Game Time

by Kate Christie

  At her first national team practice in Portland the previous fall, Angie had told her that newbies on the team always knew they had arrived when Rachel Ellison took an interest in them. Maybe Ellie was only being nice because they were roommates, but Jamie hoped this camp might finally signal the next stage of her national team career.

  When Ellie went to hug Emma, Maddie turned her megawatt smile on Jamie. She tried to smile back but was pretty sure her expression more closely approximated a grimace. As Emma shot her an amused look, brow quirking quizzically, Jamie turned away, hoping to at least partially hide the mortified blush she could feel coming on. Freaking Scotch-Irish heritage.

  “Here’s your room key,” Ellie said as if nothing had happened, passing her a key card. “Let’s get you settled before dinner, huh?”

  “Okay.” Jamie watched as Ellie reached down and grabbed her duffle. “That has wheels.”

  “I’m good,” the striker said, throwing the strap over one broad shoulder. “You ready?”

  Jamie nodded, relieved—until she realized that Emma and Maddie were trailing them to the elevator. Unbelievable. She was about to ride in an elevator with Emma, Rachel Ellison, and Maddie Novak. For a moment she wondered if she could somehow get a photo or video of the moment to preserve for time eternal, but she caught herself in time and left her phone in her pocket. She was so intent on not making an ass out of herself as the elevator crept upward that she didn’t realize Ellie had asked her something until all eyes zeroed in on her. Automatically she looked at Emma. Help.

  “She grew up in Berkeley but played at Stanford,” Emma supplied. “Which I can’t imagine your parents took very well,” she added, eyes on Jamie. “They both went to Cal, didn’t they?”

  Jamie nodded and managed to find her voice. “They were all, ‘But honey, Cal has a great athletic program. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Cal?’”

  “Don’t let Dierdorf hear you talking smack about Cal,” Maddie said as the foursome unloaded on the second floor and headed down the hallway together.

  “I would never talk smack about Cal,” Jamie said mock innocently, thrilled when the three veterans laughed.

  A year ago she’d barely been able to speak around Maddie or Ellie. Now, with Emma walking beside her along the hotel corridor, everything seemed easier. Before her father died, Emma had been an unwavering fount of support during a year when Jamie wasn’t sure she’d ever be happy again. Her anchor, even, as confirmed by the bracelet Emma had given her for her sixteenth birthday. In an impulsive act she had long regretted, she’d thrown the bracelet away the morning after she found out Emma had slept with Tori. A decade had passed, and yet she could still remember how the cool metal had felt against her wrist, tiny engraved letters pressed against her pulse: I’ll be your anchor if you’ll be mine.

  She watched Emma now as they came to a stop before doors on opposite sides of the hall. Did Emma want them to be friends again? Was that even a real possibility? She was laughing at something Maddie had said, but her gaze swung back to Jamie as it had always done. Jamie thought she read a similar question in her eyes, and all at once it was too much. This was her chance to finally make the national team. She needed to focus on doing all the little things right—paying attention to coaches and trainers, interacting positively with teammates, making sure she got enough rest, water, and the right kinds of food—not trying to figure out where she and Emma stood, if they stood anywhere at all.

  She looked away and followed Ellie into their room. Time to get her head in the game.

  Chapter Three

  “Grab some water and we’ll put what we’ve been working on into a full-field scrimmage,” Melanie Beckett, the defensive coach, said, waving them toward the sideline.

  Emma jogged over to the bench and grabbed her water bottle, grateful for the break. Despite her “insane level of fitness,” as her brother commented every time he saw her, she was dragging slightly. After two straight days of fitness testing hell, they had at last started to play actual soccer. Finally, they had all exclaimed that morning, jubilant—until the coaches started running them into the practice field ground, too.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jamie a little ways down the sideline wiping sweat from the back of her neck. Jamie caught her gaze, and after a second they exchanged a small smile. Emma looked away first, digging through her bag to find one of her many tubes of sunscreen. It was a lovely, summery, winter’s afternoon in LA, and sunscreen was definitely in order, especially for a Seattleite of Scandinavian descent.

  Once fitness testing had begun, Emma had been relieved to find that her pre-camp jitters were easily forgotten in the usual blur of raucous laughter and flint-eyed competition. The launch of the new pro league had kept everyone so crazy busy that she hadn’t seen her teammates much in recent months. In between measurements and tests, they joked around even more than they normally did, stealing water bottles and occasional items of clothing, choreographing silly dance steps to pop tunes, and teasing each other about everything from musical ability and fashion sense—some of the younger players still insisted on rolling their shorts—to nocturnal habits and cooking prowess. Emma had known many of these women since she was sixteen, and while she admittedly loved some more than others, most felt like family. Whenever they came back together, it was almost like they hadn’t ever been apart.

  As in any family, though, there was usually tension simmering beneath the surface. You only had to know where to look.

  When Steph Miller, starting defensive midfielder for the last two World Cups, approached Jamie on the sideline, Emma drifted closer. Before the water break Melanie had been testing the starting defense with different midfield line-ups in a small-sided game, the point of which was to focus on working the ball out of their defensive end. With Steph in the line-up, the starters had struggled to move the ball efficiently through the midfield. But then Melanie had subbed Jamie in for Steph, and the starting unit went on to score three times in a row.

  “Nice work out there,” she heard Steph tell Jamie. “But maybe take it down a notch, huh? You’re making me look bad.”

  Despite the semi-teasing note in Steph’s voice, it was all Emma could do not to snort. Could she be any more obvious in her clumsy attempts at manipulation?

  Oh, wait. Apparently she could.

  “Are you kidding?” Jamie asked. “No one could make you look bad.”

  A hint of guilt played across Steph’s face. “Well, thanks. You’re pretty great yourself. It’s really good to have you back with us.”

  Jamie flushed at the praise while Emma resisted the urge to shake her. This wasn’t the first time she had out-performed the veteran midfielder. During the beep test Monday morning, Jamie had come in second overall, handily beating out a bevy of starters who clapped her on the back encouragingly as she tried to catch her breath after the sprint competition. Of the returning players, only Steph had failed to congratulate her. While Jamie hadn’t appeared to notice the slight, Emma had. She’d almost been expecting it. During the victory tour the previous fall, Jamie had subbed in for Steph in both Portland and Phoenix. Initially Emma had thought she was wasted at defensive mid. Surely Jamie’s creativity marked her as an attacking midfielder, either on the outside or through the center. But to Emma’s surprise—and in her entirely unbiased view—Jamie had performed equally as well as the national team mainstay, if not better.

  She was guessing that fact hadn’t been lost on Steph, either.

  Should she intervene? Emma frowned, tossing the tube of sunscreen back in her bag. Would she do so for any other new player, or was the temptation to swoop in and play knight in shining armor specific to Jamie? But that was silly. As an older player and possible future captain, it was her responsibility to look out for the younger players. All of them. Doing her part to keep team dynamics positive was nearly as important as coming to camp fit and ready to play.

  Emma slipped her water bottle back into her bag and turned in time to
see Angie launch herself onto Jamie’s back, whooping.

  Jamie caught the smaller woman’s weight and spun around, brow furrowed. “Does anyone else hear that? A fly buzzing, or like, maybe a mosquito?”

  As everyone in the vicinity cracked up, Angie huffed and slid off Jamie’s back. “Funny, I didn’t hear you laughing the other day when I kicked your ass in the hundred meter.”

  “No one ever said your tiny body wasn’t built for speed.”

  As Angie lifted her water bottle and squeezed, Jamie ducked out of the way. The stream of water sailed well wide of its target and struck Maddie squarely between the shoulder blades. Emma snickered under her breath as the statuesque blonde slowly turned and fixed her glare on Angie.

  “Sorry?” the younger woman offered, hunching her shoulders in a half-shrug.

  “Apology not accepted,” Maddie all but growled, advancing on her with a distinctly predatory gleam in her eyes.

  Emma stared at her residency camp roommate. Maddie wasn’t flirting with Angie Wang, was she?

  “Holy shit,” Angie breathed, seemingly frozen in place.

  And then Melanie blew her whistle. Break time was over.

  “This isn’t finished, Wang,” Maddie declared, eyes still narrowed menacingly. “Not by a long shot.”

  Angie skittered away, grinning impishly over her shoulder. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I will,” Maddie promised, following her out onto the field.

  Well, that was weird. Not to mention diverting—she’d completely forgotten about Steph and her little mind games. Fortunately, with ten days left in camp, there would be plenty of opportunity to warn Jamie which veterans to watch out for. And to warn the other newbies, too. Obviously.

  Emma followed Jamie and Lisa Wall, the other starting center back, out onto the field. Jamie’s years of youth national pool experience had allowed her to fit into residency camp more easily than the average new recruit. Her group of longtime friends—Angie, Lisa, and a couple of others—had played together for the under-20 and -23 squads. When she wasn’t with her “bro bandmates,” as they referred to themselves, she was often squirreled away in a corner with Ellie, appearing to listen intently as the older player spoke, hands gesticulating passionately. Were they talking soccer? The pros and cons of long-term relationships? Favorite reality television shows? Emma had no idea. And, obviously, it was none of her business. She and Jamie might be making an effort to be friendly, but they weren’t really friends. Not anymore. Yet? Whatever.

  Back on the field, the low hum of conversation faded as the coaching staff divided them into starters and non-starters for the first eleven v. eleven scrimmage of residency camp. The focus, Melanie reiterated as they spread out, would be on transitioning through the midfield. Neither team was allowed to shoot until they had connected a minimum of five short passes, and at least one member of each unit—defense, midfield, offense—had to touch the ball before a goal would count.

  Emma, for one, was psyched they were working on transitions. Since Craig Anderson, their New Zealand-born head coach, had taken over and experimented with the line-up—as was a new coach’s right and even, most would argue, duty—the team had struggled when it came to working the ball out of their own defensive end. It wasn’t that their defense wasn’t solid. Emma and Lisa had shared the center ever since the last of the ’99ers had retired, and their outside backs were quick and dynamic and could be slotted into almost any position on the field. The same could be said for their formidable cadre of strikers. But with the midfield and front line shifting continually and with so few international matches recently, the team had struggled to develop the chemistry they’d enjoyed under their previous coach.

  Once the players were in their designated positions, Melanie joined the other coaches on the sideline and blew her whistle again. The game was on.

  Scrimmages between starters and non-starters were always intense, given what was at stake. Knowing this, Emma kept an eye on Jamie. Not in a different way from how she looked after the rest of the team, just, you know, because they were playing in the same general vicinity. The coaches had started Jamie at offensive mid on the opposing team, which meant she and Steph battled for possession directly in front of Emma for the first few minutes. They were surprisingly well-matched—surprising mostly because in the previous exercise Jamie had clearly dominated the older player in both speed and technical ability. At one point, Emma saw Jamie slow incrementally rather than go all in for a fifty-fifty ball. Evidently Steph’s attempts to psyche her out had succeeded.

  Oh, hell, no, Emma thought, slotting the ball Steph had tapped to her cleanly up the center to Maddie. This would not do at all. Jamie should be stepping up her play to compete for a permanent spot on the squad rather than laying off a player she admired. The same thing happened fairly routinely in residency camp, but respect in the form of hesitation wasn’t a highly valued—or rewarded—trait at this level. Steph had come into camp less fit than usual, complaining to anyone who would listen that her son had started kindergarten and the whole family had been throughout the fall. But even if Steph had come in fully fit, Jamie should be playing her ass off. The national team wasn’t a true meritocracy—did such a thing even exist?—but it was close, and this was Jamie’s chance to prove her worth.

  For a moment Emma paused, questioning her own level of emotional investment. It wasn’t because it was Jamie, right? After all, who wouldn’t cheer for someone who had worked hard to overcome years of bad luck and succeed at the highest level? Jamie had come into camp as the classic underdog, and despite Emma’s previous arguments to the contrary, most people loved rooting for the underdog.

  When Craig paused the scrimmage to talk to the opposing team’s back line, Emma walked over and tugged on the back of Jamie’s pinny. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  Jamie glanced over her shoulder. “Hey what?”

  “Stop laying off Steph.”

  At that Jamie turned to face her. “Who says I’m laying off?”

  “I do.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “Because I know you.” As Jamie stared at her, Emma tried to reel the words back in. “I mean, I don’t know you now, but I used to know you, and I don’t think you’ve changed that much. Or at least—”

  Jamie set a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “No, you’re right. It’s just, she told me I was making her look bad.”

  “Don’t let her get in your head. All you can do is play your best. Anything less is a disservice—to yourself and to this team,” Emma said, repeating the same advice one of the ’99ers had offered her at her first residency camp.

  “Okay. I will. Thanks.”

  Emma nodded, aware of Jamie’s hand still on her shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle. And warm. She’d forgotten how much heat Jamie gave off. She was like a furnace, which was partly what Emma had found so comforting about sleeping beside her the week of her father’s funeral. Before Jamie arrived, she’d felt chilled all the time. But with her there, she hadn’t felt cold at all. Not until she stepped onto the stage and looked out at the hundreds of mourners who were staring at her, waiting for her to deliver the perfect eulogy for the seemingly perfect man who, in reality, was anything but.

  Jamie’s eyes changed, and she stepped back, her hand falling away as Craig blew his whistle to restart play. Out of the blue the ball came at them, lifted over the top by a newbie defender on Jamie’s team.

  “Away!” Phoebe Banks, literally the best goalkeeper in the world, screamed.

  Automatically Emma pushed off Jamie to leap into the air and head the ball to Ryan Dierdorf, the starting left back. Freaking newbies. What the hell had happened to midfield transition?

  “Nice elbow,” Jamie said, rubbing her shoulder.

  “Get out of the kitchen if you can’t stand the heat.”

  Jamie rolled her eyes as she jogged away, but Emma could see she was smiling.

  After that Jamie
kicked it back up a notch, and soon the coaches were swapping the lines around. This time Jamie was on Emma’s team. The ball started at Phoebe’s feet, and within a couple of minutes their side scored on a beautiful through ball that Jamie sent into the eighteen for Jenny to blast past one of the back-up keepers. Jenny hugged Jamie as they jogged back to the center circle, but Emma contented herself with a smile and a high-five.

  The less hugging probably the better. At least for the foreseeable future.

  #

  Like the other days before it, Saturday in Carson was warm and sunny. At four thirty in the afternoon, Jamie sat in the grass at the center of one of the training fields mostly listening to the coaching staff highlight lessons learned in their scrimmage against the under-17 boys’ national team, also in residence that week. It was a little embarrassing to be matched up against boys who didn’t yet need to shave, but any older and the women’s side would be physically outmatched. The reality—that male players would always be bigger, faster, stronger—sucked, but she had long since accepted it. She didn’t think it was indulging in biologic predeterminism to admit that even the best female soccer players in the country couldn’t get around biology.

  And they were the best—not only in the country but in the world, of that Jamie had no doubt. During warm-up and cool-down and in between most drills, the women around her liked to joke around. But once the whistle blew and play began, they morphed into athletic machines with laser focus and unsmiling precision. Jamie could appreciate that. It was how she had always tried to approach the game too. Sometimes she thought that when the time came and she was too old to play at the highest level, she would have to quit cold turkey because there was no way she could see herself playing soccer in a rec league. Coach her kid’s team, yes, but play in a beer league? Not likely.

  Since her last go-around, she’d nearly forgotten the sheer intensity of national team practices. Despite her pro experience, the speed of play at residency camp was significantly faster than what she was used to. The need to up her own game had come crashing back during the first full-field scrimmage when Emma had all but told her to get her head out of her ass.