France was playing slower than the last time they’d met, Emma noticed. Was it because the field was grass instead of turf? Either way, the US was possessing the ball better this time around. Still, France didn’t pull back just because they were down a goal. They continued to press and take advantage of US errors with quick runs down the flanks and probing balls through the seams of the defense. Except there weren’t many seams to exploit. Phoebe, Lisa, and Emma had been playing together in the center of the back field for years, and they ran a tight ship. The defense stayed organized, and then, just before halftime, Jenny Latham received a pass from Maddie in the center of the field, accelerated past four French players, and, from the top of the box, coolly slotted the ball into the right corner of the goal. It was her first goal since an ankle injury in Brazil, and Emma was thrilled to see her back on form. She honestly didn’t think they could win the World Cup without Jenny healthy and in a good mental space.
At half time, the mood in the locker room was more than upbeat. It was practically effervescent.
“Excellent work out there,” Jo said once they’d settled down. “That second goal illustrates exactly what we’re after: building up from the back, passing to feet, and, you know, a little bit of individual brilliance.”
The team laughed and applauded Jenny, who rose and bowed with a flourish.
Jo shook her head, smiling. “Credit where credit is due. Congratulations to Emma, as well—that was her first goal for the program. Way to go, Blake!”
As her friends and teammates chanted her name and slapped her back, Emma couldn’t have stopped the smile that split her face if she tried. She didn’t try. No wonder strikers loved scoring so much. It was totally addictive.
Jo spent the next few minutes on the dry erase board, sketching squandered US opportunities and using magnets to illustrate holes in the French defensive organization. At last she capped her pen and regarded them. “I want you to keep the pressure on in the second half and really work to spread the field even more.” She pointed at the quote on the board. “Whatever you do, don’t stop moving forward. Keep pressing their backs and looking for seams.”
The second half, unlike the first, turned out to be a defensive battle. That, and a battle to see who could avoid drawing a red card. Emma typically ignored the officiating, but this referee was making that impossible. She seemed nervous, as if she were auditioning for the World Cup, too. Maybe she was performing for a FIFA inspector in the stands. Otherwise, Emma had no idea why she would stop the match repeatedly to lecture players on nonexistent infractions, or track the ball so closely that she managed to get hit more than once. Actually, maybe both teams were simply aiming for her. Certainly no one seemed particularly concerned when she took a shot to the face a few minutes into the second half.
A little while later, Taylor shoulder-charged a French player, Desjardin, in the box. Desjardin immediately flopped in the way that all European players seemed to know instinctively how to do. It seemed possible that they really did take acting classes, as the old joke suggested.
Emma tensed as Desjardin rolled dramatically and the referee blew her whistle. Fortunately, she only signaled a goal kick before turning away. Whew. That could have been ugly.
While Phoebe set up the goal kick, Emma gave Taylor a high five and said, “I love your aggressiveness, O’Brien, but tone it down when you’re in the box, okay? Especially with this ref.”
“Right,” Taylor said, nodding quickly. “Got it.”
She didn’t get it, though, judging from what happened in the 80th minute. They were still up by two and getting close to wrapping up the match when Taylor slide-tackled Desjardin just inside the penalty area. Once again the French player embellished the contact. But whether it was a makeup call or simply another bad call in a very long list, the referee blew her whistle and pointed to the center spot.
A penalty kick. Fuck.
Taylor was resting on her knees, hands on her thighs as she stared up at the ref in disbelief. Emma resisted the urge to browbeat her—I told you to cool it in the freaking box!—and, instead, lifted her up by her jersey and walked her to the top of the box.
“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing Taylor’s shoulder. “That wasn’t a penalty kick. This ref is showing off for someone, that’s all.”
“But you told me to go easy in the box and I didn’t,” Taylor said, her eyes flashing genuine remorse as Sophie Durand placed the ball on the spot and took two measured steps back.
“No looking back, remember?” Emma said, setting one foot in front of the other at the edge of the eighteen. “Only moving forward. Let it go and focus on the rebound.”
“The rebound?” Taylor echoed.
The whistle blew, and before Emma could respond, Durand stepped forward and ripped a low, hard shot to the left corner—only to see her shot blocked by a fully extended Phoebe Banks. Apparently the bank was closed today, Emma thought gleefully as she raced toward the rebound and cleared it out over the distant sideline.
“Thanks, Blake,” Phoebe said, slapping Emma’s outstretched hand.
“Right back at ya, Phoebes.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Taylor said as a French midfielder jogged out to take the throw-in.
“It’s fine.” Phoebe’s tone was surprisingly kind. “You made me look good, kid. Now mark up on number nineteen!”
France continued to press for the next ten minutes, but Phoebe easily shut down the handful of opportunities they earned. Probably the ref’s only widely approved whistle on the day was when she blew the final three tweets of the match. Emma jumped a little in place and then quickly moved to shake hands with the French players in her immediate vicinity. She was about to turn for the bench when she felt a hand on her shoulder, the only warning she had before Jamie swept her into her arms and twirled her around, laughing.
“We did it!” she said, grinning at Emma.
She was so excited, and all at once Emma remembered: This was Jamie’s first international tournament with the senior national team. “We did it,” she agreed, smiling up at her girlfriend. “Way to go, James.”
Jamie smiled back at her, happy and—wait, was she actually thinking of kissing Emma? Because it almost looked like…
At that moment, Maddie joined the hug uninvited, squeezing them both against her sides. “Boo-yah, ladies!”
“Clam jammer,” Emma murmured into her best friend’s ear.
“Someone’s gotta keep you two professional,” Maddie whispered back.
As they headed to the bench, Taylor caught up with Emma. “Thanks for talking me down earlier,” she said, the same awkward uncertainty from before back now in spades.
“No worries,” Emma said, elbowing her. “That’s what teammates are for. But remember not to make contact in the box. Most foreign players will embellish it. It must be part of their training.”
“Got it,” Taylor said.
This time, Emma hoped she actually did.
The post-game huddle was happy but low-key. They’d played way too many games in way too short a time, and honestly, Emma suspected that the strongest feeling most of them were experiencing was relief. If they had lost to France twice in a month this close to Canada, the sports media would have pounced with headlines ranging from benign—“US falls again to France” —to critical: “US woes continue in World Cup year.” With this victory, they’d earned themselves a temporary reprieve from the apocalyptic-leaning critiques of the international sports press.
It wasn’t easy to be the number one—er, number two team in the world, but Emma could take the hot seat if it meant she got another chance at World Cup gold. She was pretty sure the rest of the team could, too. They’d better, because after today, there were only eighty-nine days to go until Winnipeg.
EIGHTY-NINE DAYS.
Tick, tock, mothafuckas, indeed.
Chapter Six
Jamie opened her eyes and blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Where was she? Stifling a yawn, she
focused on the sound of Britt snoring nearby in a single bed practically touching hers in what might well be the smallest hotel room she had ever seen.
Oh, right. Paris.
Where she was on any given morning had become a recurring exercise in disorientation over the past few months. First LA, then France, England, Seattle, Portugal, England again, and France. Again. At least she was adding tons of new stamps to her passport. After the match this afternoon—Champions League quarterfinals—most of their Arsenal teammates would board a train bound for the Chunnel while Jamie and Britt caught a flight back to LA for the national team’s final residency camp before the World Cup. Camp would already be in full swing when they arrived. They would only be a day late, but still, it was almost enough to make Jamie wish she hadn’t agreed to compete with Arsenal in Champions League. A contract was a contract, though, and when she’d made the decision, she hadn’t known she would end up starting for the national team.
Starting for the national team. Like, for real? That shit was mindboggling.
The Algarve Cup felt a little like a dream now. After her own injury struggles, Jamie would never wish harm on anyone, especially not one of her idols from when she was younger. But as Melanie had said to her in Portugal, injuries often paved the way for other players to step up and show the coaching staff what they had to offer.
“You’re on the right track, Max,” Mel had told her at training the day after they’d tied Iceland. Despite the outcome, Jamie felt like she’d played well. She’d nearly assisted on two goals—first to Maddie on a shot the midfielder had struck over the crossbar, and later to Jenny, whose shot had ricocheted off the left post. In the game against Switzerland, she’d notched a picture-perfect assist to Ellie’s prolific head. That was enough to keep her going through a hundred near misses.
“You think so?” she’d asked Mel.
“I know so,” her favorite assistant coach had replied. “You’re starting in the final.”
A thrill had shivered its way across Jamie’s spine. “I am?”
“You are.” Mel had held up her hand. “Play well tomorrow and the six is yours to lose, kiddo.”
Jamie had slapped her hand possibly a bit too hard, judging from the coach’s wince, but she couldn’t help it. A national team coach had just told her that she was on her way to a starting position on the freaking World Cup team! Jamie had never been one to play things cool. She wasn’t about to start now.
To be honest, she’d never seen herself as a defensive midfielder. She would definitely be following in vaunted footsteps. The defensive midfield role had been made famous by such greats as Arsenal’s French star, Patrick Vieira; Chelsea standout and, again, Frenchman Claude Makelele; United’s Irish talisman Roy Keane; and American legend Michelle Akers—who, not incidentally, had graduated from Emma’s high school in the ’80s. Not bad company to find oneself in.
Smiling a little now, she stared up at the ceiling of the tiny hotel room, remembering how it had felt to hoist her first-ever trophy with the national team, knowing that she had contributed substantially to the win. Amazing, that was how it had felt. It still did a week and a half later, too.
She had Emma, a starting spot on the national team, money in the bank, healthy family members—what else was there, really? Except maybe a loss today so they wouldn’t have to face Lyon in the semis. Arsenal had somehow played PSG to a scoreless tie in North London five days earlier, which meant a win or a tie (with at least one away goal) today would put them through to the Champions League semis.
Jamie didn’t really want to lose to Paris, of course. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could avoid Lyon forever. FIFA had just announced that France had been selected to host the 2019 World Cup. Every single game would be on grass—which would be a massive improvement over Canada—but the opening match and the finals would be played in Lyon, of all places. Jamie would probably be better off trying to exorcise her demons before the next World Cup cycle.
Beside her, Britt started awake with a snort. Slowly, she stretched her arms over her head and twisted until both of her shoulders popped.
“Gross,” Jamie said, snickering. Keepers and their shoulders usually operated on a love-hate basis, and Britt was no exception.
Her friend blinked at her sleepily. “You’re awake?”
“Yep.” Jamie refrained from commenting on the near impossibility of sleeping through her roommate’s nasal reverberations. No need to make Britt feel bad for something she couldn’t help.
“Did I tell you Allie set up an appointment for me at a sleep clinic in DC?” Britt asked as she sat up in bed and scrubbed her hands through her bed head. “She’s worried I might have sleep apnea and won’t wake up one morning.”
“Is that even a possibility?” Jamie asked, kicking her covers off and sliding her feet over the edge of the bed.
“Allie thinks it is. Apparently a friend of her family died from it in his 40s.”
“Crap,” Jamie said, stepping into her slippers. That wouldn’t be Britt, would it?
“At least I wouldn’t have to worry about that for a while. Do you want the first shower? Assuming you can manage to spend less than an hour in there.”
“Ha, ha.” Jamie threw one of her pillows at Britt, but the other woman snagged it out of the air and added it to her existing pile.
“I’m serious, James. Team breakfast waits for no one.”
“Twenty minutes, I promise.”
Britt reached for her phone. “Whatever you say.”
Their 40s seemed like eons away, Jamie thought a few minutes later as she soaped up in the hotel room’s narrow shower stall. For a moment, she let herself daydream about what her life would look like in a decade and a half. Would she and Emma be married with kids and a mortgage and all the other trappings of the American Dream? More importantly, would their trophy case contain matching World Cup gold medals? Or maybe not more importantly. Probably she shouldn’t mention that little mental slip to Emma, her potential future wife and baby mama.
First things first. For now she had to focus on playing soccer with a team she hadn’t seen much of since the fall. Fortunately, everyone else was in the same boat. Arsenal’s preseason had just started, and since Jamie hadn’t gone home between the Algarve Cup and Champions League, she had gotten in a few days of practice with her former side. She was currently missing preseason with the Thorns, but she would be lucky to play in even a quarter of her NWSL club’s matches this season. Jo had already informed the players that once the final training camp began at the beginning of May, they were US Soccer property first and foremost. Those who made the final cut, anyway.
Aargh. She couldn’t wait until the roster announcement next month. And yet, at the same time, she really, genuinely could.
She shut off the water and reached for her towel. Maybe breakfast with the team would keep her over-active worry center occupied.
Britt pretended to frown when Jamie emerged from the bathroom. “That was only fifteen minutes. Did the hotel run out of hot water?”
“Fuck off,” Jamie said, but she was smiling as she reached for her team sweats. It was game day, and they were about to have breakfast in the City of Lights. Not bad, really. Not bad at all.
#
They won. They actually beat PSG at home in Paris. The game had been tied until the 75th minute when Arsenal earned a free kick in PSG’s defensive third. At the whistle, Jamie lofted the ball into the box, aiming for Jeannie’s prominent head. A simple flick from Arsenal’s tallest player, and they were up. PSG pressed like crazy for the next 15 minutes, but Arsenal managed to preserve the shut-out. Britt was brilliant, a point their coach made sure to stress during the team’s brief field-side celebration.
“Way to go, bud,” Jamie told her best friend a little while later as they caught a cab to the airport. “You were totally amazing! Two shut-outs in a row against one of the best clubs in Europe—yeah, boy!”
Britt ducked her head, and Jamie felt sure she was about to
downplay her role in their victory. But then she lifted her chin and grinned. “I was pretty amazing, wasn’t I? I believe—”
“—that we have won!” Jamie finished with her, laughing. They repeated the phrase, and then, as the cab delivered them to Charles de Gaulle and they checked in, they repeated a variation on a common theme: I believe we have arrived! I believe we are checked in! I believe this terminal is interminable! I believe our flight’s delayed!
Actually, that last one wasn’t funny. Because while Jamie was psyched they’d beaten PSG to advance out of Champions League quarters, she was less impressed by the fact that their late arrival at camp would now be even later, judging from the flashing sign at their gate. It didn’t even offer a new estimate, only the wildly unhelpful word: DELAYED.
While Britt plopped into a chair at their gate and called Allie, Jamie paced the carpeted strip near the window, waiting for Emma to pick up. But she didn’t, so Jamie contented herself with a message: “Our flight is delayed. No new ETA. I’ll keep you posted. Love you!”
She’d already texted Emma about their win practically before the game was even over, and Emma had sent back tons of happy emojis. This message would garner significantly fewer of those, Jamie would bet.
A call to the national team manager yielded better results. Within half an hour, their tickets had been changed and they were on a new flight that would get them into LA—sooner, actually, thanks to a shorter layover in Vancouver, BC.
“What about our luggage?” Jamie asked Fitzy, thinking of her Algarve Cup medal—her first with the senior side. She knew she shouldn’t have checked it.
“It’ll arrive eventually,” Fitzy said. “And when it does, we’ll have it delivered to the training center.”
“Okay,” Jamie said, trying to tamp down her worry. It was only a hunk of medal, after all, and she already had a sizable collection of similar hardware taking up space in her childhood bedroom.
She and Britt shouldered their carry-on bags and sprinted across the airport, only pausing long enough to check the gate assignment Fitzy had given them. They reached the new gate with only a few minutes to spare, and after checking in with the desk agent, they were jogging down the empty gangway and stepping onto the nearly-full flight. Their seats weren’t together on this flight, so they waved and went to find their separate rows on the huge jet. Jamie had barely buckled her seatbelt when the plane pulled away from the terminal and began its long, slow trek to the runway.
The Road to Canada Page 8