Game Time

by Kate Christie

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Arsenal is still on top. You’re the one who’s embarrassed. Ninth place, Blake.”

  “Eighth,” Emma corrected, flashing the dimple Jamie had always loved.

  The exchange felt so easy, and as they stepped into the corridor side by side, a handful of memories came back to Jamie—the warmth of Emma’s body leaning into hers on the bench by the ocean the night they met, the contact somehow comforting when it probably (definitely) should have felt intrusive; the rasp of her voice over the phone as they lay in bed night after night talking about school and families and the unknowable future; the press of Emma’s arms around her waist as Jamie sobbed into her shoulder on a San Francisco beach; the curve of her smile as they gazed at each other across the table in a cozy restaurant that used to be someone’s house in Seattle. She had told Ellie that Emma was one of her closest friends when they were younger. Was it really possible she might be again someday?

  Another indefinite outcome that depended strongly, Jamie had a feeling, on whether or not she made the national team.

  As they paced the length of the hotel hallway, she considered inviting Emma back to her room to share the Thai food currently filling the space between them with its rich scent. Pictured telling her what Mel had said, asking what she thought the way, once upon a time, Jamie had looked to her for advice on every single aspect of her life. But then she remembered how long it had been since Emma had been her first and last text of the day. She remembered the women and men who had come and gone for each of them in the intervening years. She remembered how Clare had asked her the night before she left London, her voice thin and doubtful in their chilly bedroom, “You don’t still have feelings for her, do you?”

  She almost wished she’d never told Clare that the Emma from high school was the same Emma that graced Nike ads and fitness magazines. If she hadn’t, Clare might not have gone AWOL the past few weeks and Jamie might not now be dreading her return home. But the previous summer after her first practice with the Olympic squad, when she couldn’t stop chattering on about Angie and Britt and Ellie and Emma, Clare had half-smiled at her and said, “Emma Blakeley? She isn’t the Emma you were in love with, is she?”

  For a moment, Jamie had only stared at her. Then she’d nodded, and Clare had swallowed hard, her smile falling away altogether.

  “Surely not?” she’d asked, voice lacking conviction.

  “No, she is.”

  They hadn’t talked about it again. Emma was out recovering from her burst appendix when Jamie got called up a few months later, and she hadn’t even been sure that Clare remembered until the other night when her voice rose between them in the dark. Jamie didn’t need to ask which “her” she meant. If only she’d learned the art of the compassionate white lie somewhere along the way because then she might not have felt compelled to answer, “She was my first love. I’ll always have some feelings for her.” Before she had even finished she could feel Clare pulling away, in mind if not in body.

  Since then, she hadn’t been able to do or say anything to narrow the gap that had appeared between them. But at least she could try to keep the gap from widening further.

  When they reached their rooms, Jamie nodded toward her door. “I should get back.”

  “Me too. What time is your flight?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “Same here. Looks like we’re on the same flight again.”

  Jamie nodded but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like they would be sitting together on the plane. Emma was a first class kind of flyer, and she, well, wasn’t.

  Emma turned away, waving over her shoulder as she disappeared inside her room. “Good night, Jamie. Sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams to you too,” she replied, the phrase automatically bubbling up as if it had been lying dormant all these years waiting for another chance to escape in Emma’s presence. Then she ducked into her own room, trying not to notice the slight ache in her chest as she closed the door. It wouldn’t always be like this. Then again, she wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

  A few hours later, she was bored with cable TV and running out of willpower, knowing that Emma was presumably alone across the hall. She checked the time—after ten, which meant there was a chance that Clare would be up and getting ready for the school day. She hit the call button and waited, half-expecting to get voicemail again. But for the first time in days, her girlfriend picked up.

  “Hello,” Clare said, her voice echoing strangely.

  “Hey. Where are you?”

  “In the loo.”

  “Want to call me back?”

  “Hang on.” Jamie waited as the toilet flushed and the water ran. Then Clare came back, her voice cautious. “How did the last day go?”

  “Excellent, actually.” Jamie paused. Now that they were talking, she might at least give her a heads-up. “I have some good news. They want me here for another training camp in January.”

  Clare released a deep, whistling breath into the phone. “Does that mean you’re not coming back?”

  “Of course not. It’s like a month away, Clare.”

  “Don’t be upset. I thought that was what you were saying.”

  Dating a Brit could be infuriating at times. They rarely came right out with what was on their minds and tended to get all squirrelly if anyone even remotely raised their voice. Kind of like Emma’s family. What was it she had once said? Something about descending from Scandinavian Minnesotans who, when confronted with a situation that required even a modicum of emotional intelligence, were basically, Oh, hell no?

  “Anyway, like I said, it’s good news,” Jamie repeated, picking at a loose thread on the hotel comforter.

  “Right.” Clare sounded tired. She was a morning person more by necessity than choice. “Well done.”

  “What about you? It feels like we’ve barely talked. How’s school?”

  Clare perked up a little as she chatted about the students she loved and the administrators who occasionally made her life miserable, her stories marked by the dry humor that always reminded Jamie she lived with an Englishwoman. When she described her recent visit home to Cornwall to see her nine-month-old niece, her voice became downright gushy. They discussed the London weather, LA’s winter sunshine, and what January camp would mean for their holiday plans. Speaking of which, Jamie realized, she needed to get the exact dates from the team manager and get working on her travel arrangements.

  Everything she had to do before the next residency camp suddenly crashed through her mind on a veritable tidal wave of panic. As conversation lagged, she said, “It’s getting late here. I’ll see you on Tuesday, all right?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to meet you at the airport?” Clare asked, though it was clear from her tone that she was offering more out of obligation than a genuine wish to make the long trek to Heathrow.

  “I’m sure. It’s your last week of school before break. I’ll take the train and see you at home, okay?”

  Clare agreed and they hung up a little while later, their goodbyes as stilted as the rest of the conversation. Jamie lay back on her bed, regretting the impulse that had led her to call. It was hard to believe that only a month before, when another call-up had seemed increasingly unlikely, they had been excitedly planning an American Thanksgiving with their closest friends. What had happened to them? Except she knew. Her national team dream had happened.

  When she opened her email, she discovered a new message from the team manager with the subject message “January camp: Jan. 8-15, 2014.” Seeing the dates in print suddenly brought home the reality of the invitation, and all at once she couldn’t wait to share the good news with Britt and her family. She may not have a roster spot yet, but she’d made the cut for the next camp. Now she just had to keep moving forward, getting better a little bit at a time.

  Well, that wasn’t all she had to do. Could she honestly sort out her contract issues in three and a half weeks? Figure out things with Clare? F
ind an NWSL team to take her on? There were nine teams in the league, each of which had two or three national team players. What if she ended up in Kansas City or Houston? After growing up in the Bay Area and living in the UK the last few years, she wasn’t sure she’d survive the humidity—or the conservative mindset—of either city. At least she’d know where she would be sooner rather than later. NWSL pre-season started in March, the same as the WSL, so negotiations couldn’t drag on too long.

  Assuming anyone even wanted her aging, injury-plagued ass on their team. Mel had said she didn’t think she’d have a problem, but what if she was wrong?

  As another wave of panic washed over her she closed her eyes, inhaling a deep breath. Slowly she released the breath, murmuring the words of the meditation she’d been using for the last ten years: “May I be filled with inner kindness; may I be well; may I be peaceful and at ease; may I be happy.” It took longer than usual, but when she finally felt more like herself, she switched to her closing mantra, tattooed in Sanskrit around her right bicep: Om lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu. This translated to, “May all beings everywhere be happy and free.” She pictured Clare the first time through before focusing on her own image, envisioning herself the way she always did when she meditated—as a young girl still trying to find her way in a world whose darkness she hadn’t known to expect.

  Everything would work out one way or another. It always did. All she could do was try her best to be happy and, just as importantly, to not make the people around her miserable.

  She released a final breath and reached for her laptop.

  Chapter Five

  In the back of the van on the way to the airport, Emma watched Jamie and Ellie peer down at Ellie’s phone, speaking in low voices she couldn’t quite hear. They had been thick as thieves at breakfast, too. What were they planning?

  As they approached LAX, Ellie finally held up her hand and Jamie slapped it, and they both smiled widely.

  “You are so in,” Ellie said, her voice carrying through the van.

  Jamie shushed her and glanced around, her eyes meeting Emma’s. But Emma looked away—not quickly, as if she’d been caught, but casually and a little off to the side so that it would seem like she hadn’t been watching them at all. Camp had gone better than she could have expected, but eavesdropping on Jamie’s private conversations probably wasn’t the best way to get back in her good graces. Not that she was trying to get back in… No, she definitely was, and for reasons that were probably better left unexplored.

  At the airport, they checked their bags and made it through security in plenty of time for their flights. They reached Ellie’s gate first, and Emma watched as the veteran striker tugged Jamie into a tight hug, pounding her on the back. Jamie pulled back, laughing, and punched her on the arm. God, they were like little kids. They approached the game—and most other things—with an almost palpable sense of joy, like there was nothing they would rather be doing. Emma loved soccer, but after more than half a decade as a professional, her feelings for the game were nowhere near as pure as they had once been.

  Like any other job, being on the national team brought with it a host of difficult situations and personalities that required care to negotiate. In her case, these complications were exacerbated by contractual obligations that specified what she was allowed to say, do, wear. Even, at times, how she could conduct her personal life. And privacy? She’d given up on that long ago. The limits playing soccer at the top level placed on her daily life sometimes made her question whether or not it was worth it. Usually the answer came back as a resounding yes. When it stopped doing so, that was when she would have to think seriously about retiring—assuming the federation didn’t try to make that decision for her, too.

  Jamie stood aside so that Emma and Ellie could say goodbye, but Emma caught her eye. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  “Oh.” Jamie looked between the two national team players for a moment before nodding and backing away. “Okay. See you, Ellie.”

  “Later, Max,” the striker said.

  Emma waited until Jamie was out of earshot to launch her attack. “Spill, Ellison, or do I have to remind you that you owe me for the crappy Secret Santa gift?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ellie said, dropping onto a nearby chair and pressing her boarding pass against her chronically jumpy knee.

  Emma slid onto the seat next to her. “Come on. What were you and Jamie in cahoots about?”

  Ellie regarded her, brown eyes slightly narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because we were friends once a long time ago and I’m hoping we can be again.”

  At that, Ellie snorted. “Call me crazy, but I get the feeling the two of you have some heavier history than the average pair of old friends.”

  “Our history isn’t anyone else’s business,” Emma said, and then chastised herself as she realized she’d invoked “our” in reference to Jamie. There was no our or us. There was only they and them: Jamie and her girlfriend.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Until we win the World Cup, everything that happens on this team is my business.”

  Emma folded her arms and tried to stare down her longtime teammate. Her practiced bitch face came in handy, as it reduced most people to stuttering messes.

  Rachel Ellison wasn’t most people, though. “Emma, I’m serious. Jamie’s trying to make the roster, and you know as well as I do how the federation feels about inter-squad relationships.”

  “What?” Emma squeezed her arms tighter against her sides. “I don’t—Jesus, Ellie. What are you even…?”

  “I love you, Blake, but you don’t have the best track record when it comes to team drama.”

  Was she never going to live down what had happened with Tori Parker? It had been two full World Cup cycles since they’d dated, but given they’d drawn not one but two national pool feeder teams into their soap opera…

  “What about you and Gabe? You’re hardly one to speak,” she pointed out.

  “Maybe not, but someone needs to. Don’t pretend you were in our room only for the Premier League.”

  Emma sighed, watching the stream of people in business suits and Disneyland T-shirts streaming through the concourse. “Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize her chances at making the team. Besides, she’s in a relationship. I would never get involved in something like that.”

  Her father had cheated on her mother a couple of years before his heart attack, and though her mother had eventually forgiven him, Emma was still estranged from her dad when he died. Now, a decade later, she had considerably more empathy for her father. Turned out relationships—and people—were a tad more complicated than she’d believed at seventeen.

  “I know you wouldn’t. Neither would she. Jamie’s a good kid.” Ellie slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I have faith in both of you.”

  Emma leaned her head against the taller woman’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what you guys were plotting?”

  “Not a chance. It’s her news to share or not.”

  “It has something to do with January camp, though, right?”

  Maddie had returned from dinner the night before bursting to tell her about Jamie’s invitation to the next residency camp. Emma had almost gone across the hall to offer congratulations, but then she’d realized Jamie could have told her when they ran into each other earlier. For whatever reason, she had chosen to keep the news to herself.

  “How do you know she got invited back?” Ellie asked.

  “You are aware of who I’ve been rooming with, aren’t you?”

  “Seeing as I helped make the assignments… But like I said, it’s not my news. Ask her, Emma. I have a feeling she’d be psyched to talk to you about it.”

  “Fi-ine.” Emma rose and reached for her carry-on. “Tell Jodie hi, and I’ll see you next month, okay? Oh, and happy holidays.”

  “You too. Be good,” Ellie called after her. />
  Emma waved without looking back. When she reached their gate, she found Jamie slouched in a chair near the window, eyes closed, headphones over her ears. Ellie’s words came back to her. Ask her. Before she could overthink, she slid into the seat next to Jamie.

  As their legs brushed, Jamie’s eyes flew open and she sat up quickly. “What the hell, Emma?” she said, pulling off her headphones.

  Whoops. Sometimes she forgot how twitchy Jamie could be when it came to personal space. “I’m sorry.” She started to reach for her arm and then thought better of it. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “You didn’t spook me.” Jamie’s voice still sounded tough. Then she softened. “Well, maybe a little. I didn’t realize it was you, that’s all.”

  This close, Emma could see the freckles that dusted Jamie’s nose and cheekbones. Apparently those hadn’t faded with time. “Sorry again.”

  “It’s fine. Did you and Ellie have your chat?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said noncommittally. “You two definitely seem to have bonded. Guess the roommate situation worked out.”

  “She’s been great about trying to help me figure things out.”

  “What sorts of things?” she asked, trying to appear only mildly interested.

  “Team stuff mostly.” Jamie hesitated. “I got invited back for January.”

  “That’s fantastic! See? I told you it was only a matter of time until you made it.”

  “I haven’t made it yet, but Melanie says I have a shot. The thing is, she and the other coaches think I’ll have an even better shot if I play in the NWSL this season.”

  The NWSL? That meant leaving the UK. No wonder Jamie had reached out to Ellie. The decision the coaches were asking her to make would impact not only her career with the national team but every single aspect of her life, all without any guarantee she would even make the permanent roster.

  “That’s major,” she said, immediately regretting the understatement. Before she could reel it back in, though, the loudspeaker crackled with an invitation for first class passengers and those traveling with small children to board.