The Road to Canada

by Kate Christie

  Lyon, where Jamie had managed not to set foot since before she and Emma had met.

  As the bus crossed the sandy isthmus that connected Quiberon to the mainland, Jamie said a silent goodbye to the small peninsula. Surprisingly, she had been sorry to check out of the hotel that afternoon. The handful of other times she’d returned to France—for national youth team tournaments, for Champions League her first year at Arsenal, for vacation once with Clare—she had gritted her teeth and braved the waves of reaction to being in the same country where her assault had taken place more than a decade ago. But this time, maybe because she was working to make the World Cup squad or maybe because she was older and, one would hope, wiser, or maybe simply because Emma had been at her side throughout the trip, the waves of fear had felt smaller, more manageable. Not once had she felt herself sliding into the black hole of past emotional trauma.

  It helped that Brittany and the Rhône-Alpes region shared little in common. Lyon was one of the largest cities in France with a population of more than two million, while Quiberon’s population topped out around five thousand. The quaint peninsula reminded Jamie of a beach town along the central Oregon Coast, only centuries older, of course. Lyon, on the other hand, was a two thousand year old urban center that featured a mix of Roman, Renaissance, and modern architecture, with rivers and hills rather than sandy beaches and rocky coves. Both regions were beautiful, but to Jamie, they almost seemed like entirely different nations.

  On past visits to France, Jamie had spent most of her time either on a football field or playing tourist in the nation’s better-known cities. For this trip, however, the coaching staff had made good use of their week on the coast. Two mornings ago, their fitness session had consisted of a guided kayak tour along the “Wild Coast” of Quiberon, while yesterday they’d gone for a group run—five miles along quiet country lanes overlooking the ocean to Pointe du Percho, where they poked around sand dunes and sandy coves at low tide. Ellie had even talked Jamie into joining her for a sunrise swim this morning, one of her Game Day traditions (where available). Although “swim” was an exaggeration. In reality, they had walked into the water, submerged their bodies for all of 20 seconds—possibly less—before squealing and hightailing it back to the nearby heated pool. Still, the cold water had been refreshing, much like one of the ice baths Ellie and Emma swore by.

  But now Game Day was in full swing. Kickoff was a bit early—six p.m., which meant they’d eaten the day’s meals early, including “dinner” at three before boarding the bus to the stadium. Jamie hoped there would be food served on the flight to London. Otherwise there would be a whole lot of hangry women traveling in close quarters today. They damn well better beat France, too, or heads would roll.

  She giggled to herself at the guillotine reference and then schooled her features back into a stoic mask as Emma glanced at her. Probably better to keep her nerd humor to herself on Game Day.

  #

  The crowd was difficult, she realized immediately. The dark-clad fans whistled at the officials and at the American players with little provocation, their shouts and singing dominated by male voices—so unlike the family-friendly crowds Jamie had grown accustomed to back home. The weather was cold and clear, and the pitch was fast. Artificial turf was always speedy even when the groundskeepers didn’t water the surface before a game like they had today. The French team, comfortable on their home field in front of a crowd of fifteen thousand, had come out ready to play. The US, on the other hand, started on their heels. But they soon recovered and went on the attack, narrowly missing two scoring opportunities near the end of the first half.

  With the score stuck at 0-0 at halftime, Jo’s locker room talk wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows, but it was generally positive. There were 45 minutes left, she reminded them, and they had several good things to take from the first half—ball movement, technical touches, and passing in the offensive third—and build on in the second. Despite the hostile crowd, the coaches were confident that the US was in control of the game.

  Sometimes the two halves of a soccer game could seem like entirely different matches. Momentum could shift on a blown call or a quick counterattack, and all at once, the team that had been controlling play found themselves scrambling to catch up. That was what the second half against France felt like, Jamie thought. Only five minutes in and Lindsay Martens, a newbie player starting at outside defender in place of an injured Emily Shorter, had somehow allowed her player to not only score the first goal of the game but assist on the second. Jo and Melanie didn’t wait for her to recover her shaken poise. They yanked her and moved Taylor O’Brien from the center to outside back, which meant they needed another central defender to take Taylor’s spot. They needed Emma.

  Sure enough, Jo glanced down the bench and barked Emma’s name. Jamie caught her girlfriend’s eye and gave her a thumbs-up. You can do this. Emma nodded back subtly and checked in with the fourth official, jumping up and down as Martens jogged off the field, her head bowed. Jamie felt bad for the kid. A standout for Kansas City in the NWSL and a recent winner of the collegiate MAC Hermann Trophy award, Lindsay had been floating around the pool for the past year. When Shorter sprained her knee at the end of January camp, Lindsay had made her first friendly roster. Now what had been a literal dream come true was turning into a nightmare.

  Emma slapped hands with Martens and murmured something no doubt supportive before running onto the field, her body language the opposite of the pulled defender’s. In the aftermath of the Brazil trip, Emma’s confidence had been MIA. But slowly, over the course of January camp and in training here in Brittany, she had seemed to come back to herself. Now as she took the field, Jamie thought she could see the old Emma, moving with purpose and a sense of coiled energy waiting to burst into action.

  She hadn’t been in for long when Jo looked down the bench again and said, “Ellie, Maxwell, warm up.”

  And just like that, Jamie forgot to worry about Emma. She joined the team captain on the sideline, keeping one eye on the game as they went through the familiar warm-up exercises.

  “You got this,” Ellie said, bumping her fist when Jo motioned to them again.

  God, Jamie hoped so.

  Steph came off at the next dead ball, jogging over to the sideline to slap Jamie’s hand and to tell her to “watch number 3,” as they passed. Then Jamie was sprinting out onto the field and assuming her place in the middle just in front of Emma. Their eyes met and Emma nodded at her, her expression simultaneously fierce and confident, and Jamie’s stomach flipped once before settling into place. She had this. She totally did.

  The game she entered was nothing like the last time she’d played for the US side. Against Brazil, the game had been slower paced, more patient, neither side interested in taking too many risks. Brazil had only needed a tie to win their International Tournament of Nations, and after losing to them in the round robin, the US hadn’t been eager to repeat that experience. But this game—this game was a mad scramble from the moment Jamie set foot on the turf. She knew a few of the French players from Champions League and the NWSL, but she was still surprised at how technical they were, how quickly they seized upon any mistake the American team made. The crowd was knowledgeable and passionate, and Jamie could sense the excitement infusing the stadium. France was number three in the world and headed to Canada in a few months as a legitimate contender to win the World Cup. Beating the US, Olympic champions and, until recently, the number one team in the world, would be a boon for the French. The Americans, on the other hand, were stuck in a desperate game of catch-up while struggling not to fall even farther behind. Not exactly the best combination.

  Fifteen minutes after she entered, Jamie drove toward the French box, her defender scrambling in her wake. Maddie was up front and called for the ball, and Jamie sliced it to her on an angle. Then she made an overlapping run to the corner, putting on a burst of speed as Maddie slotted the ball back to her. She caught it just before it hit the end line and
one-timed a pass to the twelve, where Ellie was waiting. Time seemed to slow as Ellie raised into the air, her form picture perfect, and struck the ball with her head. The crowd gasped and Jamie watched, holding her breath, as the ball arced toward the goal—and hit the crossbar. The French keeper fell on the rebound, and Ellie paused briefly, holding her hands to her head.

  Damn it, Jamie thought as she jogged back on defense. So close. But at least they were getting chances. At least they were still in the game.

  Time ticked away seemingly faster and faster, though, and as the half dwindled to a close, the American side failed to finish any of their chances. When the final whistle blew, the score was still 2-0. Jamie could hardly believe it. The French, only one step behind them in the international rankings, had actually shut them out.

  The stands emptied quickly as the exultant French fans headed back out into the world, leaving the American side to gather their gear and hurry to the airport to catch their charter flight to England. As they pulled away from the stadium, Jamie could see the French flag flying proudly. She looked away, hoping it wouldn’t be the flag that would fly above the winners’ podium in Canada this summer. Because honestly, she already had enough shitty history with the nation of France.

  Chapter Four

  Emma nestled into her couch as she pulled up Super Bowl XLIX on her DVR. They had just gotten home from London that afternoon, and she was, frankly, amazed that she had somehow managed not to see the final score while traveling with the national team in Europe. It helped that Europeans were notoriously disinterested in American football, as the NFL was referred to outside of the US, and the rest of the team had been just as determined as she was not to see any spoilers. The few people who did know what happened were kind enough to preserve the mystery for those who didn’t. That was part of the team’s general ethos—you didn’t mess around with sports.

  “Ready?” she called to Jamie, who she could hear thumping around in the bedroom.

  “Hold on,” Jamie called back.

  Emma tapped her foot against the coffee table, eyes on the view beyond her living room windows. The 12th man flag was flying atop the Space Needle as usual at this time of year, but that didn’t necessarily mean Seattle had beaten the Patriots to win their second Super Bowl in a row. It only meant that the city of Seattle encouraged the rabidity of local fans to a potentially unhealthy degree—another thing Emma loved about her hometown.

  Jamie emerged from the hall, looking adorable and comfortable in fleece sweats and one of Emma’s many UNC soccer hoodies, water bottle and bag of Smartfood in hand. “Now I’m ready,” she said, dropping down onto the couch and propping her feet on the coffee table beside Emma’s. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Emma said, leaning in to kiss Jamie’s smile. They had exchanged V-Day cards on the plane and were planning a romantic dinner out later in the week, but tonight they’d decided to make do with popcorn and Whole Foods sushi. As Jamie smiled at her and reached for her hand, Emma felt some of the tension seep from her nervous system. She hit play and leaned back, snuggling into Jamie’s side. Thank god they were home—at least for a little while.

  After a relaxing, productive week in Brittany, the team had suffered a long, rough trip across Northern Europe and back home again, with choppy air and weather-related travel delays compounded by losing to France and barely managing to defeat England. During the game in Milton Keynes, just north of London, the British team had had their game-tying goal called back on a questionable offsides penalty. If not for the referee’s blunder, the US may well have finished their European tour 0-1-1.

  Hardly an auspicious start to the year, if you asked Emma. But Jo and the other coaches claimed to be fine with the results because adversity helped build character and you never knew who you were until the chips were down, and so on and so forth. Still, it was sort of the wrong year to be experimenting with the lineup, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t they have their starting 11 mostly set at this point, only a few months out from Canada?

  And it wasn’t just that Emma had played less than half of the France match and not a single second against England. Jamie had sat the bench in her adopted home country too, which was, honestly, shitty. But whatever. Emma was doing better with being benched. She was doing better with accepting her role on the team as a non-starter and cheering her teammates on from the sideline. Or, at least, she was doing better putting on a positive face about her lack of playing time. What she actually wanted, of course, was to demand the opportunity to fight for her spot during a match, preferably a match that counted.

  The Super Bowl was still in the first quarter when Jamie nudged her. “Hey.”

  “Yeah?” Emma asked, keeping her eyes on the television.

  “You’re secretly psyched about how the trip turned out, aren’t you?”

  “Total—wait,” Emma said, her mind catching up belatedly. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the part where the team struggled to win without you on the field,” Jamie clarified.

  Of course Jamie would see through her fake smiles. “Maybe,” Emma allowed.

  “Good,” Jamie said, and tossed a piece of cheddar-covered popcorn into her mouth. “Because I’ve waited long enough to play with the best defender in the world. Jo needs to not fuck this up for me.”

  If Emma’s eyes pricked with tears, it was only because she was tired from the trip.

  Later, after watching Seattle lose the Super Bowl on the goal line in the final minute by changing up their game rather than sticking with who—er, what had brought them that far, Emma lay in bed beside a softly snoring Jamie, unable to shake the worry that Seattle’s loss was another bad omen. While Jo had claimed the team’s struggles against quality European opponents were acceptable because the coaches wanted them to peak this summer, the players hadn’t quite seen it that way. Nor had the women’s soccer press. In the wake of the US loss at Lorient, the media had focused on the lack of cohesion among the back five and the disarray in the midfield, where the 4-4-2 system they were fielding clearly required at least one defensive-minded midfielder.

  The problem, as even Jo had conceded, was that most of the midfielders on the team were 10s, which meant they were offensive-minded first and foremost. Under the current system, they’d tied and lost to Brazil in December, and now they’d lost to the number three team in the world and nearly tied sixth-ranked England. The Algarve Cup would be a referendum on the coaching staff, more than one commentator had noted. Many of the players agreed. During pre-match training in the UK, Emma had heard enough muttering about lineups and personnel that she couldn’t help remembering the previous year’s Algarve, when the team had finished an excruciating seventh.

  This time, though, Ellie had their coach’s back.

  “Give Jo time,” she’d counseled more than once on their tour of Northern Europe. “And in the meantime, let’s encourage each other and work on what we can: positive body language, improved focus, and doing all the little things right.”

  Phoebe had said something similar during January camp: “Jo always has a plan. Our job is to control the things we can and accept the things we can’t.”

  This sounded so much like the Alcoholics Anonymous serenity prayer—and so entirely unlike Phoebe—as to be borderline alarming. Emma was starting to think Phoebe and Ellie sounded less like team captains and more like evangelicals when it came to Jo Nichols. Or possibly robots. Ellie, at least, seemed to be offering sound advice: Improve your attitude, focus on the little things, and stay positive.

  Emma closed her eyes, trying to blot out the worries threatening to hijack her brain in jet lag mode. The Algarve Cup was coming—a week of sunshine, sandy beaches, and competitive soccer. Emma would earn her starting spot back, enjoy some of the most beautiful beaches in the world with Jamie, and come home with another international tournament win.

  No pressure, really.

  She took a breath and called up the homew
ork the national team’s sports psychologist had given her when they’d met in January. Visualization was a powerful tool, as Mary Kate had reminded her. Emma pictured herself at the Algarve Cup, starting and playing in their first match against Norway; imagined herself running up the field in one of the movement patterns she’d practiced with Ellie and Jamie and the others; visualized herself slotting a through ball to Maddie, who slammed it past the Norwegian goalkeeper’s outstretched fingertips into the back of the net. She could do this. After all, she’d survived the Great National Team Meltdown of ’07. At least the current team liked each other and had each other’s backs. Well, except Jessica North. But if one player had to be cut from the final World Cup roster—and she absolutely did—Emma’s money was on her.

  As Ellie had pointed out during one of her pep talks after the loss to France, they were Team USA. They would keep fighting as long as they had breath—which would be a really freaking long time, given how fit Lacey and Jo had made sure they all were.

  #

  For Emma, the team’s headquarters for the Algarve Cup was a familiar temporary home away from home. The five-star resort sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic at the edge of the picturesque city of Lagos, Portugal, known for its miles of pristine beaches and stunning rock formations. The US team’s first two games would take place 85 miles away in the small city of Vila Real de Santo António while the placement matches would be close to an hour away in Faro, but the extra driving was worth it. The resort had multiple hot tubs and pools—including one with a sandy floor—and its own football training facilities with two full practice fields that offered partial views of the ocean. It also had a golf course, game room, fitness facilities to rival most American gyms, and trails that led along the green cliff tops to a beautiful beach cove only a mile from the hotel.

  On their first morning in-country, Emma and Jamie met for coffee and tea downstairs in one of the hotel restaurants, as had become their custom on national team trips. The best way to beat jet lag, they’d found, was to get up at a normal time right from the start. Travel mugs in hand, they headed out to the cliff-top trails, soaking in the morning sun and warmth, a sharp contrast not only from the coast of Brittany but also from the damp cold they’d left in Seattle a day and a half earlier.