Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  I’ve discovered a slightly ghostly quality to my iPhone’s FaceTime. The voice and the image don’t quite sync, and the movements have a half-second delay. When one is absolutely still, though, and quiet, it conveys detail very well.

  Jaye is still right now, and quiet. I take in those captivating gray eyes, the planes of her cheekbones, what I’m coming to see as the perfection of her face. She, meanwhile, is coming right to the heart of something.

  “You’re a writer,” she says. “Texting should be right up your alley.”

  I beg to differ. “Texting is like popcorn for dinner instead of a good healthy meal. It’s temporary and unsatisfying.”

  “I think you had a bad texting experience and are afraid to admit it.”

  The perception shuts me up. I forget about FaceTime for a second, forget Jaye can see me grimacing in acknowledgment. Forget right up until she laughs.

  “Please say you don’t play poker.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good. Because you'd be broke.” Jaye sobers up again. “What happened?”

  My turn to go still, while I order my thoughts. “A text is instantaneous. It goes out, it gets there. And one comes to expect an instantaneous reply. I always replied right away to texts, or at least as soon as I saw them. I was friends with someone who didn’t, and I let it drive me nuts. Unreasonably so. I don’t want it to happen again. Especially with you.”

  “This ‘someone’ was only a friend?”

  “Yes. But it’s a long, complicated story.”

  I can tell Jaye is curious, but she lets it go. For now. “Voicemail works the same way,” she says.

  “No. Not the same. Voicemail implies whoever you’re calling is too busy to talk. So you leave a message and you’re okay waiting. Texting, you expect a reply.”

  Jaye frowns. “I suppose.”

  “Hey—consider it one of my charming little quirks.”

  “You’ll tell me if I ask, won’t you—what happened with this friend?”

  “Yeah. But I’d rather tell you in person.”

  The frown disappears. “You know, I like that you want to do so much in person.”

  “Yes . . . you may have created a monster.”

  “Come to Kansas City as soon as you can.”

  

  Late Friday evening, after her team has arrived in Washington, I call to wish Jaye luck for the game. I forget to use the FaceTime app, but before I can cancel and try again, there’s a click like someone’s answered. I wait for Jaye’s greeting, but get only silence.

  “Jaye? You there?”

  A voice, definitely not Jaye’s, says “Just a minute.”

  I hear murmurs as the phone changes hands, followed by the pleasing tones of my lover’s voice. “Hi, Rachel.”

  “Hey. Who was that?”

  “Nickory. She was closer to the phone than me.”

  A tiny little alarm goes off in the back of my mind. “Closer to your phone.”

  “Yeah. You know how hotel rooms are.”

  I suppose. I turn the little alarm off with a joke. “I guess we’re not on for phone sex then?”

  There’s a short pause. “Maybe later, after she’s asleep?”

  “She’s listening, isn’t she?”

  “Of course!”

  We both laugh, Jaye more comfortably than I. The rest of our conversation is full of affection and “I miss you’s,” plus my update on the painting situation, and it almost makes me forget the little incident with Nickory. Almost.

  The Blues’ match against Washington goes well. I connect computer to TV and watch the live stream on a big screen, jumping up and down when Jaye scores her second goal of the season. She also gets an assist on a subsequent goal, while Nickory shuts out the home side. KC wins 2-0. The team is firing on all cylinders, which bodes well for the rest of the season.

  I’m happy for Jaye and the Blues and even happier to go see the next game live and in person.

  

  Saturday morning at three a.m. I’m on the road. The painters are at last done, the house is finished and fabulous, the furniture is back in place, and my irritation at the minor glitches along the way is gone. I have a cooler full of snacks and Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper, a trunk full of luggage, and a heart full of motivation. I had asked Jaye if she thought it was okay for me to stay a few days, and she enthusiastically endorsed the idea.

  “You can stay with us,” she says, referring to her, Nickerson and Bree Thompson.

  “Not the first night, though. I want you all to myself.”

  My face breaks into a smile as I remember her acknowledging the wisdom of this idea. I take full advantage of a near empty freeway and generous speed limit to bring the plan closer to fruition, arriving at the Hampton Inn in plenty of time to check in and drive to the stadium for the Blues’ afternoon game.

  I watch the team warming up as I head toward my seat, my eyes zooming right to number 22. I don’t have to search, I just know where she is. Jaye is doing passing drills with a couple of teammates, and when she sees me, she kicks the ball deliberately in my direction, then takes off after it, watching me all the way. As she gets closer, a line of energy, of connection, streaks out and reels us toward each other.

  I stand against the railing, riveted, as Jaye approaches. I can’t take my eyes off of her.

  “Hi, Rachel,” she says, the most seductive syllables I’ve ever heard.

  “Hi.”

  Our smiles outshine the sun. Jaye comes up to the railing, and I see she’s planning to climb over, but a coach shouts at her, so she gives me a quick wave, picks up the ball, and runs off, taking a piece of my heart with her. My legs are shaking.

  It’s official. I’ve got it bad.

  Today’s opponent is Chicago, the weakest team in the league. Despite the NSWL’s relative parity, someone has to be last, and this year it’s the Red Stars. KC wins easily, 5-0. Jaye gets two assists, yet another goal, and now has a three-game scoring streak. I cheer for all this, of course, but I also listen to the fans talk around me during the game, and it’s clear they think Jaye is doing something special.

  “What’s the difference?” I ask her after all the autographs are signed and pictures taken. “People say you’re playing better than you ever have.”

  Jaye and I are headed back to my car hand in hand. I feel the energy between us, but I’m also aware of all the other people around. Portland is one thing, Kansas City and the conservative Midwest is another. I scan for disapproving stares.

  Jaye is oblivious. “I’m playing a new position this year. In seasons past I played more on the defensive side, but the coach moved me up to attacking midfield after we traded a player. Attacking mid means exactly that—I have more chances to score or to help our forward score. It’s been fun.”

  “I can tell. You were on fire out there tonight.”

  We’re at the car now, and Jaye comes up close and wraps me in a hug. “It’s also because of you,” she says.

  I like hearing her praise, but still shake my head. “I can’t take credit for your brilliance.”

  “But I can give it to you,” she murmurs in my ear. “There’s an electricity in my body, like I’m stronger and faster and—better.”

  The touch of her, the feel of her breath against my skin, shoots a fair amount of electricity through me, too. Our eyes meet, and I see Jaye’s go dark. She’s going to kiss me right here and now, in broad daylight at a public parking lot.

  “The world is watching,” I say softly.

  “Good. Then they’ll know you’re mine.”

  Before our lips meet, the toot of a car horn startles us both. We turn toward the sound and see Bree behind the wheel of a Volkswagen Bug, a big grin on her face. Nickory is sitting next to her, not smiling at all.

  “Get a room, you guys!” Bree calls.

  “We have one already!” Jaye laughs.

  “But you can’t go there yet,” Bree says.
“We’re doing dinner, remember?”

  Bree has insisted on a cookout this evening. Jaye and I, not thinking clearly, agreed. I wish now we had pushed the social time to Sunday.

  Jaye drops her forehead to mine. “We could pretend she’s not there.”

  “No, no. It’ll be all right. Come on.” I walk to the car, more or less dragging Jaye along with me.

  “Jaye knows the way, right?” I ask Bree jokingly, knowing they share a place in Overland Park.

  “Here.” Bree hands me a piece of paper. “Put the address in your GPS so she doesn’t have any excuses. We’ll see you in thirty. And we’ll call 9-1-1 if you don’t show up on time!”

  The Bug scrambles off. Nickory did not once glance our way, choosing instead to stare straight ahead. Something is definitely up with her.

  Jaye doesn’t notice. “Do we have to go?” she asks me, pleadingly.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “But the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave, or sneak off to your bedroom if you absolutely insist.”

  Now it’s Jaye dragging me toward my Toyota. “I absolutely insist.”

  We clamber in, and as soon as the car doors slam shut, we turn to one another. Our kiss is long and passionate and full. I draw sustenance from it, bracing myself for who knows what may lie ahead with Kathleen Nickerson, the warrior queen.

  

  Even with a brief detour to the liquor store for wine, we get to the townhome well before emergency services need to be alerted. I’m surprised to see Bree and Nickory are still outside, standing by Bree’s car, like they’ve been waiting for us. Which turns out to be true.

  “Jaye and I need to run to the store for salad stuff,” Bree says after I’ve parked.

  “Why me?” Jaye asks.

  “Because you have an eye for vegetables.” This is said perfectly seriously, but from the way Nickory is watching me, I know we’ve been set up. By her or by Bree? I guess it doesn’t matter.

  Jaye allows herself to be commandeered for duty, and as they go, Nickory lets me into the house. The three of them share a large, single-level townhome in an upscale complex with lots of trees, nice landscaping, and a decently sized pool. The front door opens into the living room, behind which is the kitchen/dining area. I see a patio and small yard out the kitchen’s back door. A hallway to the left near the dining room table probably leads to the bedrooms. Nickory does not offer a tour but gestures me toward a sofa in the living room area.

  “You want a beer?” she asks politely.

  “No, thanks. But water is fine.”

  Nickory goes back to the kitchen, and I take a look around. Whoever did the decorating knows something about color and taste. I suspect Bree, but that could be my “jock-head” bias creeping in again. The townhome is comfortable and, despite Nickory’s demeanor, welcoming. The place is also plenty big enough for four.

  Good, I think, then briefly wonder where the hell my inner recluse has gone.

  When Nickory returns with a tall glass of ice water for me and a Stone IPA for herself, I’ve settled in a standing spot by the fireplace. I don’t get into a lot of psychological dominance stuff, but I’m fully aware of our height difference. I suppose I want all the help I can get. Subconsciously or otherwise.

  Nickory is oblivious as she sits down on the couch and pops open her beer. She’s captained an Olympic team. She is the warrior queen. It’s her house.

  But I’m old enough to wear purple and say what I think. I decide to get right to the point.

  “You’re acting like you don’t want me here. Why?”

  The tall goalkeeper frowns. “Is it that obvious?”

  At least we’re not beating around the bush. “I was paid to be observant for twenty-five years. I did my job well.” I’m looking at her, but she’s not returning the favor. Fine.

  “I like you,” I continue, more or less truthfully. “I like Bree, I really like Jaye. What’s wrong, and how can I fix it?”

  Nickory takes a long swallow of beer, then deigns to give me a glance. “Is it true Jaye’s your first girlfriend?”

  Ah. “Basically, yes. She’s certainly the first one I’ve ever felt this way about.”

  “That bothers me.” Nickory hoards her words, as if, once spoken, they are gone forever.

  “It doesn’t bother Jaye. And she’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

  “Not always good ones.”

  This ticks me off. “Spoken like a true friend.”

  That ticks her off. “I’ve known her for fifteen years. I don’t know you at all.”

  “True.” I finally stop hoarding my own words. “Short version? I’m a writer, an introvert, and honest to a fault. I try to be a decent human being, and I intend to be as good to Jaye as I can. I’m not an axe murderer, Nickory.”

  She glares at me. “You don’t have to be to break her heart.”

  I glare right back. “Don’t you think the odds are better she’ll break mine? She’s the gorgeous blonde athlete who, when she gets wise, can have anyone she wants.”

  “You don’t think she’s wise?”

  My eyes narrow. “I’m not going to discuss that with you without discussing it with Jaye first.”

  The comment, for all its awkwardness, registers. Maybe in a good way. Nickory downs another swallow of beer. Releases another sentence. “She’s not going to break your heart.”

  “I sincerely hope not. And I’ll do my best not to hurt her.”

  Nickory’s eyes threaten to pin me against the mantlepiece. “You’d better not.” The anger is understated but clear.

  “What makes you think I would? Like you said, you don’t know me.”

  “She’s been used before.”

  New information, but none of my business until Jaye chooses to make it so. I frown while the warrior queen sits there, the strong and silent type. Frustrating, too, because she clearly cares about her friend and refuses—or doesn’t know how—to articulate it.

  I forge ahead. “Nickory, listen. I don’t want to take your relationship away. I respect your friendship with Jaye. I’m not out to replace you or push you aside. I’m out to make Jaye happy, for as long as she wants me around. This was Jaye’s idea from minute one. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  The warrior queen sits glowering.

  “Doesn’t that count for something?” I ask again.

  Nickory sets her jaw. “Yes,” she admits.

  The Bug pulls into the driveway before I can pursue my slim advantage. “Okay, then. Truce?” I ask instead.

  Kathleen Nickerson, all six feet of her, stands and faces me. I know she means to intimidate, but there’s steel in me, too, and I meet her eyes without flinching. Her shoulders relax, a little, and she nods.

  “Truce.” She offers her hand, and we shake on it. Something lingers, unfinished, but it’s tabled for now, if only because we both want to keep Jaye happy.

  

  Despite the prelude, dinner turns out to be a success. Bree grills New York strips to perfection. Jaye concocts an adventurous, tasty salad (guess she does have an eye for vegetables). The wine is my contribution, and it seems to relax everyone and ease the tension between Nickory and me.

  There is comfortable conversation afterwards and the Royals’ game on TV in the background. Nickory and Bree are parked on the sofa, I’m in the “comfy chair” opposite them with the coffee table between us. Jaye sits on the armrest next to me, fingers gently stroking the back of my neck.

  We have not been able to sneak off to the bedroom, and the soft caresses are going right to my libido. But I’m determined to build on the truce thing, so we make nice and keep talking. I even get a little brave.

  “So,” I say to Nickory, “are you from, like Hickory, New Hampshire, or something?”

  This gets puzzled reactions from all three women. I elaborate. “ ‘Nick-ory from Hickory’?”

  Nickory rolls her eyes and gestures to Jaye. “Her i
dea.”

  Jaye, grinning, takes the pass and heads up the field. “She needed a nickname. There are about a million “Kates” and “Katies” out there, almost as many Nickys, and nobody’s going to call her Kathleen. So I’m watching her in training one day, with the Under-18s, blocking shot after shot after shot. Nothing was getting in.” Jaye eyes her friend fondly. “And this old nursery rhyme popped into my head.”

  I’m quick on the uptake. “Hickory, Dickory, Dock.”

  “Yeah,” Jaye says. “Only I started shouting “Kickory, Nickory, block!” Before long I had the whole team chanting it.”

  Is the tall quiet goalie actually blushing? If so, it blends well with her new hair color—KC Blues blue.

  “Eventually I hear this,” Nickory says, taking up the tale, “and while I’m standing there trying to figure it out, I get whacked in the head by a crossing pass.”

  We all laugh.

  “But a nickname was born,” Jaye finishes.

  “Even the TV people tell the story now,” Nickory says. “Though they usually claim somebody different came up with it.”

  “Wendy Allerton,” says Bree.

  “Becky Kaisershot,” Jaye chimes in.

  Nickory gets the last word. “But it’s definitely Jaye’s fault.”

  We laugh again, and I watch them interact, see the clear affection and love they have for each other. True best friends, I realize. I hope I can end up on Nickory’s good side.

  Bree sits next to her lover on the sofa, casually holding hands with her. She’s part of this equation, too, and it strikes me, not for the first time, to wonder how long they’ve all been a kind of Three Musketeers.

  “How long have you two been together?” I ask.

  “Ten years,” Bree says.

  “Wow,” I say, honestly. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. In a good way.”

  “We met in college,” Bree says. “Nickory took a while to come around, but from the first time I saw her, I knew.”

  I feel a squeeze on my shoulder. “Me, too,” Jaye says.

  My eyes lock with Nickory’s for a brief second. I put my hand over Jaye’s, tilt my head, and catch her leaning down to kiss me. We time it perfectly, sweetly. Barely keep it decent.