Game Time

by Kate Christie

  The cockpit door finally opened, and as Emma swung into the aisle, her gaze fell on a figure in coach reaching into the overhead compartment. Emma paused, her eyes on the stranger’s narrow hips and lean upper body, clad all in black. There was something familiar about… Oh. Oh. As the athletic woman turned toward the front of the plane, Emma looked away quickly, hoping she hadn’t been caught. No wonder Jamie Maxwell had been on her mind. For the past two hours she’d apparently been sitting a dozen or so rows back as they sped along at 500 miles per hour six miles above the earth.

  A man cleared his throat impatiently—Emma was blocking the aisle. Forcing herself not to look in Jamie’s direction again, she grabbed her carry-on and filed off the plane. Inside the terminal she hesitated, debating whether or not to wait. Would she for a different teammate? Obviously. Besides, they would no doubt end up sharing a shuttle to the hotel in Carson, so any avoidance would be short-lived. With a sigh that felt more dramatic than it needed to be, she stepped out of the way of the passengers disembarking behind her, trying not to chew her lip as she watched the crowd for a glimpse of black.

  It was no mystery how Emma had failed to register Jamie’s presence on the plane. Her flight routine involved boarding at first call, slipping her headphones into place, and leaning against the window, eyes averted to discourage (1) anyone from recognizing her, and (2) those who did recognize her from trying to engage. The “fuck off” vibe she emitted when she wanted to was difficult to miss, or so she’d been told. Had Jamie even known she was on the plane? And if she had, why didn’t she say hello?

  As she waited, Emma’s mind suddenly cast her back to the first meeting between their WPS teams in California three years earlier. She had noticed Jamie during warm-ups, of course. Half expecting her teenaged friend—friendly and a bit coltish—she had instead been faced with grown-up Jamie, whose high cheekbones and tattooed biceps were surprisingly intimidating. When their eyes met across the field, Emma had looked away and then instantly regretted doing so. They were adults, mostly, and professionals. Besides, she’d always hoped they would meet again.

  For whatever reason—rookie status, stacked team—Jamie sat the bench that game, so they didn’t come face to face until afterward when their teams shook hands. Emma had smiled hesitantly when she reached Jamie, relieved when her former friend smiled back. If she hadn’t, Emma might not have gone out to the bar later for the usual post-match socializing. But she had gone, unsure what to expect of their first significant encounter since the week of her father’s funeral.

  Now as Jamie exited the gangplank and glanced around, Emma watched her carefully. She looked good. Tired and a bit disheveled but strong and healthy, as if she had never been carted off a field and into a waiting ambulance while an entire stadium—and all those watching at home—tried to process the magnitude of her injury.

  Jamie’s gaze stopped when it landed on her. She halted a few feet away, her eyes questioning. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” Emma forced a smile and bridged the distance, offering the other woman what might have been the shortest hug in the history of hugging. “It’s good to see you. Congrats on making residency camp.”

  Jamie smiled back, but it seemed almost as tentative as Emma felt. “Thanks. It’s good to see you too.”

  “Baggage claim?” she practically chirped, cringing inwardly at her own cloying cheerfulness.

  Jamie nodded and they fell into step together.

  “So. Same flight, huh?” Emma commented.

  “Yeah. Kind of crazy.” Jamie was quiet as they neared the end of the terminal. Then she said almost apologetically, “I would have said hi but you seemed like you didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “No, I get it.” She glanced sideways. “I actually didn’t see you until the very end.”

  Jamie met her gaze and then looked away quickly, face unreadable. “Right.”

  Did she not believe her? But that would mean she thought Emma had been avoiding her. Fantastic. This entire encounter was following the worst case scenario script in her head. She didn’t get it—there was no reason they should be this awkward. They’d had drinks and even dinner together in the not-so-distant past. On both occasions, though, they had been part of a group, which meant this was the first time they had been alone together since high school.

  The last time they’d been in an airport, Emma remembered, she’d flung herself at Jamie and cried all over her jacket. A week later she’d flung herself at Jamie again, this time at a train station, and unwittingly signed the death knell for their friendship. No wonder Jamie hadn’t said anything during the flight. Talk about awkward.

  And yet, it was too early—and she was far too stubborn—to concede defeat. “How was your flight from London?” she asked, still channeling the same vapidly cheery version of herself.

  Jamie shrugged. “Not too bad. We went over Greenland, which was pretty cool. I kept looking for polar bears but no luck.”

  Emma glanced at her, nearly tripping over her carry-on. Then she noticed Jamie’s eyes crinkling at the corners. Apparently she wasn’t ready to give up, either.

  This time Emma’s smile was more genuine. “Very funny.”

  “As in hardy-har-har?”

  “As in looking,” she replied, the banter returning easily as if it hadn’t been a decade since they’d exchanged those well-worn lines.

  In her peripheral vision she saw Jamie smile too, and the sight made her relax slightly. Maybe they could do this after all. And if not, she had kept her distance from other players before. When you routinely threw two dozen or more insanely competitive women from a variety of backgrounds and regions together, there was bound to be conflict.

  They were almost to baggage claim when a dark-haired blur crashed into Jamie.

  “Oof,” Jamie grunted, barely managing to catch the smaller woman. “Easy! I kinda need my sternum.”

  Angie Wang pulled away, snickering. “Wuss. That’s what ice baths are for. I can’t believe you’re finally here, though. Took you freaking long enough!”

  Jamie’s head tilted. “Do you mean literally here as in LA or figuratively here as in residency camp?”

  Angie whacked her on the shoulder. “Both. Oh, hey, Blake,” she added, turning her smile on Emma.

  “Oh, hey, Wang,” Emma mocked, grinning back.

  They hugged, and then Angie reached for Jamie’s carry-on and started towing it toward baggage claim. “I volunteered to drive the shuttle when I heard it was you.”

  “So you can reach the brake pedal, then?” Emma put in.

  “Dude, already with the short jokes?” Angie shook her head and glanced back at Jamie, her face brightening again. “By the way, congrats on a killer WSL season. I only wish Britt could be here too.”

  “Right? Then it’d be like a genuine reunion tour.”

  Emma followed them, eavesdropping as they chattered on about the third member of their self-proclaimed “bro band,” Brittany Crawford, the starting keeper at Arsenal. Britt, who had played at Stanford with Jamie and lured her to England after the Bay Area club folded, was a frequent guest on Jamie’s social media feeds, along with her cute Scottish girlfriend, Allie.

  Wait. Was it strange that Emma knew the name of Jamie’s best friend’s girlfriend? But it wasn’t like she and Britt were strangers. The lanky keeper had been in and out of the national pool since their youth days and had practiced with the senior side more than a few times. She might not be one of the top five keepers in the country, but she wasn’t that far down the list. With three of the top five over the age of thirty, it wasn’t impossible to think she might get a shot at a roster spot someday. After all, look at Jamie.

  She watched Jamie laugh at something Angie had said and throw her arm around the smaller player’s shoulders. The girl she had known all those years ago had been considerably less comfortable with casual physical contact than the woman before her seemed to be—for reasons Emma remembered only too well. As they reached a conveyor belt t
hat had yet to begin moving, she wondered in what other ways Jamie might have changed.

  The next two weeks were bound to be interesting, that much was certain.

  #

  As Angie gave her the lowdown on the schedule for the rest of the day, Jamie stole glances at Emma, who stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the unmoving baggage carousel. When she’d boarded the plane in Seattle after clearing customs and jogging what felt like a mile through Sea-Tac, the last thing Jamie had expected was to see Emma already settled in business class, noise-reducing headphones clamped over her ears, face turned to the window. The federation often placed players together, and with her flight connecting through Seattle, Jamie had been aware they could end up on the same plane. But the team manager hadn’t mentioned it, and in the rush to make her connection, the possibility had slipped her mind. Unprepared, she’d paused in the aisle to see if Emma would look her way. When she didn’t, Jamie had moved on, not sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. She knew from Emma’s Instagram and Twitter feeds that she had been approached by fans in airports and on flights more than a few times since the last World Cup and Olympics. Probably she wanted to be left in peace.

  During the flight, Jamie had accommodated that wish, but it hadn’t kept her from staring at the back of Emma’s head. Even in jeans, a sweatshirt, and ponytail Emma looked photo shoot-worthy. Why wasn’t everyone else on board staring at her, too? But the rest of the passengers didn’t seem to realize who she was, and Jamie had to remind herself for the zillionth time that women’s sports stars usually flew under the radar.

  “Are you listening to me?” Angie asked, elbowing her.

  Jamie felt Emma’s gaze swing back to her. “Light training, dinner, and a meeting. I have a copy of the schedule in my email, you know.”

  “Ooh, look who’s being all high and mighty,” the Jersey girl said, holding up her hands. “My bad. Only trying to help. Whatevs.”

  “I can’t believe you still talk like a twelve-year-old boy,” Jamie commented.

  “The ladies love it. Right, Blake?”

  “Freaking irresistible,” Emma dead-panned.

  Jamie cracked up. “Nice shade, Blake.”

  Angie glanced between them. “That’s right, you guys know each other. How did you meet again?”

  Emma looked at Jamie, eyebrows slightly raised as if to say, This one’s all yours.

  “We played against each other in high school,” Jamie said, hoping Angie had a sub-par memory.

  No such luck. “That’s right. You guys were tight back in the day, weren’t you?”

  Jamie shrugged, playing it casual. “For a little while. Then this one went off to the East Coast and never looked back.”

  Emma frowned, and Jamie held her gaze. Technically she’d been the one to call off their friendship. But unless they wanted the entire team to know what had gone down between them, they would be better off sticking with the most reasonable explanation of why their friendship had ended: distance and time.

  Apparently Emma recognized this fact because after a moment she nodded. “We got back in touch after college, but this is the first time we’ve been called up at the same time.”

  “Why—oh, yeah.” Angie slapped her forehead. “I almost forgot about your little emergency last year. You thought you were the drama queen with the ambulance in the stadium, Max? Well, this one here freaked everyone out at open training in Connecticut. No one was even near her when she turned completely white and like, collapsed.”

  This wasn’t news to Jamie. A fan had caught the whole thing on video and put it up on YouTube. Apparently Emma’s appendix had burst the day before, but she’d ignored the pain, thinking it was only extreme cramps. People routinely died from untreated appendicitis. In fact, the older brother of a girl Jamie had played club with in California had died at soccer camp when the staff misdiagnosed him. What had likely saved Emma, Jamie had read later in USA Today, was her incredible fitness level. She’d been hospitalized in serious condition for a few days after surgery but had recovered more quickly than anyone had expected.

  “What are we, ninety?” Emma asked, tugging on the end of her pony tail.

  The gesture was so familiar that Jamie stared at her, story momentarily forgotten. The last time she’d seen Emma do that had been at the train station in downtown Seattle. Emma had tugged on her hair, and then she’d leaned in and kissed her. After nearly a decade, Jamie still hadn’t forgotten what it had felt like to be kissed by Emma Blakeley. How could she? Emma had been the first girl she’d ever kissed.

  Angie scoffed. “What do you mean, are we ninety?”

  “This is what my great aunts in Minnesota always do,” Emma explained, one corner of her mouth turning up. “They sit around comparing major illnesses and surgeries, competing over who has it worse. ‘Oh, geez, Helen, my pancreatitis is worse than your infected boil, I guaran-damn-tee it.’” She glanced at Jamie to share the joke, her gray-green eyes warm.

  Clare, Jamie thought. She should text Clare to let her know she’d arrived. It was past midnight in London, but her girlfriend had said she would leave her phone on.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and stepped away, already scrolling through her contacts.

  The carousel began to turn as she finished the text, and soon they were headed out to short-term parking. Emma climbed into the back seat of the van, leaving the front for Jamie. They hadn’t made more than brief eye contact again, instead allowing Angie to carry the conversation. Why were things so weird between them? In London last year at the Olympics they’d been friendly, and not once had Jamie recalled their first kiss. Only kiss, she reminded herself, half-listening to Angie chatter on about the Southern California traffic and weather as they left LAX. Emma had kissed her once and then gone off to U-19 World Cup qualifiers in Canada where she’d slept with Tori Parker, resident whore of the American youth national pool.

  Hmm. Jamie gazed out the passenger window. Perhaps she still had some unresolved anger about the past, after all.

  Angie was saying something about roommate assignments when Jamie tuned back in. “Wait, who am I rooming with?”

  “Ellie.” Angie gave her a significant look.

  Holy crap. She was going to room with the national team’s co-captain and leading scorer? Britt was going to be so jealous when she found out. Rachel Ellison was a legend. Even people who didn’t follow soccer knew her name. She’d arrived on the team a dozen years earlier and had led by example ever since. Most people thought she would pass Mia Hamm’s scoring record before she was done, which in and of itself was fairly impressive. She was also the first openly gay player in US Soccer history, male or female. Jamie had met her a couple of times now, including the previous year when she’d been called up. In Phoenix, Ellie hadn’t left her side once while they waited for the ambulance. She’d also been the first player to show up at the hospital the next day after Jamie was cleared for visitors. But while the veteran player’s support in Phoenix had been incredible, Jamie was happy to be seeing her again under less dire circumstances.

  Soon Angie was pulling into the familiar hotel driveway to unload. Jamie took a deep breath before stepping out of the van. She hadn’t been here in forever, not since her last under-23 training camp in college. While she’d spent the past few years trying to work her way back from one injury after another, Angie and a handful of their other U-23 teammates had been training with the senior side. At least she would know people—other than Emma—at camp.

  Angie waited until she and Emma had retrieved their bags. Then she waved out the window and called, “Later, dudes!” before heading off to park.

  “Nervous?” Emma asked as Jamie stood on the circular drive, staring at the hotel entrance.

  “A little bit.” No use lying; Emma would probably see through it anyway.

  “Might as well get it over with.” Emma squeezed her shoulder gently and propelled her forward.

  At her touch, Jamie felt a nearly forgotten sensation spreading th
rough her limbs. Even after all these years, Emma could still somehow make her feel calm, like herself only better. Then, as they entered the hotel, Jamie’s gaze fell on the corner of the lobby where she’d sat that awful night nine years earlier, breaking curfew so that Emma could try to explain why she’d lied about hooking up with Tori Parker. The memory no longer hurt the way it once had, but it did make her step out of Emma’s reach.

  Thankfully, Tori had fallen out of the pool in the intervening years. Probably she’d slept with one too many fellow players. Teams were only as good as their chemistry, and whor—people like Tori usually weren’t good for team cohesion.

  “Blake!”

  Jamie tried not to stare as an attractive blonde swept across the lobby toward them. Maddie Novak had been a couple of years ahead of Emma at UNC and was now considered the best offensive midfielder in the country, possibly the world. Naturally, Jamie had been star-struck around her in London, Portland, and Phoenix the previous year. It didn’t help her tongue-tiedness one bit that Maddie apparently derived pleasure from flirting with anyone remotely masculine. Compared to other queer women, Jamie was a soft butch, but Maddie didn’t seem to differentiate.

  Speaking of butches—Rachel Ellison was in the lobby too, and as Maddie and Emma embraced, chattering on as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, the co-captain came over and gave Jamie a one-armed bro hug, thumping her shoulder enthusiastically.

  “Good to see you again, Max. I hear you tore it up in the WSL this season. Nicely done.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks, man.” She tried—and likely failed—to keep the awe out of her voice. Ellie was an American legend, one who would be sleeping in the bed next to hers for two whole weeks. Britt was seriously going to blow a gasket. Then again, Jamie might too. One of her assists against Ireland had been a cross to Ellie’s head, and she had watched the highlight clip on YouTube a few thousand times to motivate herself during recovery.