Outside the Lines

by Kate Christie

  Good thing Jamie wasn’t a contracted player.

  “So I’ve been making the rounds of the NWSL the past few weeks,” Jo started, “and I’m calling because I saw you play against Seattle last night.”

  “You did?” How had she not known Jo Nichols was in the crowd? Probably because with more than ten thousand screaming soccer fans, it would be easy enough for a lone forty-something woman to blend into the crowd.

  “I did, and I wanted to tell you that I’m very encouraged by what I saw.”

  “You are?” Okay, time to sound less like an idiot and more like a confident, professional athlete. “I mean, thanks. I’ve been working on fitness this summer, and I think it’s helped my game as well as made me more injury-proof.”

  Injury-proof? She smacked her own forehead, but quietly so the sound wouldn’t reverberate through the phone. Nice, Maxwell. Real smooth.

  “I’m glad to hear that because I wanted to discuss your future on the national team.”

  Jamie gulped. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m about to tell you something that will be official as of tomorrow, so can I depend on you not to call ESPN as soon as we hang up?”

  “Of course! I don’t have their number, if that helps.”

  Jo laughed. “Good to know. The thing is, I’m about to be named the new permanent coach of the senior side. The reason I’m telling you this is that I want you to know why I’m not inviting you to any of the remaining friendlies this summer.”

  And just like that, Jamie’s heart sank. What the actual fuck? She’d already been kicked out of the pool by Craig and his minions. Why did Jo Nichols feel the need to double down?

  Before she could spiral too far into despair, Jo added, “Wait. Let’s back up. I think I started in the wrong place. What I want you to take away from this conversation is that despite what happened in the past, you have a shot at making my team. As you know, I’ve watched you grow and develop over the years, Jamie, into a talented, smart, inspiring young woman who would be a valuable asset to the program—if you can stay healthy. I think it’s fair to say that’s been your Achilles heel since college.”

  “Yeah, that’s fair,” Jamie agreed.

  “If it helps, I fully believe you’re one of those people who can push through and come out the other side stronger. It’s just a matter of getting yourself on the right track.”

  Jamie nodded even though Jo couldn’t see her. “Ellie hooked me up with her trainer here in Portland, and I’m already seeing some great results. I know injury comes down to luck sometimes, but I’m trying to do everything I can to make sure I’m more resilient. And faster, because if they can’t catch me, they can’t hurt me, right?”

  She’d meant it as a joke, but she winced as the silence lengthened. Maybe Jo Nichols didn’t have room for a sense of humor under the weight of the mantle she had agreed to assume. Maybe coaching the number one team in the world—

  “I see you still have your positive outlook,” Jo said. Jamie couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like she might be smiling.

  “Well, as my grandfather used to say, sometimes you’ve got to laugh or else you’ll cry.”

  Had either of her grandfathers ever said such a thing? Shoshanna, her former therapist, definitely had, but Jamie wasn’t about to tell Jo Nichols that. In any case, someone’s grandfather somewhere had undoubtedly said it.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Jo agreed. “Here’s the bottom line, Jamie. We have a few more friendlies this summer, but I’m using those to get a sense of the existing roster. In September, after the pro season ends, I’m planning to bring in a wider pool for a two-week residency camp. If you can continue at your current level through the end of the NWSL season, I’d like to invite you to that camp.

  “This isn’t a promise,” she added, her tone cautionary. “As you know, plenty of things can change in a matter of months. But I wanted you to know that the door isn’t closed on the World Cup for you. Your future with the national team is in your hands, kiddo. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

  “It isn’t an opportunity yet. More like a dangling carrot.”

  “Good thing I like carrots,” Jamie said, and then face-palmed for the second time.

  “Good thing,” Jo said, a smile in her voice once again. “Now, is Blake there?”

  “Um…” Jamie stood up and glanced around the room as if Emma might be hiding nearby. “I don’t…”

  “It’s not a trick question,” Jo said. “She texted Fitzy that she was at Ellie’s, so I’m wondering if she still is. You are living with Rachel Ellison currently, aren’t you? That’s the address we have on file.”

  “Oh! Yes. Right. Emma—Blake was upstairs a minute ago. Should I go check?” Jamie started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “If you don’t mind. It’s been nice talking to you again, Jamie. I look forward to more conversations in the near future.”

  “Me, too, Coach!”

  A moment later she burst into the kitchen and practically threw her phone at Emma. “Jo Nichols wants to talk to you.”

  Emma frowned for a second before accepting the phone. “Hi, Jo. What’s up?” She walked away, headed for the living room, and it was all Jamie could do to keep from following her.

  “So?” Ellie asked.

  “What?” Jamie tore her gaze away from Emma, who was standing near the picture window in the living room.

  “So what did Jo say?”

  Jamie dropped back onto her stool and picked up her fork. “She said she’s the new head co—oh, shit!” She clapped her free hand over her mouth.

  Ellie’s shoulders shook from her nearly silent laughter. “Max, it’s fine. I already knew.”

  “Oh, thank god. She told me not to tell ESPN.”

  “Last I checked, I’m not ESPN.”

  “Right. Yeah.” Somehow managing to block out the sound of Emma’s voice, she relayed her conversation with Jo. She’d just recounted the dangling carrot comment (Jo’s, definitely, not her own ridiculous reply) when Emma came back in and set her phone on the counter.

  “So?” Emma asked, her expectant face a mirror of Ellie’s earlier expression.

  Jamie wanted to tell her about the newly reopened door, but what came out was, “Did she tell you we can’t date?”

  Emma blinked at her. “What? No. She wanted to chat about the team.”

  Jamie noted that Emma didn’t give away Jo’s newly official status. Maybe she thought that blatantly ignoring the terms of her contract in front of the team captain would be rude.

  “It’s okay. She knows,” Ellie told Emma. “Fitzy said Jo is calling everyone today to let them know she’s replacing Craig permanently. Or, I guess not permanently, but until the federation someday forces her out, too.”

  Jamie wanted to pause on that—hadn’t Marty Sinclair resigned of her own free will?—but Emma was still waiting. She repeated her conversation with the USWNT’s new head coach, once again leaving out her excessive use of “ma’am” and her unfortunate “I like carrots” comment. Most people liked carrots. Besides, it was supposed to be a metaphor.

  Emma was smiling broadly even before she finished. “See? I told you the door wasn’t closed for good.”

  “You told her that?” Ellie asked. “What a coincidence—so did I. You should listen to your elders, kid.”

  “Says the old lady who couldn’t play two games in one week…” Jamie ducked as Ellie chucked a grape at her.

  “I can’t help that I got sick on the flight!”

  Emma coughed an unsubtle “Bullshit,” and Jamie grinned at her, elation expanding inside her chest. Emma Blakeley was her girlfriend, Rachel Ellison was her housemate, her pro team was over .500, and Jo Nichols had called to dangle a giant, metaphorical carrot in front of her. Wait—did that make her the rabbit in this scenario? Was that how Jo Nichols saw her, as a cuddly, fluffy bunny? Whatever. No need to read too much into the national
team coach’s word choice. Life was good, friends were good, love was good. And so was Nutella. You didn’t have to be a genius—or a resident of Western Europe—to know that.

  “Pass me the Nutella,” she said, interrupting her once and future teammates’ bickering.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Emma said, and winked.

  Damn it.

  * * *

  Emma settled into her seat overlooking the Sea-Tac tarmac and took out her headphones, eyelids already drooping. While it was true she hadn’t gotten enough sleep the previous night, her current state of exhaustion was related more to her hectic schedule than to a single night’s lack of rest. Since facing Jamie’s team in Portland the previous month, the Reign had gone on to play five games in four weeks—three at home, one in Kansas City, and one in New Jersey. Today was the official start to the Reign’s bye week, but instead of visiting Jamie in Portland, Emma was on her way to Tampa for the first of two international friendlies against France. From Florida, the national team would travel to Connecticut for game number two, and then Emma and Avery would rejoin the Reign in Western New York for a match against the Flash before finally—finally—returning to Seattle to play Sky Blue at home.

  She opened her message app and typed, “I made it!”

  “Whew!” Jamie replied. “Or should I say bummer?”

  “Definitely bummer. Miss you already.”

  “I know. Me too…”

  “Where are you?” she typed.

  “Almost back at yours.”

  “Wish you were—” Emma deleted the words and tried again. “Have a good couple of days off.”

  “I will. Thanks for letting me crash here. Text me when you land.”

  Before she could answer, a group text alert sounded.

  “Gee, thanks for including me, guys,” Dani’s text to both of them read.

  “You were driving!” Emma typed back. “Anyway, you know I’ll miss you most of all.”

  “Liar.”

  “I resemble that.”

  “OMG you are such a dork,” Dani sent.

  Jamie replied all with a laughing face and a string of hearts. Then the jet’s door closed and a flight attendant informed the passengers that it was time to switch their portable devices to airplane mode.

  “Gotta go, gals.”

  “Hate to tell you, but only one of us is your gal pal,” Dani texted. Then, “Love you, Blake. Safe travels.”

  “Love you too. Both of you.” She typed a blowing kiss emoji, and they each returned it.

  How cool was it that Dani and Jamie got along, she thought, closing her message app as the plane slowly rolled away from the gate. She wasn’t sure why, given how different they were. But ever since Dani and her brothers had come to Jamie’s rescue against Justin, Emma’s bullying ex, they’d only had good things to say about each other. What was the line from that movie with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves? “Relationships that start under intense circumstances never last.” Fortunately, that didn’t appear to be true of Jamie and Dani’s friendship.

  Damn it, why had her brain gone and dredged up Speed, a movie about an explosive device hidden on a city bus? Emma rested her head against the tiny airplane window and closed her eyes, turning up her calming New Age playlist. She really didn’t like flying. Probably, then, she should find another job. Except that most of the time she loved her job, especially when the teams she was on kept winning. Under Jo’s leadership the national team seemed to be regaining its form, while in Seattle the Reign hadn’t lost a single match.

  The same couldn’t be said for Portland. The night before, after an embarrassing 5-0 home loss to Western New York, Jamie had called Emma and asked if she could come see her off. Emma, who had made peace with the idea that she wouldn’t see Jamie before she left, jumped at the request even though she and Dani had planned to grab brunch this morning. Dani gallantly offered to reschedule, but Jamie had been adamant that they not cancel because of her. They’d met Dani at the Five Spot as planned, Jamie apologizing for crashing the meal and Dani telling her to knock it off as she tugged her into an affectionate hug. After demolishing omelets and french toast, they’d lingered over coffee and extra plates of fresh fruit so long that Emma had nearly missed her flight—and yes, maybe that hadn’t been an entirely unconscious ploy on her part. Now, as the plane taxied down the runway, she cursed Dani for getting her to Sea-Tac on time.

  The plane lurched as the ground fell away, but Emma doggedly kept her eyes shut. While she disliked flying in general, she especially hated take-off. She couldn’t believe she had passed up a non-stop flight for one that connected in Houston, but the non-stop had left before nine AM, thereby violating the rules she’d established to prevent her travel commitments from disrupting her sleep. Then again, her dedication to a good night’s sleep had become more flexible lately. Since the NWSL season had started, she and Jamie had taken turns driving late at night or early in the morning to be together. Otherwise they would only see each other when their teams faced off in league play—three times during the four-month season, to be exact.

  It had been Jamie’s turn to come see her last night, but even so, she was grateful that her girlfriend was willing to make the long drive for not even twelve hours together. Admittedly, her “sweet digs” might be part of the draw. Jamie had asked if she could stay in Seattle for an extra night or two to regroup from her club’s recent losses—two in a row with a total scoring differential of one to nine. Emma liked the idea of Jamie sleeping in her bed, watching movies on her television, drinking the red Gatorade Emma kept on hand for her.

  Speaking of hands… Eyes still closed, she smiled, thinking of the activities she’d initiated shortly after Jamie had arrived the night before—to distract her from her team’s recent failures, of course.

  “But it’s late,” Jamie had said, pulling back from the kiss.

  And it had been. Emma, however, was still keyed up from her own match that night, a commanding 3-1 win over Chicago. Besides: “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

  Hopefully that wouldn’t happen today, Emma thought now as the plane shuddered in mid-air. She chanced a look out the window only to the see the familiar hulk of Mt. Rainier approaching. The usual worry popped into her mind: Would they have the necessary altitude to clear the fourteen thousand foot behemoth? She closed her eyes again and tucked her cheek into her travel pillow. If she was lucky, she hadn’t jinxed herself and would wake up from any in-flight naps.

  And if she didn’t, she wouldn’t know the difference, would she?

  #

  Later, she wished she’d kept sleeping. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. She wished she had taken the early morning flight because then she wouldn’t be sitting in Houston considering chucking her phone across the gate during her regrettable hour and a half layover. If she’d flown out at seven-thirty that morning, she would already be in Tampa now. More importantly, the teenage fan who’d asked for a selfie with her in line at Sea-Tac security wouldn’t have taken, let alone posted, a video of her and Jamie hugging goodbye, their brief cheek kiss fortunately—fortunately—obscured by the shoulder of a man who stepped in front of the illicit videographer at precisely the right moment. But she hadn’t taken the earlier flight, and now she was sitting in another airport terminal watching another WoSo fan meltdown over Blakewell.

  At least Ellie wouldn’t kill her this time. She and Jamie were in a committed relationship, and things like this were bound to happen. They couldn’t be on guard all the time. Her Twitter mentions were the distressing part. Unlike other social media platforms that offered a variety of privacy options, Twitter was public. As such, it contained multitudes of anonymous males who hid behind their keyboards and lashed out at any woman they perceived as a threat. Tumblr, on the other hand, was mostly LGBTQ+ kids squeeing. Even if they could sometimes get a tad obsessive, their adoration came from a generally good place.

  A grammatically challenged tweet from FootballFan24_7, a brand new account with no profile phot
o and zero followers, attracted her attention: “That wanna-be man better keep it’s hands off my girl if it knows whats good for It!!” The tweet might be another example of the usual homophobic trolling Jamie and other masculine-identified female athletes experienced, but for Emma, the invocation of “my girl” set it apart from the litany of “gaaaaay” and “fucking dykes” and “I just threw up in my mouth” comments. Whoever the guy on the other side of the screen was, his sense of entitlement reminded her way too much of the man who had gone after her and Sam.

  She hesitated briefly before clicking “Report Tweet.” She maneuvered through the form, vacillating between “Someone on Twitter is being abusive” and “Someone on Twitter is sending me violent threats.” But the violence in the tweet was implied, and besides, Jamie was the target, not her. Jamie was the target… Damn it. She should have known better than to let Jamie walk her to security. They should have said their goodbyes in the car, or better yet at home that morning before breakfast.

  She bent over her phone, finger hovering above the screen. The general consensus on social media was that if you ignored and reported the harasser, they would lose interest once they realized you wouldn’t engage. That hadn’t proven to be the case with the man who had fixated on her during her time in Boston. Instead of losing interest, he’d only doubled up on attempts to get her to meet him in person. But it wasn’t until after a photo circulated of Sam in a Blakeley jersey hugging her after the World Cup quarterfinals that his tweets had turned threatening.

  At least he’d never progressed to real life stalking like the guy Maddie had gone out with a few times only to discover he had a literal shrine to her in his apartment. In Emma’s case, there had been no online mentions of her home address, no private photos of her or Sam they couldn’t trace, no strange men following them about their daily lives. The harassment was vicious, but it had followed the pattern of most online attacks and remained virtual.

  Emma exited out of Twitter without submitting the abuse report and slumped back in the airport chair, glancing around surreptitiously. She hated when the feeling of being tracked online carried over into real life. Her phone buzzed and she flinched, checking the screen through one barely open eye. It wasn’t Twitter this time; Jamie had texted. Had she seen the tweet? But no, she was simply saying hello. And sending a photo of… Emma gasped and turned her phone face down, relieved that no one was sitting close enough to have seen her girlfriend’s naked pic. She tilted the screen up carefully. Well, not entirely naked. She was wearing Emma’s national team shorts, the American flag standing out against the white of the kit, her arms folded across her chest hiding various and sundry private parts. Atop her head was a USWNT hat on backwards, the American flag (again) vivid above her grin.