“She did mention we might want to keep our relationship quiet on social media,” Emma said.
Jamie recoiled slightly. “Why? Because US Soccer would rather not acknowledge the queerness of this team’s players or our fan base?”
“No,” Emma said, “it’s not like that.” At least, she didn’t think it was. Caroline had said that displaying personal photos could be like waving a cape in front of a bull, which made sense to Emma. She didn’t want to risk taking any action that might trigger the unstable man who seemed to be fixating on her.
Jamie pulled her hand from under Emma’s and folded her arms across her chest. “Really? Then tell me: What is it like?”
Emma stared at her, wishing she could redo this sensitive conversation at a time when she wasn’t exhausted from double training sessions and video reviews and virtual reality training and more fitness sessions than she could ever remember in her life. Not to mention when she’d had better sleep. At least she wasn’t rooming with Britt. That girl’s snoring could be heard two rooms away.
“It’s more about keeping a low profile, that’s all,” she said, trying for a placating tone. “She and Mary Kate both said that if I was worrying about being distracted, I should probably keep my official accounts professional and leave the personal posts to my private pages.”
This time, invoking the team psychologist’s name didn’t produce the same mollifying effect. Jamie’s forehead remained furrowed as she demanded, “And you don’t see any other possible motivating factor for a US Soccer rep to recommend that, Emma?”
Of course she did. But she’d decided not to fill Jamie in on the details of the situation until April, and she was damn well going to stick to that self-imposed deadline. “It’s different for you, Jamie” she said. “You’re publicly out.”
“And you’re not. I am well aware of that fact.”
At the bitterness in her tone, Emma leaned away, putting space between them. “Do you have a problem with me not announcing my sexuality to the entire world? Because I have never lied to anyone about who I am.”
“I know that, and it’s totally your decision. But you could help so many kids, Emma. Can you imagine how many girls like you—and boys, for that matter—are out there right now hiding who they are and hating themselves for being different?”
“There are other bi and pansexual role models, you know,” Emma pointed out. “Evan Rachael Wood, for one.”
“Yes, and Michelle Rodriguez,” Jamie said, waving a hand. “But there aren’t any current athletes. At least, no one with your profile.”
“I don’t think Greta would appreciate hearing you say that.” Greta Nilsson was the Swedish national team goalkeeper—and Jamie’s teammate on the Portland Thorns.
Jamie rolled her eyes. “I meant American athletes. You could do so much good. We both could.”
Emma couldn’t believe that her conversation with the team’s PR rep had turned into a referendum on whether or not she should out herself—and, by extension, their relationship—to the world. And yet, here they were.
She turned to face her girlfriend more fully. “There’s a reason athletes don’t come out, Jamie. Actors aren’t available to the public the way we are. They work on closed sets with security, but we announce months in advance that we’ll be in a certain place at a certain time. You know as well as I do that safety has been an issue since Monica Seles was stabbed in the ’90s.”
“But that’s just it,” Jamie argued. “None of us is ever fully safe. That’s why I don’t understand your obsession with privacy. We’re already public figures.”
Obsession? It was hardly that. Emma shook her head. “That’s easy for you to say. Not only are you the heart on the sleeve type of person, you’re like a thousand percent gay. You couldn’t hide who you are even if you wanted to.”
“And that’s somehow easier? Because in case you wondered, it isn’t easy being called a dyke for most of your life.”
“I didn’t say that part was easier. I just meant that I get why you don’t understand my privacy thing because you don’t have to deal with male fans the way I do.”
“No kidding, Emma. The guys in the crowd either call me names or ignore me. Meanwhile, they’re shirtless with your name spelled out on their bodies.”
“Exactly. They write my name on their bodies. And why is that? Because they think I’m such an amazing soccer player? No, Jamie, it’s because that’s what I am to them: a body on display. If they knew I slept with women, my Twitter feed would be a hundred times worse than it already is.” She stopped, because she hadn’t meant to mention her problematic Twitter feed.
“I know, because they would think they had a shot at a threesome with you and some hot girl,” Jamie said, sounding resigned. “Which, as we know, is every straight man’s fantasy.”
“Pretty much.” She hesitated. Once again she was approaching territory she would rather not go into. “You may not know this, but Maddie had a stalker a couple of years ago. Not a game or open practice went by that she didn’t worry about that guy appearing with a weapon. All she could think about, she told me, was that some little girl in the stands might get hurt because Maddie had somehow attracted this legitimately insane person.”
That was the same fear that Emma lived with now, the same horrible fantasy that flickered before her eyes before she left the tunnel at most of their US-based friendlies. The idea that she could be the reason someone else—Jamie, a little girl in the crowd, a soccer mom or dad—got hurt was almost unbearable at times, especially late at night when worry maintained its stubborn grip on her subconscious.
“I didn’t know that.” Jamie reached for Emma’s hand again. “But she didn’t attract him, Em. He fixated on her. That’s different.”
“Maybe in theory, but not in practice.” The TV crowd erupted, and Emma used the sound as an excuse to turn away from the empathy in Jamie’s eyes. It would be so easy to unburden herself, so much better to execute Operation Reduce Social Media Presence with Jamie firmly on her side. But she had involved Sam the last time, and their relationship had ended soon after. She wasn’t about to risk what she and Jamie had together now.
April, she reminded herself. There would be plenty of time to deal with everything then. Besides, hadn’t Jamie once said Emma didn’t owe her details about her past? The present was a different matter, but they would figure it out together. Eventually.
Sighing, she rested her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “Can we be done with this conversation? Is that okay? I’m tired, and it’s almost curfew.”
Beside her, Jamie shifted closer again. “Of course.”
They were quiet for a little while, Emma watching the TV screen but not really taking in the blur of moving athletes or the streak of partisan colors. Was she doing the right thing in keeping difficult truths from Jamie? Was there any way to know for sure? Probably not until well after everything shook out. Possibly not even then.
“I can hear you thinking,” Jamie said softly, pressing a kiss into her hair.
“I know,” Emma said, but she didn’t elaborate.
“I don’t want you to think I don’t respect your decisions. You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like to be you any more than you know what it’s like to be me. But I’d like to understand.”
She was so sweet and open, and Emma would never, she was pretty sure, be good enough for her. When they were teenagers, Jamie had used her assault as motivation to improve herself while Emma had basically run from her father’s death. Instead of processing her grief, she’d sprinted toward her future goals: a national championship with UNC, a permanent spot on the national team, a gold medal at the Olympics, and now another chance at gold at the World Cup. And yes, she had done some work on herself in the intervening years, but she couldn’t deny the feeling that Jamie was better at managing the external pressures on their relationship.
Before she could respond, the door’s electronic lock beeped. Reluctantly, Emma moved away from Jamie. By the
time Gabe appeared at the foot of the bed, they were seated side by side with a respectable gap between them—like the romantically uninvolved teammates they definitely were not.
“Hey, guys,” Gabe said, and flopped down on the other bed. “How goes it?”
“I’m so tired,” Jamie admitted, laughing a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever run so many intervals in my life.”
“Right?” Emma agreed, relieved to think about something other than her pathetic emotional skills.
“To be fair, Lacey did warn us ahead of time,” Gabe pointed out. As an outside midfielder, she routinely placed at the top of the charts in any competition that involved endurance.
“Yeah, but I didn’t realize how serious she was,” Emma said.
“Same.” Jamie smiled at her, and Emma smiled back.
They would be okay, she told herself, trying one of the deep breaths Mary Kate had suggested she learn to cultivate. Apparently research showed that deep breathing calmed the mind, even if researchers weren’t entirely sure why. Maybe Emma would even learn to meditate. Jamie swore by it, and MK had assured her that the practice offered many promising returns for elite athletes. For now, though, Emma was satisfied exploring the new visualization exercises MK had offered.
The basketball game continued on in the background as they chatted with Gabe for a little while longer, the white noise of the cheering crowd familiar and somehow comforting as they gossiped about teammates and discussed families and friends they shared in common. Then Gabe collected her things and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, leaving them alone again.
“Guess I should say goodnight,” Jamie said, snuggling back into her side.
“Guess so,” Emma agreed. But even so, she tightened her grip on Jamie’s hand. “I wish you could stay.”
“I know. Think Gabe might want to trade rooms for the night?”
“Um, I think people might notice.”
“You’re probably right.” Jamie sighed audibly.
Emma nudged her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll be home soon.”
“Home, huh,” Jamie echoed, giving her a definite side-eye.
“You know what I mean. The Pacific Northwest.”
“Right.” Jamie was still watching her. “Feel like company up there in Seattle?”
“Of course. Feel like staying with me?”
“I would love it.”
“Good,” Emma said, “because I love you.”
“I love you too,” Jamie replied, her smile unabashedly sentimental.
“Awesome.”
“Excellent.”
Emma leaned in and kissed her, slow and soft, but even the light pressure of Jamie’s lips against hers made her body vibrate with restless energy. It was just as difficult as ever to be around Jamie so much without being able to really be with her except for brief, rushed encounters. At that moment, Emma couldn’t wait to get back to Seattle, where they would have nearly a week together before they flew to France. Or, until she flew to Europe, anyway. Jamie’s presence on the national team roster was still a camp-by-camp, match-by-match affair.
The water shut off in the bathroom—Gabe was legendary for taking the fastest showers of anyone on the team—and Emma pulled back, resting her forehead against Jamie’s. “Let’s hunker down in my apartment when we get back and not go anywhere.”
“Hunker down?” Jamie repeated, laughing.
“I’m serious. Nowhere at all for at least forty-eight hours.”
“Count me in,” Jamie said, and kissed the tip of her nose. Then she slipped from the bed, pausing to stretch her arms over her head and make the sweet puppy squeak Emma had always loved. “See you at breakfast?”
“Absolutely.”
Emma didn’t walk her out tonight, simply waved and watched as Jamie ducked out of the room before returning her attention to the game. The teams seemed well matched. Out of loyalty to her mother’s Midwestern roots, she decided to cheer for MSU. With the Penn State sex abuse scandal not all that far in the past, she found it difficult to imagine cheering for that particular athletic program ever again. Jamie’s dad, Emma knew, took an even more extreme view and insisted that Penn State football should have been permanently banned from NCAA competition.
Tim, Jamie’s dad, was a good person. Emma wished he could have met her father. She also wished that Sarah, Jamie’s mother, had met Emma’s dad more than that one, emotionally fraught time. The familiar bittersweet ache at the thought of what could have been rose inside her, and Emma hugged her knees to her chest. She doubted the feeling would ever go away entirely, which wasn’t a bad thing. She would never fully forget her father, not until she was old and gray and had begun to lose herself the way her grandmother had before she’d died—assuming concussions didn’t get her memory first.
Gabe came out of the bathroom already dressed in the boxer shorts and T-shirt she wore as pajamas, her long brown hair curling damp around her shoulders. Originally from Colorado, she had played in college at University of Portland and now played professionally with Emma for the Reign. In the off-season, though, she went back to Denver where most of her family still resided.
“Did Jamie take off?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“How are you two doing? I know it isn’t easy to manage a relationship like this.” As she arranged herself on the other bed, Gabe waved her hand, the gesture presumably encompassing the hotel, the National Training Center, and Carson beyond.
“We’re actually doing okay.” Emma hesitated. “But… can I ask you something?”
Gabe glanced over at her. “Sure.”
“Have you ever had any problems with social media? Like threats or anything?”
“No, I haven’t. But Ellie has, and so has Maddie. Jenny, too, I think. Why? Is it happening to you and Jamie?”
“A little.” The list Gabe had provided matched the one Emma had compiled in her head after Caroline had told her she wasn’t the only team member struggling with this issue. Christ. Wouldn’t it be awesome if men didn’t act like assholes online? Then again, plenty of them were assholes in real life. Why would they behave any differently in a virtual space where they could be anonymous?
“I’m sorry,” Gabe said, giving her a sympathetic grimace. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. But thanks.”
“Of course. My apartment in Seattle is yours if you guys ever need it.”
“Thanks,” she said, touched by the offer. “I hope we don’t, though.”
“I hope not, either,” Gabe agreed.
They turned off the lights a little while later and Emma lay in bed like she had been doing lately, listening to her heartbeat race as the near-nightly anxiety swept over her. She still couldn’t believe she’d managed to lose her starting spot. Would she even make the roster for Europe? What about the Algarve Cup? Her contract renewal was scheduled for some time this spring. What if the federation decided not to renew her? What if she got cut in a World Cup year? And even if she didn’t, what if the stalker came after her in real life? Worse, what if he came after Jamie?
For fuck’s sake, she thought, trying to breathe deeply through the onslaught of irrational fears. Why couldn’t her mind just shut the hell up? But it didn’t, and so she lay there with her ear plugs in and her eyeshade on, fighting her brain’s unnecessary injection of adrenaline into her system. She wished she were home in Seattle with Jamie curled up beside her under the covers, her touch leeching peace and calm into Emma’s body as surely as the constellations shifted overhead in the night sky.
Soon, she told herself, picturing her quiet building, her multiple deadbolts, her comfortable apartment. Soon.
Chapter Three
“Seriously, it’s starting to feel like we’re never going to play again,” Ryan Dierdorf muttered as she took her place at one end of the thick battle ropes Lacey had brought along to France to torture them with.
Jamie managed to contain her eye roll as she picked up the
ropes next to Ryan’s. They were staying at a five-star hotel on the Quiberon Peninsula in Brittany that sported ocean views, impressive fitness facilities, and an on-site spa. Right this very minute, they were training on a sunny hotel terrace mere steps from the heated pool where Jamie planned to relax again after dinner. A few paces in the other direction lay sandy beaches and the Atlantic Ocean, close enough to practically feel drops of spray carried on the wind. For the veterans, this might be same old, same old, but Jamie felt incredibly lucky to be here. Still, entitled players were going to gripe. In Jamie’s experience, once someone felt secure in their position on a team, it was basically human nature to complain.
After their three-week camp at the National Training Center, most of the team had arrived in France chomping at the bit to compete with someone (anyone) other than each other. Jo’s continued willingness to give Lacey Rodriguez the reins for what even Ellie, an apparently huge Jo Nichols fan, had conceded felt like overkill on the fitness front was not helping. Jamie was a morning person, and even she was finding it more and more difficult to peel herself out of bed for their daily morning fitness session.
At least afternoon training sessions took place on an actual soccer field. The field in question—a local stadium not far from the hotel—reminded Jamie of various UK pitches where she had played with Arsenal. With only 3,000 seats, it was a far cry from the American stadiums the other players were used to. But the surface was synthetic, just like the game field where they were scheduled to play France in a few days, and the town itself was quiet and out-of-the-way. Even in the summer, they’d been told, the Quiberon Peninsula typically attracted local French tourists. In the first week of February, there didn’t seem to be many of those.
“Come on, James,” Angie called from the other side of the terrace. She tugged on her end of the battle ropes, nearly upending Jamie. “Bring it!”
“Oh, it has already been broughten!” Jamie hollered back. When Lacey’s assistant blew her whistle, they each started moving the ropes up and down rhythmically, creating opposing waves that met in the middle. Their turn lasted a full minute. By the time the whistle blew again, Jamie’s arm muscles were burning nicely.
The Road to Canada Page 3