“Yeah, you do not want to see this one try to bust a move,” Ellie said, making a face.
Jamie knew she was trying to help, and she appreciated the gesture, but at the same time she wished Ellie wouldn’t be quite so nice because the captain—her friend—had no idea that Jamie had lied to her face earlier. It wasn’t like her roommate wouldn’t notice the buckets of ice she was schlepping to their room, so when Ellie asked her about it, she claimed it was for her bruised shin and then proceeded to ice both legs under the covers. She didn’t want to lie to Ellie, but she also hadn’t wanted anyone to find out about the groin injury until she’d had a chance to assess how bad it might be.
“Oh. Well, good,” Steph said, toying with the straw in her mixed drink. “We need to keep you healthy. I’m not going to be around forever, you know.”
Jamie had stared at her in shock, automatically looking around for Emma. The spot she’d occupied on the dance floor was now vacant, and try as she might, she couldn’t pick Emma’s honey-blonde hair or red scoop-neck blouse—not that Jamie had memorized what she was wearing or anything—among the hordes of dancers. That’s when the text came through, and instead of being embarrassed that Emma had caught her looking for her, she was only relieved to spot her safe and sound with Maddie at the bar.
Shortly after that the random dude had tried to dance with Emma, and Jamie had watched, relieved again, as she shot him down. Her heart rate was still slowing when Phoebe Banks decided to offer a shock of her own: “You’re friends with Britt Crawford, aren’t you?”
Jamie had almost glanced around to make sure that the legendary keeper’s gaze was fixed on her. Context clues indicated it had to be—it wasn’t like Ellie or Tina were great friends of Britt’s.
“Um, yes?”
“Tell her to transfer to the NWSL. England isn’t doing her career any favors.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ellie chimed in.
“I thought the WSL had come a long way in the last couple of years,” Tina said.
“It has,” Phoebe admitted grudgingly. “But you know how fierce the keeper competition is at this level. I’m not going to be around forever either, you know, so it would be smarter to be back here where the federation can keep an eye on her.”
“Remember when we played in Sweden,” Tina said, “the summer before I got pregnant with Carter?”
Ellie started laughing. “I haven’t thought about that in years. Remember the castle they rented out for us?”
“That place was legit haunted,” Phoebe said, sounding peeved.
“So you said, Banks.” Tina rolled her eyes, and Jamie was amazed by her cheekiness—until she realized that even Phoebe Banks wouldn’t smack a pregnant lady.
As the conversation shifted to Swedish food and currency, Jamie tuned out to send Britt a quick text: “Dude!! Rachel Ellison and Phoebe Banks say they think you should move back to the US so the coaches can see you play more! Oh, and so do I!”
Emma had returned to the booth a little while later to sit next to her again, and their hands had linked under the table of their own accord, fingers curling together. As midnight approached, Jamie had thought the entire evening might be the best early birthday present she’d ever received.
Good thing her pre-birthday had rocked, since the day itself was falling well short of perfection.
She sat up and glanced at her phone resting on a nearby patio table. The urge to text Emma or, at least, stalk her on Instagram was nearly overwhelming. Instead she opened her laptop and set to work in Illustrator, trying to bury her mind in her latest tree design. She loved drawing trees. To her, there was something so calming about them, both aesthetically and spiritually. For as much as she hated standing still, that was what trees did for their entire life. Patiently. Happily, even, as far as she could tell. This latest design had roots that extended deep underground in a slightly altered reflection of its branches. If she ever managed to finish it, she wanted to have it tattooed on her leg, with the roots disappearing across her ankle and under the bottom of her foot—a visual reminder of the necessity of staying grounded.
When her text notification went off a few minutes later, somehow she wasn’t surprised to see Emma’s contact photo flash across the screen. The picture was of the two of them on the team van a few days earlier, messing around on their phones as they waited for stragglers. Jamie had been laughing at something on Instagram—a funny dog video, if she remembered correctly—and Emma was leaning close and looking at her with the softest smile Jamie had ever seen. Maddie had snapped the candid shot and texted it to both of them with the caption, “A rare sighting of Blakewell in its natural habitat.”
She pulled up Emma’s text. “How’s the leg, birthday girl?” Before she finished reading, another alert sounded. “Not that you should be checking this while you’re driving.” Another buzz heralded the third message: “Eyes on the road, Maxwell!”
Smiling even though no one could see her, Jamie typed back, “Don’t worry. I’m not texting and driving.”
“Good. But where are you if you’re not driving?”
“My aunt and uncle’s house in Pasadena.”
There was a slight pause before her phone buzzed again. “From Thanksgiving?”
“The same.”
Jamie had a brief flash of sitting at her cousin’s iMac in her pinkalicious bedroom ten years earlier downloading a photo of Emma in her Manchester United jersey. Emma had worn that same jersey only a couple of days earlier to watch an EPL match in Jamie and Ellie’s room. When Jamie mentioned she was surprised Emma still had the jersey after all these years, Emma had smiled and told her that the shirt was lucky—even if it had come from a diehard Arsenal fan.
At that, Ellie had grunted. “You gave her the jersey, Max? Is that what I’m hearing?”
Jamie had pulled her gaze away from Emma’s smile. “Yeah. In a moment of obvious weakness.”
“To be fair, you didn’t know you’d end up playing for Arsenal,” Emma had pointed out.
Which was true. She hadn’t known how any of this would turn out. Still didn’t. Because if her chances at making the national team were slipping away, where did that leave her and Emma?
“Where are you?” she typed.
“On the tarmac. Your leg hurts too much to drive?”
She didn’t even think about lying. “Yep. I think it’s more than a minor strain.”
Her phone rang a second later.
“I’m so sorry,” Emma said, her voice low. In the background the sound of airplane engines was steadily rising.
“Me too. Don’t you have to go?”
“In theory.” Emma paused. “You should have called me. I would have driven you home, you know.”
“You would have?”
“Of course. I know how you feel about Southern California.”
“You don’t always have to do that,” Jamie said, closing her eyes and readjusting the ice pack. “You know, follow something sweet with a joke?”
Emma was quiet. “I know. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, at least it’s warm here. Better to lay out by the pool than stew in my bedroom.”
“Did you call your parents yet?”
“Not yet. I think I’m in denial.”
“Right.” She hesitated, and the background din got louder. “We’re taking off. I really should turn off my phone.”
She pictured Emma with her eyes closed, fists white-knuckled in her lap, teeth worrying the inside of her lip. Too bad she couldn’t be there to hold her hand this time.
“Have a good flight,” she said. “And don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“I think it’s supposed to be both of our lines.”
Emma laughed softly. “You’re probably right. Thanks, Jamie. I miss you.”
Her heart melted a little. “I miss you too. Call me later?”
“I will. Bye.”
“Bye.” Jamie l
istened until the call died, and then nearly jumped as her phone vibrated against her cheek. Emma had texted a line of emojis, in among which Jamie noted a birthday cake, an airplane, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a bag of ice. She leaned back on the lounge chair, a smile teasing her lips because seriously, who even has an ice bag emoji on their phone?
Her phone buzzed again. “Take care of your leg. And happy birthday!” Another emoji followed, one that had her blinking behind her sunglasses, wondering if it was her eyesight or her brain short-circuiting because it looked like Emma had sent her a kiss-blowing emoji, the one with one eye shut and a tiny heart emerging from pursed lips. She squinted harder. Yep. That was exactly what Emma had sent her.
She hesitated, and then she typed, “Safe flight. Text me when you’re on the ground.” She added the same kissing emoji, clicked send, and waited. Sure enough, Emma replied one last time with a thumbs-up.
For a moment, she gave into temptation and let herself relive the moment the night before when Emma had leaned into her in the booth, her body tantalizingly close, her eyes on Jamie’s lips. She had been sure Emma wanted to kiss her, and even worried—hoped?—she might. But she was glad they had backed away from that particular precipice. Emma had been more than a little tipsy, that much Jamie knew both from the way she had swayed as she walked away from the booth and from the grimace she’d offered at breakfast this morning, her eyes all squinty, the shadows beneath them darker than usual. She had sipped Gatorade throughout their team meetings and lunch, and the electrolytes must have helped because by the time they said goodbye in the hotel lobby, Emma preparing to board the airport shuttle, Jamie getting ready to drive home, she had seemed more like herself.
The rest of the team was already outside, so Jamie had wrapped her arms around Emma’s waist and pulled her close. In return, Emma had wound her arms around Jamie’s neck and rested her head on her shoulder, and they had simply stood together, unmoving in the empty hotel lobby while the rest of the team bustled around outside.
“I’ll see you soon,” Emma had murmured.
Jamie had shivered at the feel of Emma’s breath against her skin and held tighter, feeling Emma’s arms squeeze back in response.
“I hope so,” she’d said, and then she was pulling away to smile down at Emma. Her future with the national team might still be up in the air, but even so, she’d felt as if her life was on the verge of clicking into place. Not only was she about to start her (second) American pro soccer career, but she and Emma were hugging each other almost as if the years of not speaking had never happened.
“I know so. Happy birthday, Jamie,” Emma had said, her slow smile warming every inch of Jamie, inside and out.
And yes, it was cheesy to actually think such a thing, even cheesier to admit to herself that she had thought such a thing, but she didn’t care. Standing in the circle of Emma’s arms, she’d felt too good to do anything but gaze into her familiar eyes and smile. They were back in the same time zone, and they had promised to make this—whatever was between them—work. Which meant they would.
So yeah, she might be injured again and her national team future was still unresolved, but as she sat on her aunt and uncle’s patio tracing Emma’s contact photo, she figured that things could be worse. She smiled a little, remembering how Emma had once told her it was her mother’s Minnesotan family’s motto: Could be worse. Emma had even had a picture book with that title on the bookshelf in her childhood bedroom, a book Jamie had leafed through early one morning while Emma slept beside her, honey-colored hair spilling across the pillow. So much had happened since that long ago morning, and yet Jamie could still remember the angle of the light through the blinds, the soft puffs of Emma’s breath beside her, the way her own heart skipped and tripped every time she looked away from the picture book and let herself stare down at the girl she had only just realized she was in love with.
She’d been so clueless then, a lesbian in name only. She hadn’t even kissed a girl before Emma, so no wonder she hadn’t known what to do with the grieving girl who clung to her each night like she was the only thing keeping her afloat. Emma had been so patient with her, so gentle, knowing as she did what it was that made Jamie freeze whenever anyone came too close. Or anyone else, anyway. Right from the start, Emma’s kindness had slipped under her skin, passing through her bloodstream and into her heart until Emma’s limbs felt like mere extensions of her own. Probably she should have known there was something more between them the night they met, but she hadn’t. It had taken months for her to accept that what she felt for Emma extended beyond the bounds of friendship. This time around it hadn’t taken nearly as long.
But knowing how she felt and knowing what to do with those feelings were two very different things. She had hoped she would join Emma and the rest of the team in Texas to take on Canada, but with her leg as screwed up as it obviously was… There was literally nothing she could do but wait and see. Well, she could continue to RICE and see if a sports med doctor would hook her up with some ultrasound and e-stim next week after the swelling had gone down. She could also continue to take the absolute maximum allowed amount of NSAIDs. The joys of soccer—she would probably still be able to walk in a decade (she hoped), but whether she would have a stomach lining left was anyone’s guess.
She turned off her phone and went back to Illustrator, determined to lose herself in shading tools and EPS settings. At least she hadn’t hit traffic on her way up to her aunt and uncle’s house. Otherwise she might still be sitting on a crowded freeway manually lifting her leg every time traffic lurched forward and she had to shift her foot between the brake and gas pedal.
If not for that kiss-blowing emoji, she might have started to doubt what had happened at the club the night before, might have second-guessed her interpretation of Emma’s intentions. But the tiny red heart had confirmed that she hadn’t imagined anything, as Emma had to have known it would. And now Jamie could only rest in the shade of her aunt and uncle’s patio drawing trees and trying not to think about another kiss, one that had happened so long ago that it, too, felt almost like a dream.
Chapter Eleven
“Fucking FIFA!” Ellie said, pushing to her feet and pacing out of the camera’s range.
Emma felt the same, but she stayed in front of her laptop. Amy Rupert, a legendary ’99er who had gone on to law school after soccer, was doing them a huge favor taking a break from work on a weekday afternoon to participate in their group video chat.
“Thanks for trying, Amy,” Steph said. “We appreciate it.”
“Of course. I wish I had better news.”
“Why are they refusing to even discuss laying sod over the turf?” Phoebe asked.
“I’m not sure. It’s not that expensive—less than five percent of the projected men’s budget this summer in Brazil, from what I’ve heard.”
To Emma, using sod over the artificial turf on the Canadian fields approved for the 2015 World Cup seemed like a no-brainer, but then again this was FIFA, who had proven time and again that there really might not be any brains involved in the decision-making process.
“Do you have any suggestions on where to go from here?” she asked.
The former national team captain’s shrug was apologetic. “I’m still working on a few angles. I have an email from Scotts Lawn Care that mentions they might be willing to provide sod for the stadiums for free—but FIFA would still need to pay to outfit the training facilities, so I’m not sure how far that will get us. I know that as an attorney I’m probably expected to say this, but assuming we can get enough players to sign on, our best shot might end up being legal action. The Executive Committee already granted Canada their special disposition. Frankly, they’re playing the odds that you guys won’t boycott.”
Those odds were definitely in FIFA’s favor. Refusing to play at their highest profile international event because football’s governing body had decided all of the games would be played on artificial turf would be shooting themselves in the
foot, and healthy feet were a requirement in their line of work.
“Bastards,” Jenny said, her voice as bitter as Ellie’s. “They would never try to make the men play on turf. Can you imagine?”
“The meltdown would be catastrophic,” Ryan Dierdorf agreed. “Everyone knows artificial turf hurts more when you dive.”
The other players on the chat snickered at the dig, but their faces reflected their collective frustration. It wasn’t a secret that FIFA was an old boys’ network that didn’t value women’s soccer. Though notoriously cagey about its financials, the governing body had recently admitted to only spending fifteen percent of its annual budget on the women’s game. Their argument was that women’s soccer didn’t draw the same crowds as men’s, but Emma’s feeling was that if you didn’t build it, no one would come. Or, as Amy put it, there could be no return on investment where there wasn’t an investment in the first place.
“Actually,” Amy said, “that’ll probably be the basis for our main argument if this does end up in the courts. By allowing the World Cup to be played on turf, FIFA is treating female players like second-class citizens. They shouldn’t be allowed to continue getting away with it.”
The conversation devolved then into highly personal insults about the sexist, misogynistic FIFA president, a member of the old European football guard who genuinely believed women didn’t belong anywhere near the pitch. It was bad enough to encounter that sentiment within the general public, but to witness it being passed down from the top of the sport’s international governing body? Disheartening and disenchanting, to mention only a few disses.
Amy finally put an end to the bitch session. “While I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to rant as much as you guys, I do have one more recommendation to offer, if you’d like to hear it.”
Ellie, who had returned to join in the slam fest, nodded. “Fire away.”
“Funny you should use that terminology because that’s exactly what I’m suggesting you think about: firing your current player’s union reps.”
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