothing away.

  She almost clicked the heart below Emma’s photo. Almost commented with a smiley face and a quick message of well wishes for the coming year. But then she remembered Ellie’s injunction on contact between the members comprising Blakewell; remembered that Clare hadn’t unfriended her on social media (yet?); and instead she put her phone away. To distract herself, she chatted with Becca’s parents as she helped pack up the blankets and plastic wine glasses they’d been bringing to the waterfront to toast the fireworks for at least the last decade. But then she found herself thinking they were probably the same glasses she and Emma had sipped sparkling cider from the year Emma had come to visit her for New Year’s, and she realized that Emma was far more entrenched in her life here than she had ever been in London. If Jamie played for Portland, she and Emma would see each other regularly whether she made the national team or not. There would be home and away matches in each other’s cities, with parties and overnights likely because everyone in the NWSL knew everyone else and what was a game without a night out afterward?

  At least 2014 would be interesting. No doubt about it.

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you creeping your girlfriend’s Insta account again?”

  Emma looked up as Dani slid back into the seat across from her. They had just finished dinner at their favorite pub on top of Queen Anne, and while Dani used the restroom, Emma may have pulled up Jamie’s social media accounts.

  “I’m not creeping anyone’s Insta,” she said.

  Without warning, Dani reached out and swiped her phone, holding it up in one hand and repelling Emma’s counter-reach with the other. “Oh, sorry, I meant Twitter. I was gone for three minutes. Seriously?”

  “She was supposed to meet with the Thorns today. I thought there might be an announcement.”

  “And you know this how? I thought she blew you off.”

  “Ellie texted me. I’m curious about where she ends up, that’s all.”

  Dani sipped her beer. “You keep saying you don’t want anything to happen, but the fact you’re stalking her says otherwise.”

  “I’m not stalking her.”

  “Swear that on the next World Cup and I might believe you.”

  Emma leaned her elbows against the table. “Okay, maybe I’m stalking her, but only a little.”

  “Is that like being a little bit pregnant?”

  “Oh my god, don’t even joke about being pregnant this close to the World Cup.”

  “You’d have to actually have sex to worry about that, Emma. You know, with a guy?”

  Which was a valid point.

  “At least the fans seem to have calmed down,” Dani added, sliding her phone back to her.

  “Thank god.”

  Without additional fodder, the women’s soccer fandom had backed off the idea that Blakewell was an actual thing. Multiple sightings of Jamie at a club in San Francisco on New Year’s Eve combined with Emma’s photo of the Seattle fireworks had helped convince Tumblr they weren’t a couple—especially the photo that showed Jamie grinding with some chick who was definitely not Emma. Or her long-term girlfriend, for that matter. As soon as Emma saw the posts on New Year’s Day she’d texted Ellie, who had confirmed that Jamie had moved back to the States. Permanently.

  “If you want to know what happened,” Dani said, “why don’t you text her? Or better yet, call? She did give you her number, after all.”

  Emma fixed her with a stare. “You’re not helping.”

  “This is me helping. I told you before you haven’t seemed happy since you broke up with Sam.”

  “And I told you that it’s because we lost the World Cup, not because I lost Sam. I don’t need a person in my life, Dan. I can be happy on my own.”

  “That’s right, I forgot. Ice Queen Blakeley doesn’t need anyone.”

  “Dude, you haven’t called me that since high school.”

  “Dude, it’s not my fault you’re reverting. You have camp again in less than a week. What’s the plan? Are you going to try to avoid her again, since obviously
that worked so well last time?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” She swirled her phone around the polished wooden surface of their small table. “Can we talk about something else? How’s Derek? Or better yet, how is your adorable nephew?”

  Dani started to protest at the subject change, but then she caved as Emma had known she would and pulled up photos of her nephew in Woodinville, a chubby one-year-old with a mouth full of teeth and still not a hair on his head.

  Later, after another beer and more of the kind of easy conversation that came of being friends since grade school, they pulled on their puffy tech jackets and walked home together, pausing outside Dani’s building to hug goodbye.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Dani asked, keys dangling from her fingers.

  “You got it,” Emma said, squeezing her affectionately.

  As Dani disappeared into the brick apartment building, Emma headed home. Booty Call G—er, Derek’s sister was in town from Santa Cruz, and the following evening would be Dani’s first time meeting a member of his family. Since the sister was apparently a big soccer fan, Dani had thought having a USWNT starter along for dinner and drinks might help make a good impression, though Emma was under strict instructions not to mention their early AYSO years when Dani proudly answered to the nickname “Thunderfoot.”

  On a whim, Emma took the long way home, cutting down to Highland Avenue and walking past the well-heeled homes with their circular drives and expansive views of the city. At Kerry Park, crowded with tourists and locals on a non-rainy Friday night, she paused and looked out over the city. The Space Needle was still flying the “2014” NYE banner overhead, along with the Twelfth Man flag for the Seahawks. As the Seahawks had become increasingly successful over the past few years, the city had become exponentially more fanatical about their NFL franchise. The Seahawks regularly drew more than 65,000 fans to Century Link Field while the Sounders averaged somewhere around 40,000 fans in the same stadium. Meanwhile, the first season of the NWSL had been considered mildly successful with an average attendance of 4,200 people per game, and the players were grateful and appreciative for even that amount. Emma didn’t believe that the NFL and MLS had a better sporting experience to offer its fans. But their games were so much shinier and flashier than what the NWSL could offer that even she understood the draw.

  Emma turned away from the view she loved and headed home. Trying to answer the decades-old question of why men’s sports succeeded and women’s sports didn’t not only in America but the world over was an exercise in futility. She couldn’t expect society and culture to change quickly. Look how long African Americans had been fighting for their civil rights, and police brutality and racist voting laws were still huge problems. Look how long queer people had been fighting, for that matter, and gay marriage was only now on its way to gaining popular support. In the context of people being denied their constitutional right to state protection and recognition, it seemed like an exercise in entitlement to bemoan the lack of support for female athletes.

  And yet, she knew for a fact that sports had saved plenty of girls and women, black and white and brown. Jamie for one. Soccer had kept her out of her own head at a time when being inside her head might have destroyed her, Jamie had once told her. Emma knew what she meant. Every time she stepped on the field, she surrendered her sense of self. That was one of the things she loved about soccer—it was inarguably a player’s game. Forty-five minute halves and no timeouts meant the players on the field had to do their jobs without substantial involvement by a coach. They had to know each other, had to trust each other, had to communicate and move in tandem together.

  Sometimes she wondered what she would do after soccer to keep that team feeling in her life. Or even if there was anything she could do to keep it.

  Normally Emma didn’t have trouble ignoring the worry that she could slip in the shower and lay unconscious and bleeding—or worse—for a day or two before anyone noticed. But for whatever reason, be it that the people she was closest to seemed to be finding potential life partners all at once or only that she had started yet another new year without someone who belonged solely to her, she was having a harder time than usual right now enjoying her own company. It didn’t have anything to do with not hearing from Jamie. Nothing to do with seeing those pictures of her grinding with a super hot redhead. Like, nothing at all.

  As the days leading up to January camp crawled by, she found herself out and about more than usual. This led to more fan interaction, but she was okay with that because hey, at least that meant she had someone to talk to, right? As pathetic as that sounded inside her head, it felt even worse as she strolled along Broadway two days before she flew out, window-shopping on an unseasonably sunny afternoon.

  “Emma?”

  She turned, her professional smile giving way to a genuine one as she recognized Will standing before her, his brown eyes as warm as ever. “Oh my god, Will!” He opened his arms and she didn’t even hesitate before stepping into them. They may have only been together for eight months, but he had become one of her favorite people ever in that short amount of time.

  “I thought that was you,” he said, once they’d pulled back to regard each other. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. What about you?”

  “I’m good, too. Great, even. I’m—well, I got engaged.”

  Of course he had. But she kept the smile in place because he was a lovely man and she did want him to be happy. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful news.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced at his phone. “I have a little time right now. Would you, I don’t know, want to grab coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I would love to.”

  As they headed down the block, Will told her about the woman he planned to marry. Her name was Gianna, she was a twenty-nine year old graphic designer at Amazon, and they’d met online. Honestly, he had been a little leery of the online dating thing, but the local service he’d used swore by their algorithm. Now so did he.

  At Vivace’s, Emma’s favorite café on Capitol Hill, they carried large ceramic mugs of drip coffee to a retro Formica table by the window. Her father had first brought her here during his thankfully brief separation from her mom, and she’d been coming back ever since. No matter what else she’d thought about the man, she had always admired his taste in coffee.

  “So when did you shave off your beard?” she asked Will once they were seated.

  “It’s been a while. Maybe if you ever messaged me like you said you would…”

  “Maybe if you logged into Facebook more than once a year…”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

  She sipped her perfectly brewed dark roast, savoring the deep, intense flavor. “Well, either way, smooth looks good on you.”

  “You would think that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He took a bite of chocolate chip cookie. “You know what it means. I told you when we broke up, Emma, I think you prefer women. Not that I blame you. I prefer women, too.”

  When they called it quits, he’d pointed out how frequently she’d complained about the details of dating men: his beard scratching her face; the annoyance of birth control pills; the constant worry that she could get pregnant accidentally and miss a World Cup or the Olympics or an NWSL season. Before that conversation she had never stopped to think about how the constant grumbling had made him feel because, well, feelings.

  “Was I really that awful?” she asked now.

  Will shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. But let me ask you this: Which was easier, dating me or dating your ex in Boston?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure what the point is.” She offered him a smile to soften her words. “I just know it’s nice to see you.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too. In real life, that is
. I saw online that you were in the Twin Cities for the holidays. How was the land of cheese puffs and frozen cow pies?”

  “Hello, they’re called cheese curds.”

  “I don’t really have anything to say to that.”

  She laughed and swallowed more delicious coffee. “It was fun. My brother was there with his fiancée, who is awesome.”

  Will pretended to be shocked. “Then there is a Blakeley who isn’t commitment-phobic?”

  She smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

  “Ow. No need to resort to violence, jock girl. How’s your mom doing?”

  They drank their coffee and talked, and it was nice. They had always gotten along well. That was never the issue. The problem was that he’d wanted more from her than she was prepared to give—time, affection, future plans. After Sam, she’d returned to her old relationship ways, scheduling dates around practice and gym time and keeping her professional and personal lives carefully separate. And Will had let her, at least for a little while.

  He asked about soccer, and as she described the previous month’s residency camp, she consciously tried not to talk about Jamie. She thought she was doing pretty well, too—until Will’s head tilted and his lips pursed.

  “Wait. The new midfielder’s name is Jamie?”

  “Um, yes?” Crap. Why was she so terrible at this?

  “Jamie, as in, the girl from California?”

  Emma nodded, squinting at him.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Will reached across the table to touch her hand. “You always said you hoped she would be back in the pool.”

  The fact that she had “always said” anything about Jamie to him was news to Emma. Faintly unwelcome news, given the current not-speaking, not-actually-friends thing Jamie seemed intent on doing.

  “Right,” she said, her tone noncommittal.

  At this, he pulled his hand back and shook his head at her in an affectionate, slightly exasperated way that reminded her of her mother—You put up more obstacles to love than anyone I’ve ever met. She wasn’t the one who had pulled a runner this time, though, was she? Which was poor consolation, if she thought about it.