Outside the Lines

by Kate Christie

  “Besides,” Jamie added, her tone lighter, “I thought you might like to go down to the field. You know, to meet some of the players?”

  Like that, her desire to leave vanished. “Arsenal players?”

  “Among others.”

  Emma grabbed Jamie’s arm and squeezed. “Are you serious right now?”

  “Completely.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Her bucket list included seeing Manchester United play in person, but meet actual players? She had never thought to wish for that. She lowered her voice, because while the people closest to them didn’t appear to be paying them any mind, there was no need to draw attention to what she was about to say: “I love you so freaking much right now.”

  Jamie laughed, her cheeks pink from the cooling air but also, Emma suspected, from yelling at the refs, a habit she had picked up from Ellie and Jodie. “I love you too. Obvs.”

  The tense atmosphere in the stadium faded within minutes of the game’s end as the fans filtered quickly out to the streets. Once the rows around them had cleared, Jamie led Emma down to field level.

  “Oi, Green!” she called, sounding more British than American. Irish? Emma wasn’t sure.

  A trainer from the home side turned toward them. “Max,” he said, smiling as he approached. “You made it.”

  “Of course I did. I only wish the outcome had been different.”

  “You and sixty thousand other people.” He nodded to the security guard blocking their way. “They’re with me, Johnny.”

  “I don’t know,” the giant, orange-clad guard said, eyes narrowed as he looked Jamie up and down.

  The trainer scoffed. “Do you not recognize these women? They’re on the American national team, man. Come on. Let them through.”

  The trainer was a fan of the women’s game? Emma was fairly certain that such a species of British male was nearly extinct or, at the least, endangered. Then again, endangered status implied that they had ever existed in great numbers to begin with. They hadn’t—at least not in recent history. Jamie had told her that women’s football had enjoyed support during and after World War I, with one Boxing Day match in 1920 drawing upwards of fifty thousand fans. But a year later the FA banned women’s football matches at Association club football grounds, citing strong concerns about the physical “unsuitability” of the game for women. The FA ban wasn’t lifted until 1971, and English women were only now starting to catch up to other national team programs.

  The guard wavered and then finally gestured at them, his mouth pinched. “Fine. But it’s your neck, Green, not mine.”

  Behind his back Green rolled his eyes, and Emma had to hold back a laugh.

  Once they hopped the barrier and were safely on the pitch, Jamie and the trainer embraced in a bro hug.

  “This is Emma, by the way,” Jamie said as she pulled away.

  He turned to her, eyes widening. “I know! I mean, hey, I’m Nick. It’s really, really great to meet you, Emma.” He pronounced her name like half of Jamie’s London friends did: Emmer.

  “You, too,” she said, and held out her hand for him to shake.

  Nick stared at her hand for a second too long before grabbing for it, his palm damp against hers.

  Jamie snickered, and Nick promptly flashed her a glare. “Sorry, dude,” she said. But she didn’t sound sorry at all.

  Emma pretended not to notice Nick’s reaction. She routinely dealt with men—and women—who tripped over their words in her presence. She had long since grown accustomed to being a minor celebrity in the eyes of soccer fans and a mild curiosity to everyone else. Since the last international tournament cycle, she and most of her teammates had faded back into relative obscurity outside of athletic circles. Currently, however, she was at the center of a very specific athletic circle.

  As Nick led them through the players’ tunnel and Emma realized who was waiting in the vestibule outside the locker rooms, her heart rate skyrocketed. Holy shit. That was Matthias Ilunga, the Belgian international who had scored more than 200 goals during his career at Arsenal. She’d had a poster of him on her closet door her senior year of high school, the year he earned FIFA World Player honors. He was the reason—other than Jamie—that she had always considered Arsenal her second-favorite British football club. Beside him was English international and United legend Adrian Evans, who had beaten Ilunga twice for World Player of the Year. They were standing there chatting with each other amicably as if it was normal for legends of the game to casually hang out after their former clubs had fought a bitter battle on the still-lit pitch.

  To say that it was her turn to be tongue-tied was an understatement. The next thirty minutes slipped past almost unnoticed as Nick introduced Jamie and Emma to the retired footballers, both of whom were cordial and welcoming. Evans told her he’d watched her play in both Germany and the Olympics—talk about mind-boggling—while Ilunga brought up the turf issue at the upcoming World Cup. Even as he expressed support for the legal challenge, he shared his doubts that they would be able to achieve a fair ruling. FIFA needed new blood that wasn’t rich, white, and male, he said while Evans nodded beside him; only then would real change be realized.

  As current players began to emerge from the locker room, Emma found herself swept into different conversations with members of each team, some of whom asked to take photos with her and others who she asked for photo honors. Emma, naturally, stripped off her jacket and sweatshirt and posed in her old school United jersey while Jamie snapped picture after picture, eyes glowing. At one point, Nick took Jamie’s phone so that Roelof Peeters could pose between them in their opposing jerseys, and Emma didn’t even mind when Jamie promptly put the photo on her public feed.

  When a couple of the younger guys invited them out for drinks, Emma declined politely. Conversation and selfies, yes. Anything else? No thanks. Jamie seemed to approve of this decision, and at last, after a final bro hug and many enthusiastic thanks to her trainer buddy, they headed out into the mild evening.

  “So? What did you think of your first ever Premier League match?” Jamie asked as they walked down the street together, carefully not touching in front of the hordes of men and boys still lingering in the area bemoaning the fixture’s result.

  Emma wished she could kiss her, or hug her, or even hold her hand. But she contented herself with a smile, hoping her eyes conveyed the vastness of her delight in the day’s activities. “I think it was amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you, Jamie. I mean it. This really has been the best vacation ever.”

  “I agree,” Jamie said, smiling back at her, eyes shining. “It totally has been.”

  Best. Vacation. Ever. They’d repeated this refrain to each other ad nauseum over the past ten days, despite the semi-regular rain and decided lack of tropical warmth. Emma couldn’t remember ever gelling with someone so easily. Part of it was their shared history, she knew. But also, they genuinely loved many of the same things. They had similar senses of humor, they were both careful about what they did with and to their bodies, and any differences they had only seemed to add interest to their interactions.

  And, of course, there was the mind-blowing sex. Definitely shouldn’t forget about that.

  It was another perfect day in a long run of perfect days, and as they lay in bed together that night, Emma found herself wondering what her teenage self would have thought if she could have popped back in time and told her about this incredible experience they would one day share.

  “We should retire here,” she said, and felt Jamie, on the verge of sleep, jerk almost comically awake.

  “What?”

  “After we’ve won a World Cup and the Olympics and an NWSL title. We should retire from American soccer and come over here to play.”

  In men’s football, European players sometimes chose to retire to the American MLS, where they got to be soccer stars in the United States for a year or two before returning home to Europe. But in women’s football, America still led the world in fiscal and fan support. If things
continued as they were now, Emma could see American stars ending their careers in lower level European leagues for the experience of living and playing abroad.

  “We should?” Jamie echoed.

  Emma stilled, realizing what she’d revealed. They hadn’t spoken of the distant future yet, sticking mainly to the weeks or months immediately ahead. But while they hadn’t talked about making a deeper commitment or moving in together, in her own head Emma knew that Jamie was it for her. When she pictured herself with a house and a baby, Jamie was in the background mowing the lawn or fixing dinner. When she imagined life after soccer, Jamie was at her side, building that life with her. The only thing she didn’t know for sure was if that future was what Jamie wanted, too.

  In distinctly un-Minnesotan Scandinavian fashion, she nodded. “Yes, we. I don’t want this to end, Jamie. I don’t want us to end.”

  “Neither do I,” Jamie said immediately.

  “You don’t?”

  “Of course not, Emma. I’ve loved you for half of my life, practically.”

  The same was true for Emma. If they were still together when she turned thirty-two, then she would have loved Jamie for exactly half her life. Once again, mind-boggling.

  “But what about your condo?” Jamie asked, fingertips skimming a loop on Emma’s arm.

  She paused. Then, drunk on love and sex and a hope she’d discovered they shared: “I could sell it. In fact, I probably should sell it.”

  “Why? You love that place.”

  “I know, but we’re going to need something bigger for the kids eventually.”

  Jamie’s hand stilled on her arm. “The kids?”

  “Well, yeah. Babies grow into children, you know.”

  “How many are you planning, exactly?”

  “Only a couple. Although I suppose that’s something I’ll need to discuss with, you know, whoever I end up marrying and procreating with.”

  “Oh, now we’re getting married, too?”

  “It is the American dream, isn’t it?”

  Jamie laughed and kissed her, and Emma kissed her back, their teeth clacking awkwardly because neither of them could stop smiling.

  Yep, no doubt about it: Best. Vacation. Ever.

  Chapter Eight

  “Let me take you to Rio, to Rio,” Jamie sang, dancing through baggage claim.

  “We’re not even in Rio,” Angie grumbled.

  “Close enough.”

  “No, it isn’t. And if you don’t stop singing that song, I swear to fucking god—”

  “Wang,” Phoebe barked, her glare pinning Angie in place. “Language. You know the travel rules.”

  “Sorry,” Angie huffed, her sassy tone undercutting the apology.

  Jamie relented as they collected their luggage and piled into rental vans outside the airport. Angie was right—they weren’t anywhere near Rio de Janeiro. Instead, they would be spending the next two weeks hundreds of miles inland in Brasilia, the nation’s capital.

  The flight to Brazil had been long and bumpy, and Jamie had held Emma’s hand under the cover of a thin airline blanket likely more than the coaching staff would have preferred. But it wasn’t like she could ignore Emma’s wide eyes and pale skin as the airplane shuddered and feinted over the exceedingly mountainous South American continent.

  To be fair, the coaches—minus Jo, who would join them the following day—had seemed in better spirits during the flight than most of the players. Jamie, Taylor O’Brien, and Jessica North, the “Newest New Kids,” as the team’s PR rep was itching to christen them, were the only ones who appeared jazzed about the upcoming tournament. The team’s veterans were still annoyed that the federation had agreed to Jo’s plan to whittle their sacred off-season into a mere six weeks. That, or they were cranky from the overnight flight that Fitzy, the national team manager, had booked for them. Possibly both.

  “Do they not care that we don’t get to see our families enough as it is?” Steph griped as the rental vans rolled away from the terminal and set off into the warm, humid morning. “I’m going to have to pack three weeks of holiday prep into three days when we get back.”

  Jamie tuned out the “Entitled Veterans Rant Reprisal,” as she thought of it, and stared out the window at the city. This was her first time in Brazil’s capital. The last time she’d visited the soccer-crazed country had been in 2007 when the U-20 national team had participated in the Pan American Games. That tournament, played entirely in and around Rio de Janeiro, had gone well for the American side—until they’d encountered Brazil’s full senior national team in the finals. Jamie had never forgotten the humiliating 5-0 drubbing they’d received at the hands of Brazil’s up and coming star, Marisol, who had dazzled the nearly seventy thousand screaming fans with her brilliant play.

  From what Jamie could see, the neatly laid-out city beyond her window was significantly different from crowded, chaotic Rio with its chains of islands and surrounding mountains. This city had been built purposefully in 1960 in the central plains region to work in tandem with the existing landscape, Emma had told her on the plane as they decelerated over Brasilia. Designed by two well-known architects of the time, the new capital city was meant to serve as a central hub for the geographically diverse country.

  Beside her, Emma was still studying her travel guide. Jamie leaned over her shoulder, glad that her girlfriend was such an unabashed nerd. “Let me guess—you’re memorizing import/export data, right?”

  “Duh.” Emma shot her a small smile that normally would be accompanied by a touch but, this time, wasn’t.

  Jamie returned her attention to the passing scenery. Team time, she reminded herself. They would officially be on team time for the next fifteen days. She would need to remember that.

  The route to the city’s hotel sector took them past the stadium where the tournament would take place: the Estádio Nacional Mané Garrincha, Brazil’s national soccer stadium. Named after a legendary striker who had helped lead Brazil to two of its record five World Cup victories, the stadium had been built in 1974 and renovated for the 2013 Confederations Cup and this past summer’s Men’s World Cup. Jamie may never have been to Brasilia before, but she easily recognized the stadium from television—and from Emma’s guide book.

  This past summer had been Brazil’s second time hosting the Men’s World Cup. Jamie had watched the US matches mostly with her Thorns teammates on the road or on DVR after practice or a match, but she and Emma had managed to “watch” some of the games while on the phone together. It had felt like high school all over again, except that now their phones offered video chatting.

  Over the course of the tournament, they’d ended up rehashing a decade’s worth of Men’s World Cup moments: in 2006, Zinedine Zidane’s head butt had shocked everyone, while in 2010, there had been Luis Suarez’s “Hand of God” save, the French team’s revolt against their coach, and, of course, Landon Donovan’s last-minute score against Algeria to keep the American team’s hopes alive. They’d also spent a lot of time—A LOT OF TIME—bitching about Landon Donovan’s omission from the current World Cup squad. Jamie felt that Jurgen Klinsmann had some explaining to do for swapping out “a god-damned American hero, Emma,” for a cadre of players who had been born and raised in his own native Germany. If she ever ran into him, she intended to tell him as much. Maybe. She would at least glare at him from a distance, that much was certain.

  The hotel wasn’t far from the stadium, and soon the players had checked in and were ready for their traditional travel day workout. Lacey Rodriguez, the longtime fitness coach who had survived more than one change in team management, put them through their paces on a practice field at the sports complex near the stadium. Afterward they returned to the hotel for lunch and the highlight of the day: FIFA’s Canada 2015 Official Draw, where each of the twenty-four teams that had qualified would learn its group competition—and travel schedule—for the following summer. Jo wasn’t here in Brazil with them because she had flown to Ottawa with the other head coaches to
attend the draw ceremony in person.

  Once the meal had been cleared, the players pushed the conference tables to one side and arranged chairs in rows before the large-screen television mounted on one wall. Jamie sat toward the back with her friends, while Emma sat up front with Ellie and the other veterans. But as the French announcers began to read off the results of the draw, Jamie found her gaze drawn to Emma only to find her looking back over her shoulder, eyebrows quirked.

  As soon as the US was named to Group D, a chorus of whistles went up around the room. Ellie turned around, glaring. “Just because it’s D doesn’t mean it’ll necessarily be the Group of Death. How about a little optimism here, guys?”

  “Right,” Angie muttered to Jamie and Lisa. “Because that’s how the draw works.”

  The selection process was incredibly tedious—thanks, FIFA—so they passed the time between selections gossiping and making fun of the announcers. Each time a Group D selection came up, though, a tense silence overtook the room. How you came out of your group—assuming you emerged from group play at all—determined your route to the finals.

  The second Group D member picked was Nigeria, ranked number thirty-five in the world. While the African team played fast and rough, they had never come close to beating the US. The next selection, however, sent a ripple of whispers across the room: Australia, exceptionally young and also fast—and currently number ten in the world. When the final ball was selected, a half-laugh, half-groan spread through the assembled players: Sweden, number five in the world. That made three top ten teams in one group.

  “Well,” Phoebe said, “that confirms it. D is officially the Group of Death.”

  Ellie elbowed her fellow captain. “Optimism, remember? I prefer the Group of Distinction!”

  More groans rained out, accompanied by flying paper wads.

  On screen, the camera panned to Jo again, tongue sticking a tiny bit out of her mouth as she made notes on her page, and the groans gave way to cheers and more whistles. Jamie wondered what she was writing—formation ideas? Notes on their opponents? Now that they knew their early round match-ups, the US’s summer in Canada was finally taking shape.