Girls of Summer

by Kate Christie

  Maddie received the ball in the midfield, turned, and passed to Jenny, who one-timed the ball outside to an overlapping Gabe on the left flank. Gabe slowed the ball down to allow their teammates to catch up, and then sent a lofted cross toward Ellie that Germany—damn it—once again intercepted. And, great, Germany was on the counter again. Jamie shut down the attack, though, dropping the ball back to Lisa who was immediately run over by Friedrich. The referee whistled the obvious foul, and Emma paused for what felt like the first time all game to take a breath.

  “Let’s settle down,” she called as she helped Lisa up. “Slow it down, guys. Let’s play at our pace, not theirs.”

  The US players near enough to hear her nodded. They had 85 minutes to go, Emma reminded herself as Phoebe prepared to restart play, and there was no way Germany could keep up this punishing onslaught, especially not when they’d played 120-plus minutes only a few days earlier on a hot as hell turf field. Maybe that was why they had come out pressing so hard—because they, too, knew that they would only have so much gas.

  The frantic pace continued, though, somehow, with both sides earning chances in their offensive ends. Taylor’s targeted header on one of Jamie’s picture-perfect corner kicks forced Annike Lange, the longtime German goalkeeper, to make a kick-save in traffic. A minute later at the other end, Phoebe had to palm a shot over the crossbar just to be safe. And they were still only SEVEN minutes in.

  Phoebe slapped her hands together, clearly frustrated. That was a shot she would normally hold onto. Given the collective case of nerves they all seemed to be suffering from, Emma would take safe over a potential costly error that could cost them a berth in the final. Fortunately, the Germans bumbled the corner kick, and the US was off and running again.

  The crazy pace continued unabated, each side trading offensive opportunities and defensive stops. In the fifteenth minute, Gabe slotted a perfect through pass between two German defenders to Jenny charging into the German box, and Emma’s fist clenched preemptively as Jenny took her shot. But—damn it again—Lange cut down the angle and made another kick-save, sweeping the ball away at the last minute.

  “Shit,” Emma muttered to herself, careful not to react in a way the cameras would pick up and replay. But seriously, the US couldn’t afford to miss a golden opportunity like that one. The offense needed to get themselves in gear, and soon.

  The half continued, both teams probing and pressing, falling back and defending. Emma’s heart rate barely had a chance to recover from anticipation over a scoring opportunity for the US before Germany was sprinting at them with numbers. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d played in such an even, high-paced match. Occasionally one team would foul the other, but the fouls mostly occurred because both sides were battling all out for each and every possession, not because they were being dirty. The referee, as Emma had expected, held her whistle and let the players work it out. At least, until an almost innocuous play ten yards outside the US box when Maddie turned her back to her mark and got whistled for knocking the German player down. To Emma, it seemed as if her mark went down a bit too easily in scoring territory, but that was what the Germans were known for, wasn’t it? For knocking heads sometimes literally with their opponents and then crying foul as soon as anyone on the other team dared lay a finger on them.

  Later, Emma would regret that thought, as if she had somehow caused what happened next.

  Phoebe called a three-person wall just inside the box with another player one step off while everyone else picked a German player to mark closer to goal. Emma shouted, “Hold the twelve!” and her teammates immediately stepped up so that they were even with the penalty mark, forcing the Germans to come with them to avoid being called offsides. Now, as long as no one on the US side got sucked behind the line…

  When the whistle blew, Schneider struck the ball toward the back post. Emma watched the ball sail over her and her mark, a surge of pride rising as Jamie leapt into the air and headed the ball—only to be headed herself by Mila Friedrich, whose forehead connected with the back of Jamie’s head with a sickening thunk.

  “No,” Emma gasped as Jamie’s face contorted in pain. She watched helplessly as Jamie dropped to the ground and lay face down, unmoving. The referee blew her whistle, but Emma barely noticed as she hurried to Jamie’s side. Phoebe was already kneeling beside her, one hand rubbing her back gently. As Emma approached she moved aside, giving her unrestricted access.

  “Jamie,” Emma said, her voice urgent as she knelt beside her. Jamie was still face down, but her legs were moving, and both hands cradled her head as she pressed her face into the turf.

  “Ow,” Jamie moaned, her hands rubbing the back of her head. “What the fuck? Did Phoebe punch me or something?”

  “Or something,” Phoebe said, her tone light. “I was nowhere near you, Rook.”

  “It was Friedrich,” Emma said, relieved Jamie was conscious and talking. “She headed you.” She glanced around to see Mila still on the ground too, blood dripping from her scalp. Head injuries could be notorious bleeders.

  “Christ! What are German skulls made of?” Jamie’s voice was muffled but distinct, and Emma chose to see that as another good sign.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you have a concussion?”

  Maddie and Ellie were crowding around Jamie now too, Gabe and Ryan and the rest of the team milling about nearby.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie said, and rolled over onto her back, holding her arm across her eyes as if the lights overhead hurt too much.

  The team doctor and his assistant reached them a moment later, and the rest of the players backed away. Not Emma, though. She simply held Dr. Brandt’s gaze and remained where she was at Jamie’s side, one hand covering her girlfriend’s protectively.

  He nodded at her and then bent over Jamie. “Hey, Maxwell. Took a little hit to the noggin, did we?”

  “You could say that, Doc,” Jamie said, squinting up at him.

  “Do you know what city you’re in?”

  “Montreal,” she said, and shot Emma a look. “Kind of hard to forget.”

  Emma ignored the dig, if that was what it was.

  “And what game is this?”

  “World Cup semis,” Jamie said. “Also hard to forget.”

  “You’d be surprised,” the team doctor commented.

  He asked her a few more questions that Emma recognized from the Standardized Assessment of Concussion (SAC) test that all players in the pool had on file with the federation, and then, after checking her neck and the point of contact at the back of her head, asked if she wanted to try sitting up. She complied, and though Emma watched her carefully, Jamie didn’t visibly react to the change in position. Another good sign. Even better was that she didn’t report any concussion symptoms—no loss of consciousness, no blurred vision, no ringing in the ears, no nausea. She wasn’t bleeding, either, so Dr. Brandt had her stand up and administered a vision check and a strength test, both of which she appeared to pass.

  And yet… And yet, Jamie had suffered a mild concussion while training with the Thorns before the World Cup. Shouldn’t the doctor pull her out? Shouldn’t he take her into the quiet locker room and administer a full concussion assessment there? Head injuries could be serious, Emma knew. More than one former national team star had quit the game due to lingering side effects from too many concussions. But Jamie wanted to continue, and the coaches obviously wanted that as well, and soon Dr. Brandt was sending a thumbs-up to the coaches on the sideline, who returned the gesture.

  “Are you sure you should keep playing?” Emma asked Jamie as Dr. Brandt conferred briefly with the referee while the German doctors fastened gauze around Friedrich’s head wound. She, too, appeared to have passed her team doctor’s examination.

  Jamie frowned at her. “Yes, Emma. Of course.” And then she walked to the sideline with Dr. Brandt and waited to be waved back on.

  The long delay seemed to shift the game’s momentum. For the nex
t five minutes, the Americans pressed, peppering the German penalty box with services and shots. Finally, with less than ten minutes to go before halftime, Emma saw her chance. On a quick counter off a missed American shot, Schneider sent a through ball to Friedrich at midfield. Emma closed the space quickly and slide-tackled the German striker. She caught her just above the ankle, smiling grimly at the satisfying thwonk of the connection. Friedrich went down, rolling dramatically like Europeans were wont to do. She needn’t have bothered, Emma thought, rising and stalking away as the ref blew her whistle shrilly. That had been what the commentators would call a “professional” foul. To the average onlooker, it probably looked like Emma had simply been concerned with slowing down the counterattack, not with obtaining revenge for the late hit on her girlfriend.

  Professional foul or no, the referee whipped out a yellow card that Emma accepted expressionlessly. When Friedrich popped up after a full minute of grasping her lower leg as if it had been broken in two, the gauze at her forehead still intact, Emma only quirked an eyebrow at her. Unlike with Beaumont at the Olympics, she hadn’t tried to take the German striker out of the match. After all, Friedrich probably hadn’t meant to injure Jamie.

  As Germany restarted, Emma avoided looking at the US bench. She had a feeling she didn’t want to see the looks Jo and her assistants were undoubtedly exchanging.

  For the rest of the half, both teams continued to exchange attacks—and fouls. Gabe got taken down on three separate occasions in the space of five minutes, but she managed to get up and keep playing each time. It was the World Cup semis. You didn’t go off the field unless you were on a stretcher.

  Which was exactly what worried Emma.

  At the whistle for halftime, Jamie ran off the field and into the tunnel as if to demonstrate how perfectly okay she was. Or, possibly to avoid Emma. She started after her girlfriend, but stopped when she heard her name called. It was Melanie, waving her closer.

  “Walk with me, Blake,” she said, her voice more of a command than a request.

  Dutifully, Emma fell into step beside the defensive coach as players jogged past, headed toward the tunnel.

  “So. I see you followed my advice.”

  “Um,” Emma said.

  “I have to say, this wasn’t the situation I had in mind.”

  She winced. “I know. Sorry?”

  “You’re carrying a yellow card, Emma. From an intentional foul.”

  She swallowed. Hearing it out loud like that… “I know, Mel. I really am sorry.”

  “Jo wants to sub you.”

  “She… What?” Emma stared at the assistant, barely feeling the smack to her shoulder Maddie gave her as she jogged past.

  Melanie held up a mollifying hand. “I convinced her to hold off for now, but no more bringing your personal crap onto the field. That’s your one free shot. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Emma said meekly. “Thanks, Mel.”

  Mel shook her head. “I’m glad my wife and I never played on the same team.”

  “Well, I mean, you kind of do, right?” Emma asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

  Mel bit her lip, but her smile shone through anyway. At least, a little.

  In the locker room, players met with the training staff while the coaches chatted with individuals and amongst themselves. Finally, Jo took up her usual position near the whiteboard and cleared her throat.

  “Okay, athletes. Overall, your coaches and I are happy. We’re solving the pressure, and we’re dominating in possession, shots on goal, pretty much every category across the board. You all have committed to defending on every line, from the back to the front. But…” She paused, glancing around the room. “What do you think I’m about to say?”

  “We have to finish our chances,” Ellie said.

  “Exactly. Because as we all know, playing well does not always correlate with victory. But I honestly think we’re having our best game of the tournament, so keep it up.” Her gaze sharpened momentarily as Jamie emerged from a side room with the team doctor. “All right, get ready, athletes. We only have forty-five more minutes guaranteed at this World Cup. Let’s get it done for Vancouver, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” a chorus of voices rang out.

  The energy in the room was upbeat, positive. As ankles were re-taped and bloodstained jerseys traded for clean backups, team members chatted about the German attack and how to capitalize on turnovers. Germany was weakening, they were sure of it. If the US could keep up the pressure, the German side would crack. It was only a matter of time.

  Emma nodded in agreement even as she drifted closer to Jamie, Melanie, Jo, and Dr. Brandt.

  “Are you sure, Rick?” Jo was saying as Emma sidled over.

  He nodded. “She passed the SAC with flying colors both times.”

  “I’m good, Coach,” Jamie said. “I would tell you if I wasn’t.”

  Jo’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Jamie’s flushed cheeks and sweat-soaked hair, and Emma could almost hear the older woman thinking, “Would you? Would you, really?”

  Because if it was Emma, she was pretty sure she’d say anything, do anything not to get benched during any World Cup match, let alone the semis. Especially if she’d just sat out the quarters.

  But Dr. Brandt wouldn’t lie. If he said Jamie had passed her concussion protocols, then she had passed her concussion protocols, both outside on the field and here in the comparatively quiet training room. Jo seemed to reach the same conclusion because she nodded once. “Glad to hear it.” And then she turned away, clapping her hands to get the team’s attention.

  As Jo went over a few last details—they were starting the second half the way they’d ended the first—Emma leaned into Jamie’s side, not realizing how much she’d needed the contact until she felt Jamie’s lean, muscled form press back against her.

  “You okay?” she asked, her voice low. “Really?”

  “I’m good,” Jamie said, and slipped her arm around Emma’s waist for the briefest of moments. “I promise.”

  Emma nodded, reminding herself that injuries were a risk they all shared equally. But seeing Jamie go down like that and knowing it was possible she could have a concussion—or worse—had kicked Emma out of the dream that was the World Cup. Her fear for Jamie’s safety had reminded her that they would only play this game for a few more years, and then they would retire, each of them, and go about finding a way to spend the rest of their many years (if they were lucky) on this amazing planet. The game of soccer, however beautiful, was temporary. Their bodies, on the other hand, were as close to permanent as they would experience in this lifetime.

  Forty-five minutes to go, she told herself as the team drew together for a cheer. That was all she needed to focus on. She could freak out about head injuries and human mortality later.

  Lord knew she would, too.

  #

  The second half began the way the first had ended, with both teams trading feints and bursts but with the possession and energy favoring the US side. Every play seemed to bring Germany closer to breaking. The further she got from Jamie’s injury, the more Emma could feel the anticipation of victory buzzing beneath her skin again. Jo was right—they really were playing their best game of the tournament.

  And then, with just over ten minutes gone in the second half, what seemed like catastrophe struck. Off a German throw-in at midfield, Schneider sent an absolute Hail Mary pass to the front line, a lob that dropped into Taylor O’Brien’s path as she raced back into the US penalty box. A moment of indecision was all it took for Friedrich to surge past Taylor, her foot snaking out to claim the ball for a run at the goal. Emma was only a few feet away, covering her own mark, when she saw it: Taylor, in her desperation, reached out and grabbed Friedrich’s jersey, tugging her backward just as the German striker lined up her shot. Her limbs flailing exaggeratedly, Friedrich went down, as she was always going to do inside the penalty box.

  Fuck.

  The referee blew her whistle, hand pointing decisively at the
penalty mark. A penalty kick. She had just awarded Germany a penalty kick, and Emma couldn’t even pretend that it wasn’t warranted. Friedrich might have gone down a bit too easily, but Taylor had undoubtedly made contact in a way that allowed the striker to sell the foul, if that was even what she was doing. Honestly, Taylor was lucky that when the referee reached for a card she chose yellow, not red.

  Maddie and Ellie both had words for the ref, but it wasn’t like they were going to change her mind. Taylor, meanwhile, was pacing the top of the box, tears visible in her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Emma said, and slipped an arm around the younger player’s shoulders. “Don’t beat yourself up. We need you to stay focused, okay? There’s a lot of game left. Besides, we have Phoebe, remember?”

  While Lisa echoed Emma’s encouragement and Schneider stepped up to the penalty spot, Phoebe casually walked away from the goal, pausing to take a long drink from her water bottle and swinging her arms around as if to loosen up. Really, Emma knew, she was just trying to get inside Schneider’s head. More power to her, in Emma’s opinion. If all was fair in love and war, then this was definitely war.

  The referee made sure the field players were arranged outside the box, and then she turned to Phoebe and blew her whistle, pointing at the goal. Phoebe pointed at an imaginary penalty box infraction, but the referee ignored the gesture and kept pointing at the goal. Finally, Phoebe shrugged and took up her position on the goal line. Schneider, who had looked increasingly nervous the more time Phoebe wasted, shook her head to herself and stood waiting for the referee’s whistle.

  Emma exchanged looks with Jamie and Maddie. This shot was everything. Personally, Emma was glad she wasn’t Schneider.

  It felt like it had been 84 years by the time the referee blew her whistle. Schneider must have felt the same way because instead of taking a calming breath, she immediately stepped to the ball and struck it toward the left goal post. Phoebe guessed wrong and dove right, but it didn’t matter because the ball skimmed wide of the post.