The Road to Canada

by Kate Christie

  They didn’t stop at any of the bars, English or otherwise. Instead they visited a bakery just before it closed and picked out dessert. Tomorrow, after all, was game day. While wine and beer with dinner were expected of a group of European footballers, going out the night before a game to an establishment designed to get its customers inebriated was not on the to-do list. Even if it had been, Emma was fairly certain she and Jamie would have abstained.

  Dessert, however, they had no intention of abstaining from. As the bakery staff cleaned the empty seating area, Emma and Jamie selected a salted caramel tart to share. Then they continued their stroll, licking the sweet salty goodness from their fingers and kissing the crumbs from each other’s mouths. In the darkening streets, with exterior lights only just beginning to flicker on, most people appeared as silhouettes passing over the cobblestones.

  “They probably think I’m a guy,” Jamie murmured as they passed a group of tourists who didn’t even blink at their public display of affection.

  Probably, Emma thought. But she only shrugged and kissed the corner of Jamie’s mouth again. It was nice to be anonymous in Europe again, away from the worries of rosters, sponsors, and team rules. At least for a little while.

  Just before the last light faded from the sky, Anya led them to the building across from a courthouse with life-sized statues of human figures who looked like they were about to jump out of the windows on whose ledges they stood. Smirking over her shoulder, Anya pulled a heavy wooden door open and gestured them forward.

  “What’s this, now?” AB asked.

  “A secret passageway,” Anya said as if the answer were obvious. “The locals call it a traboule. They let you pass from one street to the next. You have to be quiet, though, so you don’t bother the people who live here.”

  As the team discussed the secret passageway amongst themselves, Emma surreptitiously checked Jamie’s phone. Google confirmed that Anya was correct. This traboule was the longest one in the city, and offered passage through four different sixteenth century buildings and courtyards between Rue Saint-Jean and Rue du Boeuf.

  “Well?” Anya prodded, looking around at the group. “You guys going to wuss out or what?”

  Jeanie stepped up to the doorway. “Why not? If anything goes wrong, at least I won’t have to see the smug mugs of the Frenchies tomorrow.”

  “You in?” Britt asked Jamie.

  She paused. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  Emma stayed close to Jamie as they entered the passageway not because she was worried about her but because Emma had done the Seattle Underground Tour with her family as a preteen, and the guide’s tales of ghosts and bubonic plague still haunted her. Fortunately, the dark, cramped passageway soon opened into a square courtyard that offered a tiny slice of sky four or five flights up. There were other tourists admiring the view, but Jamie’s teammates didn’t pause. Anya led them into another corridor that was wider and more interesting than the previous one, with multiple arches and triangular sconces that leant the passage a medieval feel. The stone walls were smooth and Emma had no problem imagining the ancient city’s silk workers carrying their goods through the passageway between buildings on their way to market.

  After passing through more courtyards and corridors of differing architectural styles, they eventually came out on Rue du Boeuf (Street of the Beef, they translated, snickering). A couple of blocks later, they bought tickets at the Vieux Lyon train station to the funicular train that would take them to the top of Fourvière Hill, where the Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière stood sentry over the city. They could have taken the stairs up from Rue du Boeuf, but they’d decided collectively that climbing 800 stairs the night before Champions League semis was probably not the best idea. The train ride was short but the sky was fully dark by the time they reached the hill’s crest. Fortunately, hundreds of lights lit up the exterior of Lyon’s Notre Dame and the surrounding area.

  Emma stood beside Jamie at a low stone wall looking out over the flickering lights of the city hundreds of feet below, the imposing basilica at their back. Frankly, she was glad to have escaped the ancient streets and medieval buildings of Old Lyon. Historic sites were awesome and all, but she preferred that her UNESCO World Heritage sites have wide open skies.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jamie murmured, and reached for her hand.

  Automatically Emma started to glance around, assessing who may or may not be watching them, but then she stopped and moved closer to Jamie. “It really is.”

  The city was spread out before them, the many bridges easy to pick out, building facades along the rivers almost as visible as they would be in daylight. There was certainly no shortage of lights in Lyon.

  Jamie pointed out a giant Ferris wheel visible in a huge square on the peninsula between the two rivers. “I went up in that when I was here before,” she said, smiling. “It’s super high—a couple hundred feet tall, I think.”

  That really was high. Emma tried not to make a face at the thought of hanging out in open space so far above what was likely an unforgiving cobblestone surface. Jamie was recalling a pleasant memory from her previous trip here, and Emma didn’t want to burst her bubble. But as Jamie cast her a sideways smile, she realized she had probably failed to achieve that particular objective.

  “Sorry, guys,” Anya said at that moment, turning away from the view, “but curfew is approaching. There are a couple of options here. We can tour the church—it has amazing art, by the way—or check out the Roman ruins on the way down the hill. Or we can split up and you can figure out your own way home.”

  Part of the group voted to tour the church while others decided to start down the hill. Still others decided to wander off on their own, which was how Emma and Jamie found themselves a little while later at the ruins of a Gallo-Roman amphitheater only a five minute walk from the church. They had actually joined the church tour at first because Jamie wanted to see the mosaics and stained glass the basilica was famous for, but they’d said goodnight to Britt and slipped away once they’d gazed their fill at the church’s ornate interior.

  On their way out of the hilltop complex, they’d stopped briefly to admire a partial replica of the Eiffel Tower, noting how much the metal design contrasted with the church’s four towers and the massive gilded statue of the Virgin Mary standing atop a separate bell tower. Then, with only an hour to spare before curfew, they’d headed down the hill to explore the city’s Roman ruins, dating back more than two thousand years to when Lyon had served as the capital of Roman Gaul.

  The Ancient Theatre of Fourvière, which Jamie’s phone said had been renovated in the 20th century, was situated on the side of the hill overlooking the city. Plentiful lamps and spotlights made the ruins, like the church, visible both from the city below and to tourists interested in exploring the complex after the sun had set and the crowds had dissipated.

  “Do you want to…?” Jamie gestured at the rows upon rows of seats just below them that overlooked the half-circle stage.

  “Totally,” Emma said. “Do we have time, though?”

  “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen if we’re a little late?”

  “Seamus would yell at us?”

  “Pretty sure you’ve faced worse.”

  “Yes, but have you?” Emma teased as they started down the well-lit stairs that led to the theater complex.

  “I never had to play for Jeff Bradbury, so no,” Jamie replied.

  “Count yourself lucky,” Emma said, making a face at the memory of the national team coach before Marty.

  When they reached the amphitheater, they picked their way gingerly down a steep aisle to a row in the center of the curved seating area well out of earshot of the dozen or so other people exploring the ruins after-hours.

  “I wish we could see this in daylight,” Emma commented as they sat down together. She leaned into Jamie for warmth, glad she’d packed her winter jacket for Chicago. She almost hadn’t—it had been 75 in Chicago the previous week—but a late
cold snap had convinced her it wouldn’t hurt to bring it along at least. Good thing, because 50 degrees felt colder than it should when you were seated on an ancient stone bench.

  “I wish a lot of things,” Jamie said after a moment. Her voice was weighted with more emotion than usual, and Emma could feel the questions coming even before Jamie voiced them: “Why didn’t you tell me you were being harassed? Was it really just to keep me from getting knocked off my game, or was there something else?”

  So much for dealing with one emotional crisis at a time.

  Emma turned to face her, steeling herself for the difficult conversation. She’d had plenty of time since St. Louis to talk through her actions and motivations with her mom on the phone and Dani in person. Probably, they had each counseled, it would be best to be as honest as possible from here on out.

  “Both,” she admitted, resisting the urge to touch the side of Jamie’s face that was hidden in shadows. “I really was worried about throwing you off your game, but there was more to it than that. You asked before if this was what Tyler was talking about. If you’re willing to listen, I’d like to tell you what happened with Sam. Not to excuse what I did but to explain the context.”

  Jamie nodded. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  Even though she’d been expecting that answer, Emma still hesitated as she tried to determine the best way to start the story. Finally, she said, “So there was this guy on Twitter a few years ago who kept trying to get me to meet him in real life.”

  Jamie stayed quiet as Emma explained how the photo of Sam at the 2011 World Cup quarterfinals in her Blakeley jersey had set off Emma’s “admirer,” how he had switched his focus to Sam, how he had tweeted increasingly violent messages to her, how they had finally met with a police officer who suggested they basically go underground to ensure their online harasser didn’t come after them in real life. Oh, and maybe buy a gun so they could shoot him in self-defense if he did show up at one of their apartments.

  “She broke up with me that night, and I don’t blame her,” Emma said, shrugging as she looked down at the bench in shadows between them. “I genuinely don’t know how she could have stayed after that.”

  “Wow,” Jamie said. “That’s so fucked up. I just… Jesus, Emma.”

  “See?” Emma said, throwing her hands into the air. “That’s the reaction I was trying to avoid. Because after that comes the, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ speech, and then our friends are pissed at us and we lose the World Cup and everyone blames us…”

  “Hold on,” Jamie said, shaking her head at Emma’s dramatics. “That’s not going to happen. For one thing, I’m not about to launch into that clichéd speech.”

  She squinted up at Jamie through her eyelashes. “You’re not?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh, thank god. After the Tori Parker fiasco, I don’t think my national team career could survive another teammate break-up.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Jamie agreed. “But seriously, I can’t believe that asshole threatened Sam like that. It must have been terrifying for you both. What is wrong with people?”

  “They’re generally assholes?” Emma suggested.

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  She looked away, eyes on the city lights in the distance. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I see compelling evidence to the contrary.”

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you guys,” Jamie said softly, reaching for her hands and holding them, her warmth immediately seeping into Emma’s skin.

  “Thanks.” Her shoulders relaxed as she realized Jamie really wasn’t going to break up with her now that she knew the full truth. At least, not right away.

  “Hey.” Jamie released one of her hands and touched Emma’s chin instead, turning it gently until their eyes met. “Did you really think I would walk away from you, from us, over something like that?”

  “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Emma started, but then she stopped. That was exactly what she had worried about: that she and Jamie, too, would end up in a rundown police station with a semi-disinterested officer recommending they change their addresses, their driver’s licenses, their entire lives because some entitled bastard they’d never met had decided Emma owed him herself. That Jamie, too, would decide it was too much; that she wouldn’t think Emma was worth the risk.

  “I’m not her,” Jamie said, her thumb smoothing across Emma’s cheek. “I’m in the public eye as much as you are, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I have my own trolls to deal with. We can’t let them come between us, Em. I have to believe we’re stronger than that—and so do you. There’s so much ahead of us, both good and bad. That’s the nature of the lives we’ve chosen. But you have to believe that we can survive almost anything, or we’re not going to make it.”

  Because if you don’t believe you can do something, you probably won’t be able to do it.

  Emma sighed, leaning into Jamie’s hand cupping her cheek. “I know. I’m sorry I let you down. I really am.”

  “It’s okay,” Jamie said. “We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be able to handle whatever comes at us. Preferably together. Agreed?”

  She nodded and moved closer, burying her face in Jamie’s jacket. “Agreed. I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too,” Jamie murmured, her lips warm against Emma’s forehead.

  Her mind told her to crack a joke about how she must love Jamie, since she was snuggling against an Arsenal jacket, but she shushed it. Now was not the time to make light of the challenges facing them—especially not with the World Cup looming in the near distance.

  They stayed on the cold stone bench longer than they really should have, holding onto each other and talking quietly in the amphitheater that had been built to function in an epically different world. By unspoken agreement, they stuck to impersonal topics like the kinds of events the theater complex might have hosted over its long history, from gladiator fights and poetry readings—“Sappho, anyone?” Jamie joked—to Shakespearean tragedies and comedies. Nowadays, Lyon hosted an international festival each summer called Fourvière Nights that, over the course of eight weeks, brought circus shows, theatre acts, movies, dance performances, and musical concerts to the ancient amphitheater’s stage.

  “Maybe,” Jamie said, her tone noticeably casual, “we should come back sometime and check out the festival.”

  Emma pulled away so that she could better see Jamie’s expression. “Wait. You would come back here willingly? Like, without a game of some kind to compel you to do so?”

  “In theory? Absolutely.”

  “You don’t mind being here, then?” Emma pressed.

  “Actually, it’s kind of anticlimactic, to be honest. I was a kid when I was here before, and the city genuinely doesn’t seem familiar. I don’t know if I’ve just blocked it out, but whatever the reason, coming here hasn’t been the drama fest I thought it would be.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Emma said, leaning closer again.

  “Maybe it’s because you’re here,” Jamie added, her voice soft again. “I really do appreciate what you did to get here. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Seriously. Flying first class on a trip to France in the springtime is definitely rough.”

  “Jerk,” Jamie said, and started to pull away.

  But Emma didn’t let her. She held her close, nuzzling her neck. “So you really don’t hate me for screwing things up?”

  Jamie huffed slightly, but she didn’t try to hide her smile. “Not completely, I guess.”

  Emma smacked her shoulder, and then leaned her head onto the spot she had just abused. “And this is a good surprise, then?”

  Jamie tugged her closer. “The best surprise. Not ever, because the London vacation still has that covered.”

  “Obviously,” Emma said. Because, duh. Then: “Thanks, Jamie.”

  “For what?”

  For still being my girlfriend, she thought. “For letting me be he
re,” she said aloud, purposely leaving the meaning of “here” open to interpretation.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for being here.” And she kissed Emma sweetly there in Lyon’s two thousand year old ruins.

  A little while later, Emma commented, “Want to upgrade to first class and ride home with me tomorrow?”

  “Totally,” Jamie said without any hesitation at all.

  “Awesome,” Emma said, smiling at the view of the city spread out before them.

  For the first time since St. Louis, she could see a future with Jamie again, which told her that her decision to fly to France had absolutely been the right decision. She would make a hundred lonely night flights across the world if Jamie needed her to. In truth, though, as they sat quietly together watching the lights of Lyon from a safe distance, she was just as happy she wouldn’t have to.

  Jamie was right about one thing: They wouldn’t be the reason the US team lost this summer because the US was going to WIN the World Cup, and afterward Emma and Jamie were going to fly off alone together to an island in the Caribbean or some other remote location where they could sleep late and eat whatever they wanted and just be themselves—two women who had been in love with each other for what felt like, and truly might be, forever.

  The fantasy, which Emma let herself engage in often when she and Jamie were apart, was sweet. But before they could disappear to that imagined island paradise free of stress and expectations, they had a fair bit of work ahead of them. Summer was coming, and Emma was ready for it.