The Road to Canada

by Kate Christie

  “It says here,” Emma added, her voice surprisingly steady, “that the Arch was designed to sway up to eighteen inches in either direction in order to withstand earthquakes and winds in excess of a hundred and fifty miles per hour.”

  Angie ran a hand over her carefully coiffed hair. “Good to know.”

  Maddie flashed a smile at Emma. “Always pays to bring the nerd squad along.”

  “You know it,” Emma said.

  Jamie was impressed with how unafraid she appeared, especially since she knew that Emma disliked heights as much as Angie did. The Arch had not been high on Emma’s list of local attractions (ahem), but she’d agreed to go when the coaches gave them the afternoon off. Getting out of her comfort zone was something Jamie knew Emma took seriously, and this trip offered that opportunity for both of them.

  Playing for Arsenal had taken Jamie to every major city in the UK and a number of European cities as well, but there were still plenty of locales across the United States where she had yet to set foot. Places, in fact, she had never intended to visit. The increasingly bitter partisan divide between “red” and “blue” America meant that she had little interest in visiting states that had long sought to ban relationships like hers and Emma’s or communities that actively legislated against people like her. Why would she want to contribute to local economies that refused to recognize her humanity?

  It wasn’t just the money aspect that kept her out of red states, either. She was a genderqueer lesbian who was sometimes mistaken for a man, and that could be a damning combination—particularly in conservative communities. The political divide in the so-called Union meant there were areas of the US she wasn’t sure she would feel safe, looking like she did and loving whom she loved: Texas, Alabama, Oklahoma, and (ironically for a woman-loving-woman) both states that started with “Miss.” Dirty looks weren’t violent in and of themselves, but there was no way to know whose hostility stayed on the surface and whose ran significantly deeper. A nasty look might just be a nasty look, or it could be the precursor to a violent act. That was why Jamie preferred not to travel to certain parts of the country. Why risk antagonizing the wrong person simply by being who she was?

  And yet for all of her preconceptions, St. Louis, it turned out, was a Genuine Soccer City. This had become evident the night they arrived when they were greeted by the largest airport crowd Jamie had ever encountered. The hordes of preteen and teenage girls waiting at baggage claim with painted faces and handwritten signs had been a surprising but welcome sight. Most of the signs were for Lisa Wall, the “hometown” favorite who had played every minute so far of 2015 and would likely play many more minutes in the coming months. Lisa had moved to Southern California as a teenager to improve her soccer opportunities, but her extended family still lived in and around St. Louis, and Missouri still claimed her as one of their own.

  Jamie and the other former U-23ers had smiled fondly as Lisa glanced around baggage claim, waving at familiar faces and pointing out local soccer club banners, her face alight with happy surprise. And then Lisa froze, her smile growing impossibly wide. She dropped her carry-on and sprinted across the tile floor, barely slowing before slamming into her boyfriend, Andre. His arms closed around her and he spun her around, both of them laughing as the crowd murmured its approval.

  “Did you know he was coming?” Angie had asked.

  “No,” Jamie had admitted. “I had no idea.”

  She’d watched their reunion with Emma standing nearby but not too close, and she’d wondered: Did Lisa know how lucky she was that her relationship was officially sanctioned by the federation? It wasn’t just a non-teammate relationship that US Soccer supported. It was two happy, shiny heterosexuals whose successful long-term relationship the federation could point to. Not to mention the person of color box US Soccer could check every time they included Lisa in a promotion or feature, as the defender had pointed out more than once.

  But that sense of tokenism never survived meeting a little girl who looked like her, Lisa had confided. There had been a few players of color on the ’99 team, but no starters in field positions that young girls of color could identify with. Serving as a role model for girls and other women who routinely received the message that they weren’t enough—not smart enough, pretty enough, or good enough—because of their skin color kept Lisa from turning down promotional opportunities, she’d said, even when she felt like she was being used. The opportunity to do good was too powerful to ignore.

  Jamie and a few other lesser-known players had hung out in the background while Lisa greeted the crowd, posing for selfies and signing jerseys, posters, T-shirts, and soccer balls. The other starters made their rounds, too, drawn into conversations and photo ops with girls who wore their numbers and held posters bearing their names or who called out eagerly to them. Jamie had been careful not to encroach on Emma’s space. While she didn’t necessarily get Emma’s paranoia about being seen in public together, she had agreed to respect it, and that meant keeping her distance in front of fans and non-fans alike.

  The same went for here in the Gateway Arch, where they were surrounded by mostly tourists, if she had to guess. A handful of people in the lobby had done double takes, and a few others stared at them now, whispering to each other as the group of four women in casual, non-athletic clothes (for once) passed by, one reading determinedly from a Frommer’s guide book as the building swayed slightly in the wind.

  Jamie itched to take Emma’s hand, to place her hand protectively at the base of her spine. Emma always said Jamie’s touch soothed her, and Jamie believed her because the same was true for her. But they weren’t alone. In fact, that girl on one side of the observation deck was actually taking a picture of them with her phone, if Jamie wasn’t mistaken. Possibly a video? Maybe both.

  “What year was it built, again?” she asked Emma, relieved when her girlfriend launched into a detailed account of the Arch’s construction.

  Maddie was right. It did pay to have the nerd squad along.

  #

  As the game against New Zealand neared, it became even clearer that St. Louis was a Genuine Soccer City. Two days out, Fitzy informed the team that nearly 34,000 tickets had been purchased. That meant the game was on track to sell more tickets than any other standalone friendly in the program’s history. A game in Kansas City during the 1999 Victory Tour had sold just over 36,000 tickets, according to the team’s history books—and really, did Missourians love soccer that much, or was it that there wasn’t anything else to do around here?

  “Shut it,” Lisa said when Jamie posed this question as they stretched out their legs side-by-side at the end of their next-to-last training session. “I told you they like soccer here. You were just too West Coast biased to believe me.”

  A shadow passed over them and paused, and Jamie glanced over her shoulder, blinking up at the haloed figure: Jo.

  “Come find me back at the hotel, Maxwell, all right?” she said.

  Jamie swallowed hard and nodded, hoping her terror didn’t show on her face. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jo bit her lip as she turned away, almost as if she was trying not to smile. And, okay, maybe the ma’am had been too much. But Jamie couldn’t help being nervous. The coaching staff had been meeting one-on-one with players all week to discuss the World Cup roster, and Jamie was one of the players on the bubble. At some point in the near future—tonight, even?—she was either going to see her dreams once again crushed beneath the USWNT coaching staff’s boots, or have her year made. No, her decade. NO, HER CENTURY.

  Obviously, she was hoping for the latter.

  After dinner, she holed up alone in her room and paced its narrow confines long enough to make it seem like she wasn’t desperate to find out what was on Jo’s mind. Finally, when she’d deemed enough time had passed—or maybe just when she couldn’t take the dread/anticipation another bloody second—she took the hotel stairs three at a time, managing somehow not to trip and break her neck. Jo’s room was halfway down
the corridor, away from the stairs and elevators, and Jamie jogged toward it, relieved no one else seemed to be around. Once she reached the door, she paused, fist raised to knock.

  This is it, she thought. Ellie claimed she had it in the bag, as did Emma. After all, they’d pointed out over dinner, she had started the last three matches. Her spot on the roster had to be secure. But Jamie had had her heart broken too many times to believe in guarantees. Until she knew for sure that she was being offered an official roster spot, she couldn’t afford to view her time on the senior team as anything other than temporary. For all she knew, Jo was about to tell her that they’d heard from Steph and she would be back and ready to play for the May friendlies. Thank you for filling in, but we no longer need your services.

  Jamie didn’t really think Jo would say something like that, but at the same time, she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t, either.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and repeated her calming mantra: Om lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu. May all beings everywhere be happy and free. Including, preferably, her. Ironically, the thing that would make her happiest involved the opposite of freedom: signing her name to a contract that would bind her irrevocably to US Soccer. At least, for an agreed-upon term.

  Before one of her teammates could find her standing outside Jo’s room on the verge of hyperventilating, she lifted her hand and knocked.

  The door opened a moment later, and Jo smiled out at her. Jamie was slightly taller than the national team head coach, which always felt a little odd because that had not been the case the first time they’d met. Back then, Jamie had still been a gangly, awkward teen—a bean pole, according to Emma—not entirely in control of her body. Actually, that was how she felt now as Jo waved her into the hotel suite. Her arms and legs felt jerky and out of synch, and once again she was glad none of her teammates were here to bear witness. The assistant coaches, thankfully, were MIA as well.

  “Have a seat,” Jo said, waving at the uncomfortable-looking couch in the living area.

  Jamie dropped onto one end, and sure enough, it was little better than sitting on a bench. What was it with hotels and their crappy lounge furniture? Maybe they thought their customers would be driven by discomfort to partake of the ludicrously expensive contents of the mini-fridge. Speaking of… She eyed the nearby fridge longingly. She didn’t really like beer, but a miniature can of Bud would hit the spot right about now, even if it did cost seven dollars.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Jo asked.

  Jamie shook her head quickly and held up her water bottle. “Nope! I’m good.” She only just held back the “ma’am” waiting to free itself. Good start.

  “So, Jamie, how are you feeling?” Jo asked as she sat down on a nearby armchair. “You haven’t had much of a chance to rest lately, have you, given how Arsenal’s post-season is going.”

  “Not really,” Jamie admitted, her eyes wandering to the coffee table between them. A folder with her name on it sat just out of reach, and she stared at it briefly before dragging her gaze back to Jo. “But. Yeah. I’m good. Feeling great. Ready to go for sure.”

  “Glad to hear it. Should we skip the small talk? I feel like maybe we should skip the small talk.”

  Jamie nodded so quickly she almost made herself dizzy.

  “Right.” Jo leaned forward and tapped the folder. “First of all, you’re getting the start in the six again on Saturday. I believe Mel has mentioned that we’re pleased with the way you’ve stepped up in Steph’s absence?”

  Jamie nodded again but kept her mouth shut, mildly concerned that something unexpected might emerge if she opened it.

  “I spoke with Steph earlier today, and her prognosis is not looking good. Her medical team is giving a best case recovery scenario at eight weeks, which puts us right at the beginning of the World Cup.”

  “Man, that sucks,” Jamie said, disappointed for the veteran star. Steph had come onto the team after the 2004 Olympics, and this summer would likely be her last chance to play in a World Cup. Losing her veteran leadership was a blow that would take time for the team to recover from, too, assuming they even could.

  “It does suck,” Jo agreed. “Injury is a part of the game, but you hate to see someone go out in a big year. What it means for the team, however, is that a top tier roster spot is coming open.”

  “It is?” Jamie stared at the coach. They weren’t holding Steph’s roster spot in the off-chance she would be ready in time?

  Jo nodded. “Steph still has a contract with the federation. As I think you know, a player can’t be terminated due to injury. However, their contract can be renewed at a lower tier, and that’s what’s about to happen.”

  Holy crap. This was huge. The national team had eighteen upper tier and six lower tier roster spots that they reconfigured twice a year. Up until now, Jamie had assumed that the upper tier spots were fixed and that the six lower tier spots were the ones in play for the World Cup roster. But if Steph had been bumped down, who would be bumped up?

  Wait. A thought occurred to Jamie, but she pushed it down fast and hard. Nope. Just, nope.

  “Steph and I discussed the situation, and do you know what she said?” Jo asked, elbows on her knees as she leaned forward.

  Jamie tried to keep her feet on the hotel carpet steady and not jumping all the hell over. “No.” Ma’am.

  “She said we better give you her spot because you’re the best thing to happen to the US midfield since she came along.”

  “I… what?” Jamie stared at Jo, her mouth open.

  The coach laughed. “That’s exactly how I thought you would react. The staff and I agree with Steph’s assessment, which is why we’re promoting you. For the next six months, you’ll be in position eighteen on the permanent roster. Assuming you want it, of course.”

  “Want it? Oh my god, of course I want it!” Jamie exclaimed, grinning wide enough to strain her facial muscles.

  Jo opened the folder and slid a packet across the table to her. “Normally we wouldn’t do things like this, but I know you’re leaving for France after the game and I didn’t want to have this conversation over the telephone. Also, the timeframe is somewhat constricted given that the NWSL allocation announcement goes out next week. We’ll need to have the paperwork squared away by then.”

  Jamie stared down at the packet, her eyes catching on the US Soccer logo at the top. “So this is really happening? I’m not about to wake up to Britt’s impersonation of a diesel engine?”

  “This is definitely not a dream. Or, at least, not the kind you wake up from. You’ve earned this, kiddo. The other coaches and I agree—you’re the number six for this team right now. With you on the field, we stand an even better chance at winning this summer. And we already stand a damn good chance.”

  Reverently, Jamie picked up the stapled sheaf of papers and began leafing through it. Her temporary contract was a page and a half. This contract was significantly longer. She already knew about some of the clauses Emma had to abide by, from social media participation to “lifestyle” rules and requirements. For a moment, Jamie hesitated. Did she really want to sign away her rights to the US Soccer behemoth and become another cog in FIFA’s corporate consumption of the beautiful game?

  Um, yes. HELL yes.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Jo said, “so I’m not asking for a decision tonight. You’ll need to talk everything over with your rep before you sign. Fitzy says you’re working with Joel Rubin’s firm?”

  Jamie nodded. She’d signed with Sparks Sports Management after the Nike call the previous week and listed them with the federation as her registered intermediary. Ellie had counseled her to let the Sparks folks manage off-the-field business and not let it occupy too much of her brain, but Jamie would be lying if she said she hadn’t been losing a perfectly normal amount of sleep over the idea of becoming a Nike-sponsored athlete. This news about her future on the national team should make those negotiations go even more smoothly, she assumed.


  She leaned back on the stiff couch as the realization hit her: It was actually happening—she was about to become a US Soccer regular with a Nike contract. All those times her body had betrayed her just as she stood on the brink of realizing her dreams, all those years she’d spent thinking her chances at making the national team were over, finished, kaput, all the tears she’d cried and all the pain she’d gone through were over and done with. Today her story changed.

  Today, she belonged.

  Barely more than a year ago, she’d been lying on her bed in the house she’d grown up in, nearly despondent over Craig’s decision to cut her from the program. She could remember staring up at the glow-in-the-dark constellations she’d picked out as a child and wondering if it might be time to cast her soccer dreams aside. Then fate—and Jo Nichols—had intervened, and Emma and Ellie and Angie and Maddie and Britt and the rest of their friends had stuck by her, and now here she was in a St. Louis hotel on the eve of the World Cup, getting ready to play for her country in front of a crowd of 35,000 Americans as a newly-minted member of the national team’s permanent roster.

  Or about-to-be-minted, anyway. At this point she didn’t even really care about the small print on the contract. She would sign it this minute if Jo asked her to and deal with buyer’s remorse later.

  Jo’s eyes were soft as she watched Jamie. “What do you think, kid? Want me to have Fitzy messenger a copy to Sparks tomorrow?”

  “Yes, please,” Jamie said. She stood up from the couch, the restless energy swirling through her suddenly too great to resist. “Thank you, Jo. I’m serious. This means so fucking much to me. Oh, sorry.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit—I mean, god, I’m so sorry!”

  Jo was laughing as she stood up and stepped around the table, her arms open. “Get in here, Max.”

  As her coach’s arms closed around her, Jamie felt tears pricking her eyes and had to swallow past a growing lump in her throat. This really was it. They really were making her a rostered player on the United States Women’s National Team.