Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  “Good,” she says, and it sounds so like Jaye I have to bite back a laugh.

  “Jaye says it exactly the same way,” I tell her before I negate the good will. “Now I know where she gets it from.”

  Mrs. Stokes actually smiles, and Tom says “I think Jaye’s found the right woman, honey.”

  The three of us are now surrounded by, at worst, an amiable willingness to compromise. When Jaye chooses that moment to walk through the front door, she doesn’t see it at all.

  “Mom, I want to show you something,” she says without preamble, then stalks off to the bedroom. She comes back with her iPad and sets it on the table so we all have a view.

  Jaye brings the device to life, opens up YouTube, makes a couple of entries, and plays a clip from the old Johnny Carson show. The guest is Lauren Bacall, and she’s on the show to promote her memoir. I had found this clip a couple of years ago and showed it to Jaye during one of our Bogart-Bacall discussions. Bacall and Carson clearly get along great, joking back and forth, and Carson asks her a few questions about Humphrey Bogart, including what it was like to introduce the much older Bogart to her mother. Bacall says it worked because she and Bogie were “two honest people,” and her mother could see that.

  When the clip is over, Jaye takes my hand and stares her mother down. “We’re two honest people, Mom, like Bogart and Bacall. We’re two honest people who love each other. I know she’s older, and I don’t care. Rachel and I belong together. Okay?”

  Marcia Stokes—I’m almost there with the first name—puts a hand on Jaye’s shoulder, then her other hand on my shoulder.

  “Okay,” she says. “I got it.”

  Jaye is flummoxed this has gone so smoothly, and it shows on her face. Tom laughs, as do I, and her mom smiles.

  I lean over and stage-whisper in Jaye’s ear. “We talked things out while you were running.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. As long as I treat you like royalty and make you my sole heir, they’ll be nice to me.”

  Jaye looks around at all of us, then smiles. “Good.”

  

  The game tonight is the Blues versus the Washington Spirit, a good team, but nowhere near the level of play Kansas City is enjoying right now. There’s a little bit of suspense in the first half, though. The Blues take several open shots but fail to find the net, while Washington squeaks one past Nickory to take a 1-0 lead. But Jaye is doing her best, as are her teammates. One can sense the crowd is not worried. There’s a lot of soccer left to play.

  Jaye’s parents have dinner plans with Nickory and Bree after the game, and Bree joins us shortly before halftime, fresh off her work shift. She sits on the other side of Tom and Marcia, and that plus our focus on the game keeps the tension under wraps. But at the half, when the elder Stokes go off in search of refreshment, Bree and I finally have to talk to each other.

  “Hey, Bree.”

  Since we sat down, it’s been obvious she’s ambivalent about me being there. When I at last force the issue, she settles on politeness.

  “Hi, Rachel. How’re you doing?”

  “Great, actually. How about you?”

  “It’s been rough lately.”

  I have no idea what Nickory has told Bree about Jaye’s departure. Jaye herself had only told Bree she had to move out, leaving the bitter details to her ex-best friend. My usual tendency to bluntness collides with my genuine affection for this particular Musketeer, which collides with my lack of knowledge about how much she knows. Maybe I should have kept quiet and left Bree alone.

  Sincerely, I say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “What did Jaye tell you? About what happened?”

  I decide to obfuscate. “She and Nickory disagreed about their relationship.”

  Bree smiles bitterly. “Did she tell you they slept together?”

  The words jolt a bit, but I’m not totally surprised. “No. Jaye told me they didn’t sleep together.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Yes, I did.” I meet her eyes and don’t waver. “Like you did when she said Nickory never cheated on you.”

  Bree frowns and to my surprise blinks back tears. “Nickory won’t tell me anything.”

  I process this. I’ve watched every game the Blues have played this season, and since the rift, Nickory’s goalkeeper play has definitely declined. She’s still good, still a pro, but Kathleen Nickerson is nowhere near the best at her position right now. And I guess I know why.

  Tom and Marcia come back at this point, a good thing, because I’m not sure what I would or could say to Bree. We go into polite/detached mode, and the second half starts.

  KC’s luck finally shows up in the seventy-sixth minute. Jaye and Kirstie Longstreet exchange passes up the field and confuse the Spirit defense until Jaye can finish it. Another goal, another notch on the MVP belt. But though Nickory holds firm, with some help from her defensive cohorts, that ends up being KC’s only score, and the game ends in a draw. Not the result the Blues wanted, but they still haven’t outright lost a match since April. An impressive streak.

  After the usual interactions with fans, Jaye and Nickory join the four of us outside the locker room.

  “Are you sure you won’t come to dinner?” Marcia asks her daughter.

  Nickory still glares daggers at me when she can, but I notice tonight’s blades have no venom. The warrior queen is a little ragged at the edges. And it’s not because she’s finished a hard game. She’s confused on some level, and hurting. I, secure at last in the cocoon of Jaye’s love, can have some sympathy.

  But I don’t have to show it. “What do you want to do, Jaye?”

  “Go home with you,” she says. No sympathy there. Her next words are aimed at her parents. “You guys have a good time. We’ll wait up.”

  Tom laughs, Marcia is disappointed, Bree resigned, Nickory sullen. And maybe a little pained.

  “All right then,” Tom says. “We’ll see you two later.”

  

  Jaye and I grab takeout on the way home. After we settle in on the couch with Chinese and a baseball game on TV, I learn a little bit about Kathleen Nickerson’s past.

  “Nickory’s parents kicked her out when she was seventeen because she was gay,” Jaye tells me. “She hasn’t had anything to do with them since.”

  This would have been in the late 1990s. “I didn’t think people did that anymore.”

  “They definitely do. We were friends by then, so I started asking Nickory to the farm for vacations. After she met and fell in love with Bree, she was invited, too. My parents treated them like me and my brother and sister. They really are part of my family.”

  Hmm. “Maybe Nickory meant what she said, in Boston.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she told you she didn’t want to lose her family. Maybe she meant it.”

  Jaye sets her jaw. “Then why did she kiss me? There was nothing familial about the kiss.”

  Jaye has a point. And she’s not done yet. “Do you remember I told you I had a crush on Nickory, way back when?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “I was going to tell her. I was a sophomore at North Carolina, and I went up to Penn State for spring break, specifically to tell her how I felt. Turns out she’d met Bree a couple of weeks before. So I swallowed my feelings, told her I was happy for her, and stayed a friend. Eventually, I got over my horrible timing.”

  “I bet that took a while.”

  “It did. But Bree’s story was just like Nickory’s: her parents kicked her out of the house for being gay, completely cut her off. In the middle of the winter. In Chicago. One of her teachers took her under his wing, and she says she’d probably be dead if not for him. She doesn’t have anything to do with her family, either.”

  “Sounds like they’re perfect for each other.”

  “Yes. They are. And I could see it, back then, even with my crush. So I got ove
r it.”

  “You’re a good person, Jaye.”

  “Then why did I kiss her back, in Boston? You know I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Yes.” I hand Jaye the fried rice container and take the Moo goo gai pan. “Water under the bridge. I haven’t thought about it since then.”

  “Nickory probably hasn’t either. She’s not exactly the contemplative type. She’s always left the thinking to Bree.”

  “And you.”

  “Yeah . . . if I could see how good Nickory and Bree are for each other, shouldn’t she be able to see the same for me?”

  “I think you know that answer,” I say. “And maybe you were simply being a good friend, despite wanting her and all.”

  “Yes. I was a good friend. She should be, too.”

  “Point taken.” I lean over and give Jaye a kiss. “I don’t know that we’re perfect for each other. We’re just crazy in love.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You still think it’s too soon?”

  “Too soon for what?”

  “To be thinking forever.”

  I hark back to what I’d told “the parents” earlier. I hope it’s for the rest of my life.

  “No, Jaye. It’s not too soon. Being with you feels so right I can’t put it into words.”

  Jaye swallows her last bite of rice and graces me with a soppy romantic grin. “You don’t have to. I feel it, too.”

  

  The parents get in around ten o’clock, and the four of us finish off the key lime pie from last night (yes, key lime pie goes with Chinese). Dinner had been a little strained, I gather, and Marcia once again tries to persuade Jaye to make amends with Nickory. Jaye fends her off with proper deference of daughter to mother, firm in her stance nonetheless. Tom and I listen, somewhat amused.

  At one point he leans over and says to me, sotto voce, “Marcia thinks Nickory walks on water.”

  I lean back and respond, equally softly, “Nickory thinks Nickory walks on water.”

  Our eyes meet, and we burst out laughing. Jaye and her mom raise their heads in surprise, but Tom says nothing, and I adopt a mock-innocent expression.

  “Marcia,” Tom says then, “let it go? Nickory dug this hole herself, and she’s the one who has to fill it in again.”

  “Dad’s right,” Jaye says, and her pronouncement closes the conversation, and the evening.

  

  The elder Stokes opt to leave early the next morning for Iowa, and I put off grilling steaks for next time. Jaye considers their visit a great success, and I’m pleased to agree. I’m more pleased, though, to have her all to myself again.

  Except for soccer, of course. We fall back into our usual routine. Jaye goes to practice, or the gym, or to do drills, and I mull over the rough outline for my next book. There are two games left in the regular season, followed by the playoffs. Then the future.

  One morning I’m in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, freshly showered, struck by a sense of déjà vu. Hair, still brunette thanks to a good-but-not-as-good-as-Krystal stylist. Face, still mostly unlined. Body, unchanged—on the outside. Still not Playboy material. I certainly don’t feel like I’m fifty-two.

  Jaye comes up from behind me, misreads my pensive gaze at the mirror. She puts her hands under my breasts and raises them up.

  “Better?” she says, not bothering to hide her amusement. Before I can answer, she runs her thumbs over my nipples.

  “Yes,” I gasp and lean back into her. She runs a series of kisses along my neck.

  “It’s what’s underneath that counts, you know.”

  “Ah. The flab.”

  Jaye squeezes my breasts. “No, silly. The heart, the soul, the mind.”

  “Don’t forget the liver.”

  “And the liver.” She lets go of my business and turns me to face her. “I love you no matter what, Rachel. I always will.”

  I press my body against hers. “I know. And I love you too, no matter what.”

  “Good.”

  A minute later the mirror is steamy again and not from my recent shower. I spend a long moment admiring Jaye’s wondrous gray eyes.

  “Come to Denver with me after the playoffs?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On a hot Friday evening in August comes the long-awaited rematch with Portland. Kansas City is still in first place, but Portland has managed to stay close. If the Blues win tonight they will clinch the regular season title, but a Thorns win, or a tie, will leave things in doubt for another week. Finishing first means home-field advantage in the playoffs, and like every team, KC wants that badly.

  There’s something full-circle about the matchup for Jaye and me. We became lovers after the first game in Portland. And she has something planned for this one, too, though she won’t tell me what.

  I say, “I can guess.”

  “You could. But I won’t confirm it, so you may as well be surprised.”

  Fine.

  Jaye’s run to MVP also started in the Rose City. I have no doubt now she’ll win the award. Soccer aficionados are calling her season the best since Mia Hamm’s breakouts in the early 2000s. Tonight’s game is being televised on a national cable network, so Jaye has a chance to showcase her skills to the whole country.

  She’s psyched. So are her teammates. Victory is in the air.

  But Portland didn’t get to second place without effort, and tonight their team fights hard. Literally. Soccer is a beautiful game, but it can also involve lots of contact, incidental and otherwise. Tonight’s match is not for sissies. Both teams use their bodies to move opponents off the ball and go for position. Before long, not even midway through the first half, tempers are flaring. I imagine the TV commentators using the word “chippy” to describe the atmosphere.

  “Do you suppose a hockey game’s going to break out?” I joke to Rick as we watch from the sidelines.

  “I think it already has,” he remarks as one of the Thorn players bowls over Becky Kaisershot. The Blues defender jumps up and gets in her opponent’s face as the referee stops play, calls the foul, and issues a yellow card against Portland. Five minutes later, KC returns the favor when Kirstie Longstreet angles for a pass and takes out a Thorn defender. She argues with the ref and is rewarded with a yellow card of her own.

  The chippy trend continues right up to halftime, both sides seeming to prefer running into each other over scoring. It’s 0-0, points-wise, 1-1 in yellow cards. If the strategy is to keep the elite players in check—Stokes for KC, Conway for Portland—it’s working.

  Rick analyzes the first half play during the break, but I listen with only half an ear, bothered by a vague sense of worry. Jaye is tall and strong and more than capable of mixing it up if necessary. It’s not her game, though, not her style, and I saw the frustration in her eyes as she walked past me toward the locker room. We’re both hoping the TV exposure, coupled with a good performance, will solidify Jaye’s chances for the national squad. So far, though, all anyone’s seeing is each team’s “fighting” spirit.

  The second half brings more of the same. KC’s coach makes a substitution which brings in one of their biggest, toughest players and puts her right in the middle of the defense. A few minutes later, Portland’s coach does the same, bringing in Celia Green, a defender with a take-no-prisoners reputation.

  “It’s a pity they’re settling for brawl mentality,” Rick says. “We should just get the ball up to Jaye and Kirstie and let them run.”

  I agree, but I’m not the coach. “Yeah, but that lets Sandra Conway do the same thing, right?”

  Rick turns to me, shocked. “Conway’s never been able to get by Becky.”

  “True,” comes a voice from behind us. “Kat’s always had her number, too.”

  We turn to greet Bree who fist bumps Rick and gives me a neutral glance. Then we all go back
to the match.

  Kansas City, at its best, is a passing machine, moving the ball with precision from player to player, seeking the open woman, getting up the field, and setting up scoring chances. Portland works much the same, but with tonight’s emphasis on blocking the middle, the game stalls into a series of takeaways and out-of-bounds kicks and not much going on. This frustrates both sides, and the tempers are evident, though no one gets any more yellow cards.

  No one gets any real chance to score, either.

  Then, as soccer is wont to do, one little opening shows itself and everything shifts. Ten minutes into the second half, Becky Kaisershot steals a ball from the Thorns’ Sandra Conway and kicks it out to Sherry Cavallini, who spots Jaye near midfield and lays a perfect pass at her feet. Jaye takes it in stride, and all of a sudden the pitch is open for her. She starts moving like she’s done all season long, weaving between opponents. Longstreet comes along, paralleling her. The crowd senses the opportunity and cheers.

  The two Blues get close to the Portland goal, and Jaye has two choices: take it in herself or pass it off to Longstreet for the shot. The action is far enough from me that I can’t see her face, but I catch the little bit of hesitation as she sets up her next move.

  No one sees Green coming at all. As Jaye, decision made, starts to pivot toward the goal, the Thorn defender slides in from the side, hard, and slams right into Jaye’s leg. Jaye shrieks as her knee snaps and bends in a direction nature never intended. She falls heavily to the ground. In an instant the crowd falls silent. Someone immediately kicks the ball out of bounds to stop play.

  In the stunned hush, Jaye tries to sit up and fails. She collapses back to the ground. Her scream this time is a shriek of both pain and devastation. The agony of it slams into my ears and my brain and shudders its way down my spine.

  This is no simple injury.

  I run toward her, getting a few feet out onto the field before Rick’s quick reaction stops me. “Rachel! You can’t.” He wraps his arms around my waist. I fight him, but he’s younger and stronger, and I get nowhere. Jaye is still screaming, and I can’t reach her. I will remember her cries for the rest of my life. Remember the hopelessness echoing there, and my helplessness.