“Because you only have ears for me?”
Angie shook her head. “Oh my god, you are such a dork.”
“You know you love me.”
“Lucky for you I do.” Angie smiled up at Maddie, her eyes softer than Emma could remember ever seeing them.
Okay, so maybe they were kind of cute together.
Emma tugged Maddie toward the dance floor. “Come on. I need to dance off the tequila.”
“Good call.” Maddie pulled Angie along. “Let’s do this!”
“What are we doing?” Emma heard Angie ask.
“Clam jamming.”
“Jesus, Maddie!” Emma let go of her friend’s hand. “I will pay you good money never to use that phrase again.”
“Clam jammer, clam jammer, clam jammer,” Maddie sang out, Angie giggling in her wake.
So much for being cute.
Jenny’s decision to partake in the dancing portion of the evening’s entertainment soon brought a couple of former frat boys turned business consultants sniffing around. Normally Emma would have been fine dancing with the clean-cut guy who smiled at her, his eyebrows lifted questioningly. But tomorrow was Jamie’s birthday and the end of January camp, and over the random guy’s shoulder she could tell Jamie was actively trying not to look at the dance floor, her shoulders hunched as if that would protect her from having to see Emma dance with someone else. If their positions had been reversed, she knew how she would feel.
So she shook her head at the guy in the collared shirt, who simply shrugged and moved on to one of the newbies whose name was currently escaping her mind. She glanced back at the booth, and even though Jamie wasn’t looking at the dance floor, her shoulders had relaxed and she was smiling at something Ellie was saying, and Emma knew she’d seen her shoot down her would-be suitor. Crisis, clearly, averted.
Over the next twenty minutes, she danced enough to sweat out quite a bit of the alcohol or at least help her body metabolize it faster. Maddie assisted in the sobering-up process, plying her with water that helped cool her heated skin and flush the spinny feeling from her head. But all that liquid had a predictable effect. When she saw Jamie and Lisa head for the restroom, she grabbed Jenny, pulling her away from her dancing partner.
“Come on. I have to pee.”
Jamie and Lisa had already disappeared into stalls by the time they reached the bathroom. Emma followed suit, only once she was seated, it took longer than she expected to relax. Apparently the thought of Jamie with her pants down somewhere only a few feet away was affecting her already impaired brain function.
When she reemerged, Jamie was at the sinks. They looked at each other’s reflection for a moment, eyes holding, and then Lisa joined them.
“That guy was totally cute,” her fellow defender said as she washed her hands. “Why did you diss him? Are you seeing someone in Seattle?”
“No,” Emma said quickly. “Just wasn’t feeling it.”
“Gotcha.” Lisa sighed, fussing with her hair. “I miss Andre.”
“Where is he right now?”
“New Orleans. But he’ll be home soon.”
Lisa’s longtime boyfriend was a jazz musician who was away from home almost as much as she was. Emma remembered those days. She didn’t envy her fellow defender the distance in her relationship.
Emma washed her hands, checking herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed either from dancing or tequila or both, and her hair was coming out of its bun. Jamie, meanwhile, didn’t meet her eyes again as she dried her hands.
“See you out there,” she said with a slight wave, following Lisa toward the door.
As Jamie left the restroom, Emma gazed after her, wishing she could—well, wishing lots of things, none of which were immediately obtainable.
“What the hell is that look?” Jenny asked, startling her. Emma hadn’t seen her approach.
“Nothing,” she said, glancing back at the mirror to fix her hair.
“Honestly, can no one on this team keep it in their pants?” Jenny complained as she turned on the water. “It’s like the World Cup is making you all lose your lesbian minds. It’ll be sixteen years next summer, Emma, remember? We were in elementary school the last time this team won.”
Technically, she’d been in middle school, but whatever. Emma glanced around. Fortunately no one else appeared to be paying them any attention. “Jen, this is not the time or the place…”
“Babe,” her friend replied, tugging her toward the door, “that is exactly what I’m trying to tell you. Maddie too. Sheesh. No wonder people think we’re all gay.”
“Because we are?” Emma followed her out into the noisy club.
“You wish.”
“No, I think he wishes,” Emma said, nodding at the businessman who had perked up when he saw Jenny.
“I know, right?” The striker slipped her arm through Emma’s, tugging her flush against her side. “Gotta give our public what they want.”
Used to Jenny’s semi-drunken flirtation—what went on in sororities, anyway? Maybe she should have joined one at UNC after all—Emma leaned into her and smiled even as her eyes sought out Jamie. There she was, back safely with Ellie and the other veterans.
“Sorry, babe,” she said, giving the striker’s arm a squeeze. “You’re on your own tonight.”
“What…?” Jenny followed her gaze. “Oh, fine. Go get your birthday girl.”
“Thanks, Jen.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love ya, Blake!” And off she went to flirt with her conquest for the night.
“Mind if I sit down?” Emma asked when she reached the booth, waiting until Jamie nodded to slide in beside her. “It’s way too hot out there.”
“I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s too hot is you,” Jamie murmured, half-smiling.
Beneath the table, Jamie’s hand found hers again, and Emma bit her lip as their fingers wove tentatively together. She could feel her pulse racing at Jamie’s compliment, which was silly because Jamie had been teasing. But maybe, just maybe there was something else beneath her smile, an edge that said she wasn’t really teasing at all.
“Happy almost birthday,” she murmured, her mouth close to Jamie’s ear.
“Thanks.” But Jamie’s eyes dimmed and her smile turned lopsided.
Emma thought she was probably thinking that after tonight there was no guarantee they would ever be like this again—out celebrating the end of national team camp with their friends and teammates. Curfew was still a few hours away, though, and Emma was determined to enjoy the time they had left together. Because while Nike’s slogan life is short might be a cliché, it was also accurate.
She shifted closer on the padded bench and tucked her ankle under Jamie’s carefully, offering her injured leg a resting place. “Okay?”
Jamie nodded, her smile evening out again. “Better than okay.”
“Good,” Emma said, and settled in, trying to pick up the threads of a conversation that seemed to revolve around the best time in the World Cup cycle to get pregnant.
When curfew did arrive, Emma’s head was clearer (which was good) and she and Jamie were surrounded by their friends on the hotel elevator (which was bad), and the grown-ass women around them were giggling because they were almost late getting back from the club. As soon as the elevator opened on their floor, Ellie sent Angie on a reconnaissance run. Melanie and Craig’s doors were closed and the lights were off, the petite midfielder soon reported back, at which everyone heaved relieved sighs and headed for the corridor. The last Emma saw of Jamie was her backwards glance as Ellie tugged her down the hallway toward their room.
“Come on,” Maddie said, slipping her arm through Emma’s. “You’ll see her in the morning.”
Easy for her to say. Angie was going home with her so they could hang out for the next couple of weeks until the team reconvened in Texas. Still, there was no way to see Jamie that didn’t involve breaking rules and interrupting sleep patterns, neither of which were remotely her thing, so she only h
arrumphed and let herself be led away yet again.
Later, while Maddie and Angie texted for a while, Emma lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling as she replayed the evening in her mind. She and Jamie had held hands and almost kissed. In public. In front of half the team and whoever else might be watching! What had she even been thinking? She grabbed her phone and did a quick search on Tumblr and L Chat, but fortunately there was nothing new on the Blakewell tag. Whew. She would have to be more careful, though. They would have to be more careful, assuming they… well, if they were going to be a “them” around other people. Especially if they planned to do so around strangers with camera phones and Tumblr accounts.
What were they planning, though? She had to be crazy for even considering dating another player in the pool. But Jamie wasn’t just another player, and Emma didn’t only want to date her. She remembered the look in Jamie’s blue, blue eyes the moment after they had both held their hands to Tina’s belly to feel her baby kick. The last time Jamie had looked at her like that, Emma had been on the cusp of leaving behind the West Coast—and her—for college back east. I don’t think we get to keep each other, Jamie had texted a few days after Emma had kissed her for the first time. And she’d been right. They hadn’t gotten to keep each other. Instead they had gone off and led separate lives, following different paths that eventually led them here. Back to Southern California, back to each other.
As she lay in the dark, thinking about what had been and what still might be, she remembered something that had happened in the in-between years while they were apart. Jamie was on the under-20 national team when Tina Baker, still in her prime, had taken time out from a USWNT game in the Bay Area to be “interviewed” by the young national team hopeful. US Soccer had filmed their conversation and uploaded it to YouTube. Emma, captain of the U-23 side at the time, must have watched that video a dozen times at least, her heart expanding each time Jamie ducked her head in response to a compliment Tina offered.
The video had ended with Tina pulling Jamie into a hug and telling her that one day she would be there playing with the senior side. Jamie had shrugged and said, “Maybe,” to which Tina had replied, “I’m serious. You’ll be here and I’ll be watching from the sideline.”
Earlier tonight when Tina had showed up at the hotel, husband and two boys in tow, she’d hugged Jamie and said, “See? I told you your time would come.”
Jamie had smiled and blushed like she had in the old marketing video, and it had been all Emma could do not to wrap her arms around her and hold on tight. Because honestly, if anyone deserved to have their dreams come true, it was Jamie.
#
The groin pull, Jamie realized the following day, was worse than she had thought. The pain was bad enough that a half hour into her drive home from camp, she had to divert to Pasadena where she let herself into her aunt and uncle’s backyard and stretched out on a lounge chair, her leg elevated, an ice pack wrapped to her inner thigh. Some birthday this was turning out to be. First she’d had to say goodbye to Emma, not knowing when (if? But no; after last night, definitely when) they would see each other again, and now she was stuck in Pasadena for god knew how long. When she’d called from the freeway, her aunt had offered to come home early to meet her, but Jamie had insisted she didn’t mind waiting. Armed with her laptop, movie case, and a mini-cooler full of Gatorade, she would be more than fine hanging out on her own for a few hours. In fact, she could use a little alone time to decompress from the last few days.
Talk about a roller coaster—on the one hand there was the injury, but on the other there was Emma. As much as she’d wanted to kiss Emma the night before, she was just as glad now that their first grown-up kiss wouldn’t be in a crowded booth in an LA club, Tina Baker’s pregnant belly pressed against her other side. Not that hanging out with a soccer legend was bad, per se. At one point she had wanted to pinch herself because she was sitting in a booth with Ellie, Phoebe Banks, and Steph Miller, flanked on one side by Tina, who she had grown up admiring, and on the other by Emma, who was holding her hand under the table. Talk about surreal. But then she’d felt Tina’s baby kick, and she’d forgotten to be star struck as she grabbed Emma’s hand and placed it on the retired player’s abdomen. Gazing into Emma’s eyes while the baby kicked against their curved palms hadn’t felt strange at all but rather so, so perfect. In Emma’s eyes she thought she glimpsed the type of future that she had never even thought to let herself dream of.
Which was slightly terrifying, if she was being honest. Because what the hell were they doing, anyway?
That had been the thought flashing in neon against her mind’s eye as soon as she woke up. Then she’d tried to sit up and all thoughts of Emma had—however briefly—faded as her leg seized and she had to focus on not letting out a gasp of pain that Ellie would hear.
She was lucky she had family near LA. Each time she’d tried to lift her foot from the gas pedal or the brake, the pain had been so intense she’d felt slightly sick to her stomach. And that was after a day of the RICE protocol—Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation—not to mention popping extra-strength ibuprofen like candy. To get through the short drive to Pasadena she’d had to resort to using her right hand to support her quad every time she needed to accelerate or decelerate. Clearly the six-hour trip back to the Bay Area wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.
Christ. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to get herself hurt again. Except that the muscle pull wasn’t really her fault. If fingers were to be pointed, the obvious target would be Taylor O’Brien, the little bitc—Jamie caught herself. Taylor wasn’t a bad person. At least, Jamie didn’t think so. She was young, a college senior still, and tended to do most things a bit, well, intensely. Taylor liked to tackle, pass, run, shoot, and (again) tackle at approximately a hundred miles per hour, which meant control was not always her strong suit. During the previous morning’s practice, Taylor had slammed into Jamie when they went up for a fifty-fifty ball. Forcing herself to pop up as if nothing were wrong, Jamie had tried to walk off the blow. But the contusion that had formed at the edge of her shin guard had instantly—and alarmingly—numbed her left leg from mid-shin downward.
When she went back to her room after lunch armed with a bag of ice, she’d finally gotten a chance to survey the damage in detail. An already purpling blotch the size of her palm occupied the space between her knee and ankle, and her lower leg still felt oddly numb, as if the nerves were hesitant to engage.
“What the hell?” Ellie had said when she saw the bruise. “When did that happen?”
“This morning.”
“Obviously, Max. I meant how? Who did that?”
“I don’t know.”
Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “Was it Steph? Please tell me it wasn’t Steph.”
“It wasn’t, okay? Chill, dude. Soccer is a contact sport.”
She snapped her fingers. “O’Brien! It was that freaking kamikaze, wasn’t it?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny the charge.”
“Seriously? Blake’s right. You do belong on the nerd squad.” And Ellie had walked away, grumbling about national team “infants.”
Jamie wasn’t sure if she’d meant her or Taylor. Either way, the characterization was a bit unfair. They may be competing for the same position, but it wasn’t like the girl had meant to hurt her. Jamie had personally watched her bowl over a handful of other players, including veterans, in her semi-manic attempts to prove herself to the national team coaching staff. And yeah, maybe Jamie should have sat out the final afternoon practice like Ellie had suggested. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been overcompensating and injured her other leg. But hindsight and all of that. At this point what was done was done.
She knew she should be feeling worse about the whole injury thing. After all, Melanie had told her that she needed to stay healthy if she wanted a shot at the team. But in between paralyzing moments of terror that she was losing her best chance at a spot on the national team were dreamy flashes of the pr
evious night when Emma had squeezed into the booth beside her to take tequila shots so she wouldn’t have to and, oh yeah, held her hand. Maddie and Jenny had dragged her away, it was true, but Emma had eventually ditched them to come back and hang out with her for the rest of the night, which had been sweet. And amazing. And so, so awesome.
Her talk with Ellie hadn’t been so bad, either. While Emma danced, Ellie slid around the table and took her spot, pressing almost as close as Emma had before asking in a low voice camouflaged by the music, “Okay, I’ve held off long enough. What exactly is going on between you guys?” And she’d nodded toward the dance floor where half the team was rocking out to a Drake and Rihanna remix.
“Honestly?” Jamie had watched Emma spin around, her dimple evident from across the room. “I have no clue.”
“Let me rephrase then: How do you feel about her?”
She’d looked down, turning the empty shot glass over and over, but it couldn’t tell her whether confessing the truth was a good idea or a really terrible one. “Well, so I might possibly, sort of, I don’t know, be in love with her?” She peered at Ellie from the corner of one eye, bracing for the lecture the national team captain was sure to level at her.
Instead, Ellie had nodded. “I thought so. You should tell her, Max.”
Jamie’s head whipped around. “What?”
Ellie smiled, her eyes gentle. “Trust me when I say that genuine love is rare. If you’re lucky enough to find it, you owe it to yourself to grab hold and not let go.”
“But you’re the one who said teammates aren’t allowed to date.”
“Officially, it’s my job to say that. But unofficially, as your friend? Let’s just say I ’ship Blakewell.”
She winked and Jamie punched her arm, unsure which was more exciting—that Ellie had given them her blessing or that she had called Jamie a friend.
A moment later Jamie’s smile faded as Steph leaned across the table and half-shouted, “Why aren’t you dancing with your little buddies? Are you injured again?”
“No,” Jamie said quickly, and offered the excuse she had prepared for this very situation. “Just a crappy dancer.”
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