Outside the Lines

by Kate Christie

  She had known Jamie could do it. She was just grateful she got to be on the field with her to celebrate.

  “Thanks, Em,” Jamie said, eyes bright. Then Ellie was there, lifting Jamie into her arms the way Jamie had done to Emma, and the rest of the starters were piling on—Maddie, Jenny, Gabe, Ryan, Lisa, Emily, Jordan, and Phoebe, who had sprinted all the way up from her own eighteen. Even Angie and Rebecca got a hug in when Jamie stopped by the bench on her way back to their end of the field, with Jo and Mel and Henry and Steph slapping her on the back. They were all there to celebrate Jamie’s first goal with the national team—first of many, Emma thought proudly as she jogged back toward their defensive end.

  Argentina was one of those teams that could have been good, if only their federation would support and invest in them. These women had grown up in a culture that ate, drank, and slept soccer. Or, men’s soccer, anyway. Unfortunately, their countrymen didn’t appear to give a whit about the women’s game. By halftime the US already had nine shots on goal and led 3-0, with Jamie accounting for one goal and one assist.

  This was more like it, Emma thought as she jogged toward the players’ tunnel. Jamie’s play had sparked an offensive surge. Sometimes the game was like that—swap one person into a key position and a team’s entire dynamic could shift. That was why she wasn’t surprised when Jo told her during halftime that she was giving Taylor O’Brien the second half at center back. She’d been expecting that, too. Or, more accurately, dreading it.

  This time she didn’t stomp off or throw her shin guards. Today she nodded like the mature adult she was and even managed a smile. On the bench a few minutes later she tugged on a pinny and sat beside Jess North, and not only because she wanted to see the homophobic newbie squirm while she cheered her girlfriend on. She was the Better Person, damn it. High time she started behaving like it.

  The bench afforded her a much clearer view of Jamie—and the rest of the team too. But her eyes were drawn back to her again and again mostly because Jamie was having a coming out game to remember. She was everywhere, her energy and confidence limitless as she raced end to end, supporting her teammates and setting them up in between launching shots of her own. She scored once more in the second half and assisted Ellie on another, and Emma didn’t think she was biased in any way to conclude that Jamie Maxwell was the reason they ended up beating Argentina 7-0. Well, as much as any single person could be the reason for a soccer team to prevail.

  “Thanks, guys,” Jamie said that night as she sat in Emma and Steph’s room, drinking champagne with a large percentage of the team. They had insisted on toasting her goals—and Taylor O’Brien’s, as well, because the Notre Dame grad had scored her first national team goal today too. On a set piece. While playing in Emma’s position.

  But tonight was not about Emma or Taylor freaking O’Brien. Well, it was a little about O’Brien. Mostly, though, it was about Jamie and her amazing, glorious performance. Again, not that Emma was biased.

  “Yeah, but it was against Argentina,” Jamie apparently felt the need to point out after Ellie made a fittingly grand toast to her prowess.

  “Oh, hell no, Rook,” Jenny Latham said. “I don’t care who we played. When you personally account for more than fifty percent of the offense, you get to feel good about yourself without qualifying anything. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jamie said, smiling despite the older player’s dressing down.

  She was so beautiful and doing so well at seizing the day and making it hers that it wasn’t Emma’s fault she had trouble keeping her hands to herself after a couple rounds of champagne. Steph gave them alone time before curfew, and Emma didn’t have to work that hard to coax Jamie into a quick, private celebration on her squeaky twin bed. Hooking up illicitly reminded her of high school, and for a moment she felt transported back in time to the year when she had dreamed about being with Jamie, knowing she probably would never get the chance. But here they were in Brazil, both playing for the national team, and Jamie had just scored her first goal in her first ever start. And they were legitimately in love.

  It was almost unfathomable in the very best way possible.

  #

  The following morning, the team went right back to work. A win against Argentina was all good, but that game was in the books, and now they needed to prepare for the last match of the tournament. Brazil had emerged from group play on top with the US second, so they would play for first place honors while China and Argentina would contest third place. The rematch presented an uncommon opportunity, Jo told them: an immediate chance to redeem their loss in the game they’d let slip through their fingers a week earlier.

  Training the next few days was intense. Emma knew she needed to fight to show she deserved her starting spot, but instead of rising to the challenge, she got stuck inside her own head again, doubts swirling in an endless cycle. In a half-field scrimmage the day before the rematch, she hesitated a second too long on a Jenny Latham cross and ended up colliding with Ellie. As the ball sailed overhead, they both hit the ground.

  “Fuck,” Ellie cursed, rolling up to her feet. She tried to take a step but froze, her face contorting in obvious pain. She swore again more quietly and limped away.

  “Elle,” Emma said, following her, “wait. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Ellie said, voice terse.

  But she left the field to confer with a trainer, and as the game continued, Emma lost track of her. It wasn’t until the end of the scrimmage that she heard the news: Ellie had sprained her ankle and was out for the match against Brazil.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said that night as she sat on the end of Ellie’s bed, shoulders hunched miserably.

  “Blake,” Ellie said, adjusting the ice pack on her ankle, “it’s a contact sport. Shit happens.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Did you hurt me intentionally?”

  “Of course not! But I should have—”

  “Jesus, Emma. Can you please stop making this about you? I’m the one who’s hurt here.”

  Emma winced. “Oh, yeah. Okay.” Was that what she was doing? Did she routinely make everything about herself?

  “Now, take my mind off my stupid ankle. What did Jo say?”

  Jo had called Emma up to her room after dinner to discuss the following day’s game. She wouldn’t be starting, Jo had explained, because the coaches wanted to see what Taylor O’Brien could do with ninety minutes against a quality opponent. Also, frankly, Emma seemed a bit burned out, Jo had added. The rest might do her good. Recharge her batteries before a World Cup year, or some such bullshit.

  “Do you think she’s right?” Emma asked Ellie. “Am I burned out?”

  “It’s possible. I know I have been at various points in my career. But Mel has been looking for a back-up for you and Lisa for a while now, and besides, Phoebe has very particular feelings about who plays in front of her. Between you and me, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I don’t know.” She stared at the muted television, where a Brazilian club game was playing in steady rain that had turned the field into a mud pit. “Jo says I need to score more. Or, I guess, score at all, since I never have for the national team.”

  Ellie’s forehead furrowed even as she smiled. “She said that?”

  “See?” Emma let her chin hit her chest. “I’m not a scorer! Everyone knows that.”

  “Not your dad.”

  “What?” Emma peeked up at her.

  “Didn’t you tell me once that your dad compared you to Mia Hamm?”

  He had. Over smoked salmon latkes at the Experience Music Project in Seattle Center one night, Emma’s father had counseled her not to focus on the destination so much that she missed the journey. Among other things.

  “Yes, but that’s what dads do,” she said. “They believe the best of you in the face of overwhelming odds to the contrary.”

  “Not my dad.” Ellie gazed at the silent television. “Mine told me I would never amount
to anything. He said of all his children, I would always be his biggest disappointment.”

  Emma had known that Ellie wasn’t close with her parents. Known, too, that both her mother and father struggled with her “tomboy” tendencies. This, Emma had understood, meant they were homophobic, a fact that had only been reinforced when she met them in real life. But she’d never realized how deep the gulf between them ran.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, moving uninvited up the narrow twin bed to slip her arm through Ellie’s. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It does.” Ellie laughed as she made room for Emma, her voice slightly hoarse. “I think that’s why breaking the scoring record would be such a big deal. Maybe then he’d realize he was wrong about me.”

  With every goal Ellie crept closer to Mia Hamm’s scoring record. At her current rate, she should break it before the World Cup. Or, well, she had been on target to do so before Emma wrecked her ankle.

  “Ellie, he’s wrong about you whether you break the record or not,” Emma said, leaning into her friend’s shoulder. “You have to know that your worth doesn’t depend on a number. We all follow you because you’re an amazing person and an even better leader, not because of how many goals you score.”

  Ellie lifted an eyebrow. “So you say. But I’m pretty sure the goal-scoring helps.”

  Emma’s fists clenched. Realistically she understood that if Ellie didn’t believe she was more than the sum of her soccer career, there was nothing anyone could do or say to change her mind. Except maybe her father.

  “So what you’re telling me,” she said, “is that I’m a shitty goal scorer because my dad wasn’t a total asshole?”

  This time Ellie’s laugh sounded more genuine. “Yes, Blake, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” She paused. “Do you want to do some extra work on offense during January camp? I bet we could convince Jamie and Angie to stay after practice. Maybe some of the others too.”

  “You would do that?” But the idea didn’t really surprise her. As she’d told Ellie, she was an awesome leader, not to mention generous to a fault.

  “Emma. The ’99ers may be the ones who told me to work on my defensive skills, but in case you’ve forgotten, you and Tina are the ones who actually taught me how to play better defense. Besides, it isn’t like I haven’t seen you helping out other players.”

  “Okay, then,” Emma said, touched. “I would really appreciate it, Elle.”

  “No problem. I mean, assuming my ankle heals in time for January camp…” As Emma groaned, Ellie elbowed her. “Kidding! I’ll be fine. Takes more than a little sprain to keep me down.”

  The screen flickered, and they glanced back to see a goal celebration. During replays, the door opened to reveal a whole gaggle of well-wishers who wanted to check on their team captain—and leading scorer.

  “That’s my signal,” Emma said. With a final attempt at an apology that Ellie only waved away mock crossly, she excused herself and went to check on Jamie before curfew.

  As she got ready for bed later that night, Emma couldn’t get Ellie’s words out of her head. For her own father to call her his biggest disappointment? How did you get over something that hurtful? Emma may not have always gotten along with her father, but the night he’d compared her to Mia Hamm he’d also told her that she and her brother were what he was proudest of in his own life. Not his surgical patents or the thousands of children whose lives he’d saved with his pioneering techniques. No. She and Ty were his true legacy.

  Thanks, Dad, she thought, casting her thoughts out into the universe in the hopes that he was still out there somewhere, in one form or another.

  #

  Jamie didn’t start against Brazil the next day either, but she did play in the second half. That was more than Emma could say. As Jo had promised, Taylor O’Brien played the entire match, which ended in a scoreless draw. In the event of a tie the team with the better group stage finish was crowned the victor, so Brazil took top honors. Still, the game was an improvement over their previous meeting if only because they didn’t give up any goals. Lisa had kept the defense organized, and Taylor’s speed had come in handy a few times when Marisol attempted to split the four-back.

  Emma couldn’t remember the results from September’s round of fitness testing. Was Taylor faster? Should she be starting on a regular basis?

  “Dude, no way,” Jamie insisted on their “walk” that night. Brazil had a certain reputation, and that meant that team members were required to travel in groups. Instead of going out on their own as they’d done in Utah, they had taken to setting up on adjacent treadmills in the hotel fitness room most nights after dinner, careful to keep an eye out for visitors.

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I think she might be. She’s definitely better offensively.”

  “Well, she has played offensive midfielder for most of her life. If you ask me, Jo takes the idea of versatility to an extreme.”

  It was nice to know that Jamie thought that, too, even if her role as Emma’s girlfriend meant that she was required to say such things.

  “Besides,” Jamie added, “Jo didn’t say anything last night about it being permanent, did she? You said she was giving you a break, not replacing you outright.”

  “No, you’re right. She didn’t mention the future.” In fact, she’d left the door wide open, a fact that didn’t make Emma feel any better.

  Jamie checked over her shoulder before asking, “Did she say anything to you about us? You know, anything relationship oriented?”

  “No. I told you, she just wanted to let me know I would be sitting today.”

  “She really didn’t say anything about me at all?”

  “No, Jamie. Unless you count the part where we gushed about your goals against Argentina.” Emma didn’t mention that they’d talked at length about Jamie a week earlier, the first time Jo had called her up to her room. She had no intention of telling Jamie the truth about that conversation anytime soon.

  “Oh. Well, good. I was a little worried, after the other Brazil game.”

  Honestly, Emma had been, too. “I think if there was a problem relationship-wise, Jo would tell us. She seems like the direct type.”

  Jamie laughed. “That’s an understatement. This one time the U-16s were playing in Florida and a bunch of us wandered off without telling anyone where we were going. Holy crap, was there hell to pay.”

  “You broke the rules?” she said dryly, recalling teenage Jamie’s propensity to skateboard while high.

  “Shut it, Blake.” Jamie walked for a minute with her shoulders back, posture a thing of beauty until, all at once, she caved in on herself. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s going to sound stupid.”

  Emma scoffed. “I doubt that.”

  “No, really.” She lowered her voice and said all in a rush, “Am I somehow stealing your luck? Because it’s beginning to feel like only one of us gets to have good soccer karma at a time.”

  And, okay, maybe her warning was accurate, although absurd was a better word choice than stupid. Emma shook her head. “Come on, Jamie, that’s not how this works.”

  “Logically I know that, but we’re professional athletes. I think we’re entitled to a little superstition. You’ve been starting all this time, and then I show up and you get benched?”

  Of course someone who believed in soccer deities would think that way. Besides, Emma remembered, Jamie had her reasons for thinking in magical terms. Very good, legitimately terrible reasons.

  “I really don’t think that’s what’s happening here,” Emma said carefully. “Do you?”

  “No. I guess not.” Jamie toyed with her treadmill’s control panel, slowing the pace and then speeding it up again. “Do you remember Shoshanna?”

  She nodded. Like she would forget the therapist who had basically saved Jamie’s life one week at a time.

  “Whenever I used to say things like that, Shoshanna would tell me that I’m
not that important to the universe. But still, it feels like that in my gut.”

  “Have you thought about calling her? I know it’s been a while, but it might be worth checking in considering everything that’s been happening.”

  Including the things she didn’t know about. If Emma’s online situation worsened like it had with Sam, it would probably be wise for Jamie to have a solid support network in place. Besides, while Jamie had said she’d worked through most of her intimacy issues during previous relationships, she sometimes still got quiet after they had sex, drifting off into an interior maze where Emma couldn’t reach her, could only hold on and wait for her to find her way out. Sometimes she didn’t until the next day, and a couple of times she’d appeared to be lost to her thoughts for longer than a day, although it was difficult to gauge sometimes given how much time they spent apart. Would that happen more or less if they occupied the same space permanently?

  “Huh.” Jamie glanced over at her. “Not a bad idea, Blake.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Emma said. “I mean, UNC, am I right?”

  Jamie laughed, her eyes crinkling in that way that Emma loved, and suddenly the world didn’t seem that bad.

  That is, until she got back to her room and lay in the dark, ear plugs not quite blocking out Steph’s nearby breathing and the never-ending traffic sounds of Brazil’s capital. She couldn’t stop replaying the look in Jamie’s eyes when she asked if she was the reason Emma was losing playing time. If Jamie blamed herself for something that wasn’t remotely her fault, Emma could only imagine the depths of her self-flagellation if she knew that the photo she’d posted of them in their Premier League jerseys had set off Emma’s would-be stalker again.

  That was what Jo had wanted to talk about the night they revealed their relationship, not Emma’s lack of online activity. Contractual obligations were Fitzy’s purview, which was why the email had come from the team manager. Jo was more concerned about her players’ safety and well-being. Because while Jamie hadn’t yet clued in to Emma’s Twitter problem, the coaching staff had.