And, yeah, that wouldn’t be good teammate etiquette. Besides, if they lost tomorrow, which Jamie had assured her was likely, this would be their last night out together as a team. But Jamie had claimed she wasn’t overly stressed about this trip because her team would barely be in Lyon for 24 hours and nearly all of those hours would be spent in or near the stadium. What would it mean for her if that part of the plan changed?
Emma turned away from the sink. A few steps brought her to the doorway, and she lifted one of Jamie’s hands in hers, caressing the blue veins that shone through the fair skin at her wrist. “Are you sure you want to go? Like, a hundred percent certain?”
“No,” Jamie admitted, her eyes on Emma’s fingers making soothing circles against her skin. “But I don’t think there’s much of a choice. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to face the past. I mean, you’re here with me, and tomorrow’s game isn’t exactly high pressure.” As Emma’s eyebrows rose, Jamie added, “I told you, our odds of scoring multiple goals tomorrow are low, at best.”
Emma tapped her wrist. “Any given day, Jamie…”
“I’m just being realistic.” She rubbed her free hand through her hair. “I know you’re not a big believer in fate, but I’d like to believe that I’m here at this time and place for a reason. So, yeah. I’m going to roll with it.”
Jamie’s soccer gods were apparently at work again. Or, to be more geographically accurate, her football gods.
“Would you go with them if I weren’t here?” Emma asked.
“Yes, but I would be much whinier and significantly less happy about the prospect.” She tugged her hand from Emma’s grasp and slipped her arms around her waist, pulling her in for a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here. Thank you for coming all this way.”
“I’m glad I’m here too,” she said, twining her arms around Jamie’s neck and pressing her lips to her cheek. “And you don’t have to thank me. This is what girlfriends do.”
Jamie was silent for a moment, and Emma could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Was lying (by omission, Emma attempted to remind her telepathically) also something girlfriends were supposed to do? But Jamie didn’t voice the question out loud. Probably, Emma thought, she could only handle one emotional crisis at a time.
Honestly, that seemed like an excellent general rule.
#
The passenger van the taxi company provided fit the team—with a significant amount of scrunching. Emma willingly sat on Jamie’s lap, enjoying the way Jamie’s ears slowly reddened as they approached the city center. At least if she was distracted by the feel of Emma’s breath whispering against her neck, then she wasn’t thinking about the last time she had been to this city only a few months before they’d met.
Twelve years. They had known each other for twelve years. At some level, Emma had loved Jamie for every single one of those years. God, they’d wasted so much time. How many more years would they have to wait to live in the same city, let alone share a home? But at least they were together now. And for the first time since the football gods had deigned to bring them back into each other’s lives, they were both official members of the national team.
Appreciate what you have while you have it, Emma reminded herself, breathing in Jamie’s scent as the players chatted and the van crossed a low bridge over a wide river—the Rhône, Emma believed—and then turned to follow the river into the city. Their athletic careers were as impermanent and unguaranteed as their bodies were fallible. Their relationship wasn’t impervious, either. At any point, one of them could tire of the challenge of what was essentially a long-distance relationship and call it quits. Well, Emma probably wouldn’t. But Jamie was younger and had never experienced the maelstrom of the World Cup. There was no way to prepare for the tumult that surrounded the most important tournament in the world. You just had to get through it.
Kind of like tonight.
She could feel Jamie tensing beside her as the van turned at last from the river and headed into the narrow streets of the 1st arrondissement where, according to Jamie’s teammate (Anya? or was it Angela?), “the best, most authentic Lyonnaise bouchon” could be found. Also, the restaurant was run by all women, a fact Anya/Angela had thought they might appreciate.
“You okay?” Emma murmured in Jamie’s ear.
“Fine,” she said, but Emma wasn’t buying it.
“It’s not too late to go back to the hotel and make sweet, sweet love,” she offered.
Jamie’s shoulders shook as she tried to stifle a giggle.
“Hey, no secrets, Americanos,” Jeanie, the striker who had given Emma a hard time in London a few months earlier, called from the row behind them.
“Sorry,” Jamie replied sassily, and tightened her grip on Emma’s waist. “Thanks,” she added softly.
“Anytime,” Emma said. “And I mean anytime, Jamie...”
“Shush.” Jamie wasn’t quite smiling, but Emma would take it.
The van dropped them off in a section of the city that seemed more rundown than she would have expected. Many of the shop fronts had for rent signs and/or were peppered with spray paint. As they set off along the narrow street, Emma was glad the sun was still out for a few more hours. She took Jamie’s hand in hers, fully prepared not to let go until—well, maybe not until warm-up for the following day’s match. Jamie glanced at her gratefully and held on tight even after they reached the restaurant whose neatly painted exterior and elegant sign was noticeably at odds with the rest of the neighborhood.
The interior was just as unexpected. Rustic exposed beams, red-painted walls, and dark wood décor created a warm and inviting ambience, and the wait staff was friendly even in the face of the cadre of hungry, English-speaking athletes. Fortunately, it was still early for dinner by French standards, and Anya (it was Anya, Jamie had confirmed) had called ahead for a reservation. They were soon seated at a row of square tables that had been pressed together along one side of the dining room. It took a while to order, but the appetizers—salad, hearty bread with olive oil and balsamic, and pumpkin soup—tided everyone over nicely, as did multiple bottles of red wine.
As the meal wore on, Emma was glad to see that Jamie seemed to be enjoying herself. Dinner was as rowdy as their pub visit before the Arsenal-United match had been in November, all jokes and loud voices and louder laughter with the addition of the occasional subtle flinging of food. Emma was content once again to sit back and watch Jamie goof around with Britt and their Arsenal friends, several of whom would be playing for their respective national teams in Canada this summer.
Midway through the meal, she caught Amelia Brown, the English national team’s leading scorer and longtime captain, eyeing her from across the table, mouth pursed in a thin line. Or maybe that was just her resting bitch face. Hard to tell, really.
“What?” Emma asked, feeling her chin jut upward automatically at the challenge in the other woman’s eyes.
“I wasn’t offsides,” Amelia said.
Emma knew exactly what she was referring to, but she cocked her head to one side. “Against Lyon? Sorry, I didn’t see that game.”
Amelia huffed. “In February. I was even with Wall and you know it. That match should have been a tie.”
Jamie had mentioned that AB, as the team called her, was still hot under the collar about the offsides call that had given the US the win against England earlier in the year. Emma only shrugged. “I can’t help you there. Referees are human, you know?”
“So you admit it,” AB said, her brown eyes glinting.
“Knock it off, AB,” Jamie said, sliding back into her seat beside Emma. She’d left momentarily to “return” a piece of roll to its rightful owner at a nearby table. Now she stared evenly at the English national team captain. “Emma is here as an Arsenal fan, not as a US player. Right, babe?”
Emma winced. An Arsenal fan? Hardly. “I’m here to support your Champions League run, totally.”
Jamie’s amused side-eye told Emma her verbal maneuv
ering had been duly noted.
“Fine,” AB said, leaning back. “Congrats on making the US roster, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Emma said. “Your roster is looking solid. How’s the support been from your federation?”
The previous tension dissipated as they compared notes on the status of the women’s game in their home countries. Amelia had been one of the European stars to sign on to the failed lawsuit against FIFA to force Canada to provide grass fields for World Cup matches. Like Emma, she had been disappointed when FIFA pulled every legal trick in the book to avoid having to address the players’ concerns.
“But at least 2019 will be all grass,” Amelia said, shrugging as she carved a slice off her broiled chicken and popped it in her mouth.
“Right. That’s something,” Emma agreed.
The conversation paused, and she wondered if Jamie and Amelia were asking themselves the same question she was currently entertaining: Will I still be playing in 2019? They would probably all still be playing professionally, but internationally was a different matter. Emma and Jamie needed to perform well in Canada both individually and collectively, as a team, in order to avoid a coaching or lineup change that would threaten their spots. Amelia, however, was already in her early thirties. Emma doubted she would still be leading the English side four years down the road. Then again, she didn’t seem to be slowing down. Maybe she would beat the odds and play longer.
“All right, all right, all right!” Jeanie called out a little while later after the post-entrée cheese course had been devoured. “We have four hours until curfew. Who wants to go exploring?”
While the rest of the team cheered, Emma glanced at Jamie, who was frowning slightly. “Whatever you want to do,” Emma said quietly, “I’m fine with.”
“I don’t know,” Jamie admitted, her voice low. “It’s weird being here. Not as in here,” she added, gesturing around the restaurant, “but out there.”
Emma knew the bar where the assault had happened was located near where the Rhône and the city’s smaller river, the Saône, met. She’d checked her phone for their location when they’d arrived and had discovered that the restaurant was a few miles north of the confluence—not that that meant anything, necessarily. She took Jamie’s hand again. “We could always head back to the hotel. Blame me if you want.”
Jamie smiled at her, pressing Emma’s fingers with her own. “You said once that I was too good to you. Well, ditto, Blake.”
If only that were true, Emma thought. But she smiled back at Jamie anyway.
Outside, the light overhead had taken on a yellowish tint. Somewhere beyond the rows and rows of buildings, the sun was beginning to set. Britt fell into step on Jamie’s other side as Anya guided the group down one of the cramped streets that led away from the restaurant. To what, Emma had no idea. But Jamie didn’t seem inclined to call for a cab just yet.
“How you doing?” Britt asked, leaning into Jamie’s shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Jamie told her. “It’s strange being here, I’m not going to lie. But it’s different from how I remember it.”
“In what way?” Emma asked.
“It’s brighter, for one,” Jamie admitted. “In my memory, everything is darker and smaller, warped somehow.”
That made sense to Emma—trauma could impact the mind in powerful ways. But she didn’t say as much to Jamie. Probably, she didn’t have to.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Britt said.
“Thanks, man.”
They bumped fists, and Emma hid a smile at their bro-like behavior. It was sweet that Britt had her back, too. Or rather, her other side. Jamie had her own honor guard to escort her through the city tonight.
A few blocks from the restaurant was a wide, rectangular square—Place des Terreaux, according to the signs—bordered by shops and restaurants on one side, a highly ornamented building that reminded Emma of a palace on another, and an art museum on yet another. Near the shops, a prototypical Western European fountain contained an intricate sculpture of a half-naked lady guiding a chariot pulled by four wild horses.
Emma sighed, wishing she had her guide book. Unfortunately, it hadn’t fit in her purse.
“Here,” Jamie said, offering Emma her phone. “I’ve probably got more data left on my international plan than you do.”
“Oh. Thanks,” Emma said, toying with her ponytail as she accepted the phone.
Soon she was reading the relevant Wikipedia entry aloud to Jamie and Britt, who listened politely as she informed them that they were looking at the Fontaine Bartholdi, named for the artist who had sculpted the fountain’s centerpiece in 1892 out of 21 tons of lead. The female charioteer represented the nation of France while the four horses symbolized the country’s four great rivers. Why France needed to be a half-naked woman was not mentioned in the article, but in Emma’s experience, this seemed like a reasonable representation of the European nation.
“Wait,” Jamie said, gazing up at the fountain. “Bartholdi designed the Statue of Liberty, didn’t he?”
Emma did a quick Google search. “Yes! Good memory.”
“Child of an artist,” Jamie said.
“An artist in your own right,” Britt insisted, sliding her arm around Jamie’s neck and giving her a noogie, albeit a gentle one. Laughing, Jamie shoved her away.
“Oh,” Emma said, still scrolling through the phone.
“What?”
“It says here that Place des Terreaux was the site of public beheadings.”
Jamie and Britt glanced around the wide open space occupied by tourists of varying nationalities, and Emma wondered if, like her, they were having a difficult time imagining scenes of violent spectacle. Once again, she was glad to live when she did—even if it meant she had a fairly solid shot at being present at the end of the world.
They wandered the square for a little while with other visitors out on the warm spring evening, snapping pictures at the fountain and posing in front of the ornate seventeenth century Hôtel de Ville, which wasn’t actually a hotel but rather Lyon’s City Hall. Emma kept an eye on Jamie as they walked. She must have been here before with her club team given that the square was apparently considered the center of the large city. But she seemed relaxed for now, and Emma didn’t want to change that by being overly solicitous.
From the square, the group headed down yet another narrow street. But this one was wider, mostly graffiti-free, and sported upscale grocers as well as shops like The North Face and Vans. Jamie and Britt kept pausing to admire intricately carved wooden doors set beside the glass windows of modern storefronts, but Emma walked on, reading more about their current surroundings. At least this street didn’t feel quite as ominous, probably because there was a light at the end. Literally, since they were walking toward the sun setting over the—Emma checked the phone’s GPS—Saône River.
At the intersection, they crossed the Quai de la Pêcherie and began to walk south along the river, the sun hanging just over the slopes of Fourvière Hill crowned by the ornate towers of the nineteenth century basilica, Lyon’s very own Notre Dame. The breeze off the water was cool, and Emma leaned into Jamie’s side, grateful for her heat. Despite the potential emotional landmines lurking beneath the streets of Lyon, being with Jamie like this was nice. They weren’t teammates here, so there were no team time rules to worry about. Even if there had been, Jamie’s commitment to Arsenal was set to expire the following day (assuming they lost), and she’d already said she didn’t intend to sign on again next season. With the Summer Olympics on the docket, she didn’t want another crazy year ping-ponging between Arsenal, the Thorns, and the national team—a decision Emma fully supported.
A block down the Quai, Anya gestured at a corner building across the street. “Notice anything about that building?”
At first Emma didn’t. But then her mind caught up with her eyes, and she gasped slightly. What she had thought were windows were actually painted on. One entire side of the six-story build
ing was smooth stone painted to look as if giant, colorful books occupied the building’s windows and window ledges.
“Holy crap,” Emma heard Jamie murmur.
“It’s called the City Library,” Anya told them, clearly enjoying the amazed looks on her teammates’ faces.
Emma had read about Lyon’s murals on the flight from Paris. There were 50 or 60 of these paintings about the city, dreamed up in the 1970s by an art collective as a way to brighten up and rejuvenate industrial Lyon’s public spaces. If she remembered correctly, the largest mural in the city, La Fresque des Lyonnais, was somewhere nearby. She checked the phone surreptitiously. Yep, only a few blocks up the riverbank.
After they’d gawked at the enormous books and other images painted on the side of the building, Anya led them up the Quai to an almost triangular-shaped building set apart from its neighbors. La Fresque des Lyonnais had been painted to resemble a typical Lyonnais scene, only with more than two dozen famous city residents, past and present, added in. Google helpfully informed them that the mural included the Roman emperor Claudius, who had been born there when Lyon was still part of Roman Gaul; Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Little Prince; Lyonnais filmmakers, silk weavers, chefs, and others all posing on their painted-on balconies. All in all, the mural occupied 8,600 square feet of the building’s surface, exactly twice the size of the nearby City Library fresco.
“I must not have seen this before,” Jamie told Emma, her eyes shining and her voice wondering as she stared up at the warm, colorful mural. “I would have remembered something this incredible.”
“I’m sure you would have.” Emma slid her arm around Jamie’s waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. She was really, really glad she’d changed her plane ticket.
The sun was nearly down, the sky overhead streaked with gray and pink clouds when Anya led them across a pedestrian suspension bridge over the Saône River to Old Lyon. Jamie gripped her hand tighter as they reached the far shore but otherwise appeared unaffected as they left the river behind and entered a maze of cobblestoned streets. Like other European cities Emma had visited, this section of Lyon, constructed during the Renaissance, felt archaic. Fifteenth and sixteenth century tower blocks that seemed more Italian than French rose straight up on either side of the road that had clearly been built before the invention of automobiles. Emma, who handled small spaces about as well as the next person, felt a touch claustrophobic as they passed picturesque French shops that sold silk scarves, vintage electric bikes, and lots and lots of cheese. For some reason, there were also numerous English style pubs in Lyon’s oldest neighborhood. This seemed particularly odd given that Emma’s guide book had indicated that the second most populous city in France was known as the gastronomic center of the foodie nation.
The Road to Canada Page 18