Game Time

by Kate Christie

  “I will. So Emma, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Jamie remembered their conversation at the Twelve Pins the week before Thanksgiving. “You were right. Being at residency camp is a whole different kind of intense. Can we say I’m distracted and leave it at that for now?”

  Britt eyed her for a moment and finally nodded. “Of course. But if you want to talk after camp, you know, in the few hours of daylight we share on a daily basis… Let me know, okay?”

  “I will. Now tell me about keeper camp. How’s it going?”

  They stayed on the driveway a little while longer, the day’s heat still rising from the sunbaked pavement, while Britt filled her in on goalkeeper camp. Like Jamie, she had received words of encouragement from the coaching staff that included a recommendation to come back to the States and play professionally here.

  “Wow. That’s major,” Jamie said. “Have you made any decisions?”

  “Not yet. I’ll meet with DC next week and then head back to England to talk everything over with Allie.”

  “If you need a sounding board, let me know. I’m sort of in the unique position of having recently gone through the same thing.”

  Britt nodded. “I will. But get this: Allie already said she might be willing to try out America for a little while.”

  “No way!” Jamie smiled broadly. “Dude, that’s awesome!”

  “Might being the key word,” Britt said, but she was smiling too.

  “Keep me posted,” Jamie said, holding up her hand. Britt slapped it, and Jamie pushed away from the car. “You better go if you want to be back for bed check.”

  “Going AWOL with a coach’s car does seem like bad form,” Britt agreed.

  They hugged, and Jamie pounded her friend’s back. “Go kick some keeper ass, okay?”

  “You got it. Take care of your leg. And happy birthday again, bro!”

  She slipped into the car, started the engine, and drove away, waving out the open window. Jamie waved back until the car turned at the end of the street and moved out of view. It was a little chilly away from the chimineria, so she retraced her steps to the back patio. So Clare was seeing Susan. Interesting. Even more interesting was why the news only caused her a mild pang of regret.

  Jamie was entering the back yard when her phone lit up with a text from Emma—“I’m tipsy! Wish you were here! Dani says hi!” accompanied by a selfie of her and Dani at the country bar Dani’s boyfriend had dragged them to. Funny—the thought of Emma dancing with random cowboy types made her far more jealous than the thought of Clare dating Susan.

  “Have fun,” she texted back. “Wish I was there too.” And then she added the kissing emoji they’d ended every single text conversation with (not like she had read their text thread more than once in the past few days or anything) since her birthday.

  Yep, she was definitely smitten. Fortunately, she thought as Emma’s reply came back with half a dozen kissing emojis, the feeling appeared to be completely mutual.

  The following morning they had brunch on the patio and headed out, Jamie’s mom driving the family car, her dad playing chauffeur in hers.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, adjusting the mirrors at the end of his brother’s driveway.

  “Ready,” she said, waving out the window at her aunt and uncle who stood on the front stoop, arms around each other’s shoulders.

  They backed out of the driveway, following the Forester through the quiet neighborhood and out onto the main road. Soon they were cruising along the 210 toward home, Jamie’s foot propped on the dash and a bag of ice bandaged yet again to her right quad. She was starting to think she would be fine if she never heard the clink of ice cubes ever again.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask: What did your coaches say when you told them you were injured?” her dad asked, keeping an eye on her mom maneuvering through the four lanes of semi-heavy traffic ahead of them.

  “Oh. Um, well, I haven’t told them yet.”

  His head swiveled quickly in her direction. “What do you mean you haven’t told them?”

  “It happened on the last day, and I wasn’t sure at first how bad it was so I didn’t say anything.”

  “And now?”

  “Now what?”

  “Obviously it’s pretty severe if you can’t drive, Jamie.”

  She shrugged. “I guess so. But it might just be moderate, in which case I could be fine for the friendlies.”

  He didn’t speak for a little while, but she could see his wheels turning. Unlike her mom who privileged passion over lucidity, he preferred to present a fully formed argument. Jamie had inherited his disposition, so this strategy usually worked better on her than it did on her sister, who, like their mother, considered herself a member of the “temperamental artist” ranks.

  “The coaches have to announce the roster for the road trip soon, don’t they?” he finally asked.

  “Any day now.”

  “How do you think they’re going to feel if you don’t tell them what’s going on and then can’t play once you arrive in Texas?”

  “That’s assuming I make the roster.”

  He gave her a look that clearly communicated displeasure, but she wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed in her lack of positive self-talk or her myopic focus.

  She sighed. “Fine, I’ll call them. Happy?”

  “Of course I’m not happy. I know you’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this since you were a little girl. But I also know that hiding the truth from your coaches is not only something I wouldn’t expect from you, it could also hurt you in the long run.”

  He was right. She knew it and he knew it. Still, she chewed the inside of her cheek and thought about her options as the freeway twisted and turned past the foothills and up the treacherous Grapevine. But no matter how she did the math, her dad was still right.

  When they saw signs for the Fort Tejon rest area, they called her mom and told her to go on ahead. Then they pulled in to the mostly deserted parking area and Jamie pulled on a fleece to combat the mountain chill. At least there wasn’t any snow right now. They’d postponed visits with the Pasadena clan more than once thanks to the California Highway Patrol’s tendency to close the Grapevine at the first hint of snow or ice. Phone in hand, she limped over to a picnic table where she gingerly settled herself on the bench, making sure her injured leg was fully supported. Amazing how you didn’t realize how necessary a muscle group was until you all but shredded it on the soccer field. She scrolled through her contacts, pausing when she saw Ellie’s name.

  “Max!” the older woman answered, her voice cheerful as usual. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the Grapevine. I, um, decided to spend a few days with my aunt and uncle in Pasadena.”

  “I thought you were going home so you could get your stuff together for the move? The road trip isn’t going to leave you much time to get settled before the Algarve. And once we’re back from Portugal, pre-season will be well under way.”

  She sucked in her cheeks. “You say that like me going to Portugal is a done deal.”

  Ellie huffed out a long breath but otherwise remained silent.

  Jamie’s own breath caught. “Oh my god. Is it a done deal?”

  “So I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Craig. He said he’d be making calls this weekend, so I assumed…”

  Holy shit. She had made the roster. She had made the fucking Algarve Cup roster! Her heart rose and then, just as quickly, dropped. Not that it mattered much now. She was still injured and her father was still right.

  “No,” she admitted. “I haven’t talked to Craig yet.”

  “In that case, let’s pretend this conversation never happened. Call me back after you talk to him, all right?”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up. I need to ask you something.”

  “As long as it has nothing to do with the roster you may or may not have made…”

  “It does but not in the way yo
u think.”

  Jamie could almost hear Ellie’s brow furrow. “Okay then, what?”

  “Remember how I got hit at practice on Tuesday morning and you said I should sit out the afternoon session?”

  “Uh-huh,” Ellie said slowly.

  “Well, I should have listened to you. In fact, I really, really wish I had.”

  “I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me, am I?”

  “No.” Jamie took in another deep breath. “I pulled my groin at the last training session.”

  At the other end, Ellie paused. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “And that’s what you were icing, not the bruise?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought at first it might be minor, you know?”

  “Right. How bad is it?” Ellie asked, her voice clipped.

  “It’s not good. My parents came down last night from Berkeley to drive me home.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jamie, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I should have. That’s my bad. But in all honesty, I didn’t realize how severe it was. I thought I could rest and ice it for a few days and that would be enough.”

  “You have to call Craig before he calls you. Otherwise… Just do it, okay? Hang up and call him right now.”

  “Okay.” She paused. “I’m really sorry, Ellie.”

  The older woman’s voice softened. “What are you sorry for?”

  “Letting you down. Again.” Jamie felt her throat tighten as she stared out across the pastureland lining the freeway in this part of her home state. “You’ve been nothing but good to me and now I’ve gone and screwed it all up.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Jamie. And you didn’t let me down. You pulled a muscle, that’s all. It happens. If a muscle strain meant the end of every player’s hopes and dreams, there wouldn’t be a national team. Call Craig and go home and do some PT, and before you know it you’ll be back on the field. Okay?”

  Control the things you can control, Jamie thought, nodding even though Ellie couldn’t see her. “Okay. I can do that. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Keep me posted.”

  They hung up, and then, before she could lose her nerve, she hit the call button next to the national team coach’s name. She’d made the roster. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

  He didn’t answer. Her call went straight to voicemail, which meant he was probably on the phone making someone else’s day—or breaking their heart. She left a short message asking him to call her, and then she hung up and waited, rubbing her arms to stay warm in the cool, clear air. She could see her dad in the driver’s seat reading the newspaper he’d picked up that morning when he went out to refresh her Gatorade stash. Or rather, she could see the newspaper through the windshield, his pale hands grasping the sides. He was a news guy. Like Bill Clinton back in the day before the news migrated online, her dad used to read several newspapers before work each morning, a couple at home and another one or two on the train into the city, depending on how his commute went.

  Even now he still loved a good Sunday newspaper despite his iPhone and iPad and any number of other ways he had of accessing the news online. Jamie preferred to get her news filtered through Tumblr or Twitter. She only followed people of like minds. Otherwise, she found, the world was too depressing. As in it literally possessed the power to sink her into depression. She may have gotten past the assault in France, but she would always have to be vigilant about her mental state; otherwise she risked a return of old PTSD symptoms. No matter how long she went between PTSD triggers, she always worried they would come back. Probably because at some point, they always did.

  Especially when she had been neglecting her self-care checklist—like she had during the last couple of weeks. Closing her eyes, she inhaled through her nose and began to count her breaths. More meditation less medication. Although in reality she was lucky—she hadn’t ever needed to rely on medication to keep her emotions in balance. She had always had soccer to do that. Turned out kicking the shit out of a small, leather sphere at every conceivable opportunity was a fine way to relieve tension and express oneself.

  “Thinking,” she murmured to herself, trying to make her mind a smooth, blank space where the words of her mantra would be free to float and coalesce.

  The phone buzzed while she was in the middle of her second time through the prayer of St. Assisi, one of her meditation go-tos. She opened her eyes and released a final breath, and then hit the call accept button. “Hi, Coach.”

  “Hello, Jamie. I was just about to call you.” He sounded remarkably upbeat, more so than she had ever heard him. Which only made what she had to say harder.

  “I thought you might be,” she said, and steeled herself. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off. “Unfortunately, I have some bad news. I pulled my right groin at the last practice and it hasn’t healed as quickly as I was hoping it would.”

  He paused. “Okay. That’s surprising. Have you seen a trainer yet?”

  “Not yet. I honestly thought rest and ice would fix it, but I think I might have underestimated the degree of the strain.”

  “So, not minor, then?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Right.” He paused again. “Well, then I suppose that changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, only barely remembering that she wasn’t supposed to know anything about the roster.

  “When can you see a trainer?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Right then. Why don’t you call me after you have an official prognosis and we’ll go from there. Sound good?”

  None of this sounded good. “Yes. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”

  “You do that. In the meantime, keep off that leg.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  Her dad was refolding the newspaper when she limped up and slid into the passenger seat. “Any news?” he asked.

  “Not really.” She checked her watch. Time for more ice. “Craig wants me let him know what I find out at the appointment tomorrow.”

  “That makes sense.” He hesitated and then squeezed her shoulder. “You did the right thing, honey.”

  “I know.”

  But as her dad pulled on his seat belt and checked his mirrors, she wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t told Craig the truth. Could she have rehabbed her leg in time to play in Texas? If not, could she have passed off the injury as a new one that occurred during pre-match training? Except Emma would know. And as tempting as it was to do anything and everything to make the roster, she wouldn’t be able to look Emma in the eye if she made it under shady circumstances. Or herself for that matter, a day or a week or a month down the road.

  So yeah. She’d done the right thing. The only thing she could do, actually.

  Fucking Taylor O’Brien.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her cell phone woke her, and for a moment Emma sat blinking against the lamplight trying to figure out why her hotel room had a couch exactly like the one in her living room. Her phone buzzed again in its spot on the coffee table and she realized what was happening. Rising up on one elbow, she grabbed her cell and held it to her ear.

  “’Lo?” she croaked, and sucked in a tiny bit of drool.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  It was Jamie. “Hi!” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. Jamie was on the phone and she was at home and her entire life came sweeping back suddenly as she focused on the Space Needle beyond the living room window, glowing against the night sky. She’d been dreaming that she was on an airplane plummeting toward the water, and she was bracing herself for impact… Damn it. Not that old nightmare. What the hell?

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No.” She pressed her fist to her forehead. “Yes. Are you home?”

  “Yeah, we got back a while ago. Didn’t you get my text?”

  Emma checked her phone. “Oh, yeah. There it
is.”

  “Don’t tell me—tequila?”

  “Not this time,” she said, smiling. “It was more business than socializing. I think I’m still getting caught up from residency camp.”

  The Reign management had held a pre-pre-season meeting so that the returners could meet the handful of new players acquired in the off-season. Normally they wouldn’t have a meeting quite so early, but with Emma and Gabe about to take off on national team duty, they decided to sneak it in. The team had gone out, but Emma had begged off. She didn’t tell Jamie that she’d skipped the pub crawl so that she wouldn’t miss a chance to talk to her.

  “In that case, I’m sorry I woke you up. Do you want me to call you tomorrow? Or, you know, like, whenever?”

  “No!” She dialed back her enthusiasm. “Your timing was perfect, actually. You saved me from a bad dream.”

  “That’s no good. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know.” She ran a hand over her ponytail, feeling the strands that had worked themselves free. “Do you remember the nightmare I started having after my father died?” She felt ridiculous as soon as the words were out. There was no reason Jamie would remember something so minor.

  But: “About your uncle’s plane crash? You still have that dream?”

  “Not very often,” she admitted. “Only when…” She trailed off as she recognized the pattern. The nightmare tended to recur at moments of emotional upheaval—when they lost the 2011 World Cup; when she and Sam broke up; when she and Will stopped seeing each other; when she and Jamie stopped speaking the first time.

  Was that what she was worried about? That now that camp was over, Jamie was suddenly going to vanish the way she had when they were kids? But kids was the key word. Messed up kids, at that. Presumably they were in different places in their lives now.

  “When what?” Jamie asked.

  “When I’m especially tired,” she said. “I think all those weeks of double sessions combined with the holidays are finally catching up with me. I’m no spring chicken, you know.”

  “Right. Because twenty-seven is ancient.”