Holy crap—she could finally add #USWNT to her Twitter bio.
“Congratulations,” Jo said, her voice as firm as her hug. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves this more.” She pulled away, hands resting on Jamie’s shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “I told you I believed you could come out the other side of all of this as a stronger, more focused player, and here you are, Jamie. You did it. This is the culmination of your hard work and your positive attitude. Now, are you ready to go out there tomorrow and show this nation who you are?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jamie said fervently.
Jo smiled and squeezed her shoulders. “Welcome to the show, kid. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Jo.”
“You’re very welcome. Now, go get some sleep. We need you well rested tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Jamie said, even though she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to sleep again.
“And Jamie,” Jo added as she walked her to the door.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“I want you to remember, you earned this. No one is giving you a free pass here. Got it?”
Jamie frowned slightly, unable to fully parse this statement. “Got it.”
They slapped hands at the door and Jamie practically floated down the hallway, her momentary confusion already forgotten. She felt buoyant, ecstatic, energized as if she had just scored the game-winner in the World Cup final. Or, you know, what she imagined such a feat would feel like. Maybe if she played well enough, she would actually get a chance to experience that feeling in real life. Now that she was a fully contracted member of the top tier of the US Women’s National Team (!!!!!), that was an actual possibility.
She didn’t remember running down the stairs to her floor. Suddenly she was just in the corridor, pausing in front of a particular room. She knocked, her knuckles rapping smartly against the surface.
A moment later, it opened to reveal an expectant Emma, still dressed in the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn to dinner. “Well? What did she say?”
“I got the eighteenth roster spot!” Jamie whisper-yelled, grinning as widely as she ever had.
Emma’s smile matched hers as she pulled Jamie into a hug, spinning her off the ground and into her room. “I told you it would happen!” As the door closed, she stopped spinning and set Jamie down. “Wait, the eighteenth spot?”
“It was Steph’s idea,” Ellie said from behind Emma, nudging her out of the way so she could give Jamie an enthusiastic bro hug. “Way to go, Max! I’m so psyched for you. And for the team, of course,” she added, winking as she tousled Jamie’s hair.
Jamie squirmed away, trying to hold onto a semblance of dignity.
“Steph’s not going to be back in time for Canada?” Emma asked, her smile losing a few wattage points.
“No,” Jamie confirmed, sobering slightly. “She’s eight weeks out at best, Jo said.”
“Crap,” Emma said.
“I know.” As much as Jamie loved getting a spot on the team, she didn’t love the idea of Steph losing hers.
“I’m not surprised to hear she supports you, though,” Emma added.
“Neither am I,” Ellie agreed. “She’s one of your biggest fans. I mean, after the two of us, of course.”
“Aw, man,” Jamie said, ducking her head as she felt her cheeks warm.
Emma and Ellie both laughed at her, and then, before Jamie could recover, Ellie grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. “Come on, Max. Let’s go have a captain’s meeting. It’s a tradition whenever a new player is rostered.”
“Oh. Um.” Jamie glanced over her shoulder at Emma, who looked as peeved by this turn of events as Jamie felt. “I guess I’ll talk to you later?”
Emma nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Out in the hallway, Jamie reminded herself that the woman who was waylaying her intended celebration with Emma was an American legend. But soaking in Ellie’s presence didn’t have quite the same effect it used to. She supposed that happened when you lived in someone’s basement.
They were halfway down the corridor when Ellie stopped and smacked her forehead dramatically. “Doh! I forgot, I already have a meeting tonight with Phoebes. One that will take at least an hour, I would think.”
“What?”
“I said, I have a meeting that will keep me out of my room for the next hour,” Ellie repeated. She winked at Jamie and turned to stroll off down the hall. “See you later, Max.”
Plausible deniability, Jamie thought, her natural affection for the national team captain returning in spades. She waited until Ellie had turned a corner and disappeared from view before racing back down the hall and rapping on Emma’s door.
“What are you doing he—?”
But Emma didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before Jamie’s lips were on hers.
After a moment, Jamie broke away to kick the door shut and make sure it was locked before unsubtly herding Emma toward her bed.
“We have an hour,” she said, tugging at Emma’s shirt.
“I love Ellie,” Emma said as she obliged, pulling her shirt off over her head.
“Same.” Jamie tackled her, laughing, onto the bed. “But I love you more.”
“Ditto, nerd.”
An hour was an almost luxurious amount of time, Jamie thought as she reached for the clasp on Emma’s bra. She damn well intended to make the most of it.
Chapter Nine
“All right,” Jo said, looking around the locker room. “There’s a fantastic crowd out there, as I’m sure we’ve all noticed. We need to come out of the gates on fire. Be strong and determined in the final third. Let’s get lots of goals today.”
“Boo-yah!” Phoebe said.
They were standing in their pre-game locker room huddle, arms loose around each other’s shoulders, a single moving, breathing entity. The crowd had grown as they warmed up, and now they could hear it like distant thunder overhead, the muffled cacophony of singing, shouting, and banging drums. Emma gripped Maddie’s and Gabe’s shoulders, trying to ground herself. She shouldn’t be so nervous before a friendly. What had her club coach always said was the antidote to nerves? Playing simply and paying attention to the flow of the game. Back to basics.
“Use the crowd to your advantage,” Ellie added as the coaches and non-starters filed out of the room. “It doesn’t get better than this. Use the energy in the stadium, work for each other, and have fun out there. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
Outside the locker room, the coaching and support staff lined the hallway. The starting players walked the gauntlet, slapping hands and exchanging decisive nods with their coaches. As Ellie had suggested, Emma used the energy in the corridor and beyond to psych herself up, to push down her nervousness, to get herself in the right frame of mind to not only play but to WIN. Win every footrace, win every 50-50 ball, win the freaking game, already.
Play simply and leave it all on the field, she reminded herself as they approached the team of little girls who would stand beside them during the playing of the national anthems. Then they were in the tunnel, listening to the fans only a few feet away, still shouting and singing and stamping their feet. Thirty-five thousand wasn’t that much less than the number of people who lived in her Seattle suburb. She took a measured breath, letting the noise wash over her. Ellie was right. The crowd would help them today if they used their energy. The Twelfth Man phenomenon was real—which, as a resident of Seattle, she could attest to.
It helped that the fans in question were knowledgeable about the game. From the signs she’d seen and the songs and chants she’d heard during warm-up, Emma suspected that the people who had shown up this afternoon were not just random soccer aficionados. In fact, she would bet that many of today’s ticketholders remembered the late goal against Canada in London three years earlier that had sent the US team to the gold medal match, just as they probably remembered Ellie’s last-minute header against Brazil in stoppage time in the 2011 World Cup quarterfinals. What mem
ories would this summer’s games provide? It gave Emma chills just to imagine it. But for now, the US needed a good result against New Zealand to demonstrate that the feeling they’d had at residency camp of coming together as a team could translate into on-field success.
Emma smiled down at the little girl standing beside her. She couldn’t wait to get out there and freaking START.
At a signal from someone out of sight, the head referee stepped out into the light, her head held high. The US team, led by Phoebe, and the New Zealand team, led by their own captain, followed. The little girl Emma had been paired with squeaked slightly as they emerged onto the field and the sheer size of the crowd became apparent.
Emma squeezed her hand reassuringly and said just loudly enough to be heard, “I like your cleats. Pink is one of my favorite colors, too.”
It worked. The little girl beamed up at her as they passed the Fox Sports camera, and Emma smiled back. Then she followed Phoebe, Lisa, and Ryan onto the field for introductions and the playing of both national anthems.
She had played in front of large crowds before, of course. The US had faced Japan in the last World Cup final in front of nearly 50,000 fans, while their rematch a year later at the 2012 Olympics had drawn a record 80,000 spectators to Wembley Stadium. But she’d never seen a crowd like this in the US. At least, not as a player. She’d been lucky enough to attend the ’99 World Cup final in Pasadena, where 90,000 other soccer fans had withstood the scorching temperatures and unrelenting sun to cheer on the US women to victory against China.
She wasn’t the only one on the current team who had been at the Rose Bowl that day. As the New Zealand anthem droned on, Emma leaned forward and tried to catch Jamie’s eye, knowing the cameras would be focused on close-up shots of the other team. Jamie didn’t notice at first, but Maddie, who was standing on the other side of Taylor O’Brien, elbowed her. Jamie scowled slightly before following Maddie’s line of vision. Then her face cleared and she smiled broadly at Emma.
Their first start together on American soil was happening in front of tens of thousands of screaming Americans. Emma couldn’t help but smile back. Then she leaned back into the line and focused on the game again, shaking out her legs to keep her muscles warm and to give her usual pre-game jitters an outlet. Her quads felt a little tired, to be honest. She flushed slightly as she remembered why. Jamie’s happiness at being promoted to the regular roster two nights earlier had been prodigious, naturally, and Ellie’s decision to absent herself from their room for the hour before curfew had provided ample time to celebrate. Just thinking about it now made Emma’s heart rate tick up.
She shook her head and jumped in place, chastising herself for thinking of anything other than the game ahead. But she couldn’t help it. Jamie was not only the hottest woman in the national team pool (in Emma’s obviously unbiased opinion), she was also an officially rostered player, the starting six, and a soon-to-be Nike athlete.
Life was freaking good.
The anthems finally ended, and soon both teams were lining up on their respective ends of the field. Emma squeezed Jamie’s shoulder as they passed, careful not to linger too long. She didn’t look back, but she could feel Jamie’s gaze on her as she joined Phoebe and the other defenders at the top of the box. It was another perfect soccer day, and just as she had against France in the Algarve final, Emma could feel it: They were going to win this game.
The starting whistle finally came, and Emma did her part to execute the coaching staff’s strategy. Since Jo had taken over the previous year, she and her assistants had encouraged the players to spread the field, change the point of attack frequently, and maximize flank play. Jo routinely stressed the four Ps of offense: patience, progression, probing, and most of all, possession. On defense she added the fifth and final P: pressure. As soon as they lost the ball, the US players’ job was basically to hound the other team until they forced a turnover.
At the Algarve, Jo’s tactics had produced obvious returns. As a result, there had been a significant shift in the level of buy-in not only among the press but also among the players. Today would be another test of Jo’s full-team attacking mentality—a much more public, heavily viewed test than any of the Algarve games had been. Fortunately, they were up to the challenge. In the 14th minute, capitalizing on a turnover in the New Zealand midfield, Jamie seized the ball and played a give-and-go with Jenny, who slotted a perfect through ball into the box. Emma was already lifting her arms as Jamie took her shot. The ball was still rising when it rocketed into the back of the net, giving Team USA the early lead.
“Hell yeah!” Emma shouted, her voice drowned out by the deafening surge of the home crowd.
Ellie and Jenny reached her first, but Jamie turned in Emma’s direction as the other two enveloped her in a bear hug. Emma sprinted up the field to launch herself into Jamie’s arms, holding on tightly as their other teammates milled about them. This day really couldn’t get any better, she thought, grinning into Jamie’s eyes. Which was a sports jinx, but in the best way possible.
“You rock,” Emma said over the noise of the cheering crowd.
“Thanks, Em,” Jamie said, her eyes conveying her happiness even more than the shit-eating grin occupying her face.
Emma gazed around the stadium as they walked back to their end of the field, her eyes absorbing the colorful banners and uniforms on display in the stands. It was amazing to feel all the love and support flowing from the fans to the players on the field. She caught Jamie’s eye as they got set for New Zealand’s kick-off. This was special—not just playing for the USWNT but playing together for their country. This was their mutual childhood dream put into action, and Emma, for one, hoped it wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Jamie nodded at her, face solemn now as if she knew exactly what Emma was thinking. Probably, Emma thought as the whistle blew, she did.
The US continued to be dangerous throughout the rest of the first half, but they didn’t score again until the 76th minute, when Lisa, the hometown hero, blasted home a pass from Gabe on a short corner. Two minutes later, Emma joined the offense on a free kick and, just as she’d done against France at the Algarve, buried a header on a ball that Jamie placed directly into her path. This time it was Jamie’s turn to sprint across the field to congratulate her with a victory hug.
“You’re amazing!” Jamie said as she hugged her.
“No, you are!” Emma insisted, laughing.
“For fuck’s sake, we all are,” Maddie said, crushing them both against her.
Well, Emma thought as they jogged back for another New Zealand kick-off, we are.
The final score: 4-0.
After shaking hands and cooling down with the team, Emma and Jamie stuck around with a handful of other players to sign autographs and take selfies with the fans who had come down to field level. They stayed for an extra half hour, soaking up the afternoon sun, chatting with young girls, signing jerseys, and snapping selfies with excited fans beaming the star-struck smile Emma had grown to recognize over the years. At last, one of the national team’s interns signaled that it was time to get going, so they waved at the few remaining fans and ducked into the field-level tunnel that led to the locker room. There, they showered and dressed quickly. The rest of the team was probably waiting for them on the bus by now, anxious to get back to the hotel for dinner. The game had started at three, and lunch was a long ways away by now.
As they left the locker room and started making their way through the concrete corridors beneath the stadium, Emma teased Jenny, another of the stragglers, about her lack of offensive fire power on the day.
“Y’all strikers need to get your butts in gear,” she said as they neared the stadium exit. “I mean, I don’t mind doing your job, but it is a little embarrassing when all the scoring comes from the defense.”
The fourth and final goal had come in the 81st minute off a corner kick that had sailed well over the crowd in front of the box. From the opposite wing, Taylor had chipped the ball
back in only to have the New Zealand defense clear it. But the clear had lacked power, and Ryan was waiting at the top of the box when the ball rolled toward her on the ground looking for all the world like a perfectly weighted pass. Her low, hard shot had tucked into the left side net, well out of the goalkeeper’s reach.
“Whatever,” Jenny said now, tossing her long hair still damp from the showers. “I thought we played well as a unit. Besides, you heard Jo. With the World Cup still two months away, we don’t want to peak too early.”
“Sure, Jan,” Emma said, smiling sideways at Jamie as her girlfriend snickered.
Jenny was smiling, too. It would be hard not to, Emma thought, after a game like today’s: perfect weather, a strong showing from every player on the field, and more than the usual appreciation from the stands. Not to mention a more than solid victory. Jo’s post-game talk had been encouraging. The team was on the right track, she’d assured them, and at the end of the game, it didn’t matter who scored as long as someone did.
They pushed through double doors and emerged into the cavernous underbelly of the stadium, where deliveries of all sorts were made. A few fans with signs and banners stood behind a temporary barrier that stretched between the stadium’s interior and the team bus, and Emma briefly admired their fortitude in waiting this long. This would be their last chance to see the team up close. Most of the players would be checking out in the morning and heading back to their club teams for the start of the NWSL season the following weekend. Not Jamie and Britt, though. They would be heading back to Europe for Champions League.
Emma almost wanted to ask Jamie not to go because how awful would it be to finally make the US roster only to get injured playing in Europe? But with the NWSL poised to start its regular season, the risk of injury was the same closer to home. While Jamie was in Europe, Portland would be playing the first three games of the NWSL season, including a match in Chicago.
That was actually better than Seattle’s start. Only one of the Reign’s three April matches would be played at home. The others would be in Chicago and Kansas City only a couple of weeks before the first World Cup send-off match in San Jose. Emma wasn’t looking forward to those turnarounds, either, but it was her job not only to represent her country at the international level but also to further the domestic women’s game. That meant giving the pro league her all whenever she could—and, also, stopping to say hello to the fans patiently waiting at the barrier even when all she wanted to do was get on the bus and go back to the hotel.
The Road to Canada Page 13