The Road to Canada

by Kate Christie

  Jamie shook her head. “You’re infuriating.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  As the last player finally settled into her seat behind them, Emma started the engine. This time she didn’t intervene when Jamie lifted her headphones. She only kept her eyes on the road as she guided the van back to the hotel, trying to focus on anything other than aggressive, entitled men and punk-ass teenage boys.

  #

  Their talk in the van wasn’t the only difficult conversation Emma had to face. At dinner, Jo stopped by her table. “Blake, a word in my room later?”

  Emma swallowed her spoonful of vanilla yogurt. “Sure thing.”

  “Text me when you’re ready.”

  Emma nodded and watched the national team coach walk away. That couldn’t be good, could it? Jo hadn’t seemed angry, though, simply serious. So there was that.

  Across the table, Jamie went back to jostling with Angie for elbow room, but her eyes still managed to ask Emma a clear question: You okay? It was the first time she had made more than cursory eye contact with Emma since the scrimmage, so Emma supposed she had Jo to thank for that. She shrugged subtly and Jamie returned the gesture.

  Emma, at least, couldn’t predict Jo’s reaction to what had happened. Or rather, what Emma had done. Her parents had taught her and Ty to take responsibility for their actions, so that was what she would do. But the truth was, she wouldn’t take back what she’d done even if she could. Sticking up for Jamie wasn’t something she thought needed an apology. And while she understood that other people believed violence was never the answer—of course, they were entitled to their opinion—she didn’t agree. Sometimes violence was absolutely the right answer, especially in a situation like today where Jamie hadn’t done anything to trigger the stupid boy’s aggression other than be herself. A self, incidentally, that took constant courage in the face of a culture that didn’t value her identity.

  And yet, most coaches weren’t like Melanie because most coaches had zero tolerance for fighting. True, Marty had taken Emma’s side when she’d taken out Beaumont. But that situation had been significantly different from this one, starting with the fact that Emma’s retaliatory tackle had been perfectly legal and had happened during the run of play. Also, Beaumont was a fellow female professional whose dirty play had been opportunistic but not necessarily personal. The kid today, on the other hand, had taken a shot at Jamie because she played for a different team euphemistically, not literally.

  She stalled for as long as she could after dinner, taking an extra-long shower and bingeing a couple of episodes of Modern Family with Maddie before finally texting Jo: “Is this a good time?”

  “Sure,” Jo replied. “Give me fifteen and come on up.”

  Emma bit her lip. Wasn’t her kid staying with her? Hadn’t she said something about her husband having a business trip or some such thing? Well, that was fine. Emma liked Brandon. At ten, he was still sweet and looked up to the women on the team, instead of acting all egotistical and smug like some of the boys from today.

  Huh. Her antipathy toward men certainly appeared to be holding strong.

  Jo’s door was open a crack when Emma arrived, the metal latch wedged into the gap, so she only knocked lightly before pushing it open. Jo was sitting on the couch in the living area of her suite, laptop open before her. She looked at Emma over the top of her glasses and nodded toward a nearby chair.

  “Have a seat,” she said, tone neutral. “Just let me finish this email.”

  “Okay.”

  Emma sat down on the padded chair and tucked her feet under her, glancing around the room. Through an open doorway she could see Brandon asleep on a king-sized bed, and she wondered what it had been like for him to be uprooted suddenly from Virginia, the only home he’d ever known, and transplanted to Southern California. She didn’t envy him that, nor did she envy him the prospect of being the only child of the USWNT’s head coach. The American women had dominated the game for so long that they were expected to win every game they played and place high in every tournament they entered. The coach who failed to achieve gold in the course of a four-year cycle was panned by fans, the federation, and sports journalists alike. If they didn’t win in Canada this summer, Jo could use the excuse that she had been brought on without enough time to make a real impact. But if they also failed to capture the gold in Rio the following year? Her job wouldn’t be secure—assuming that it ever was.

  “Okay,” Jo said, setting aside the laptop. “Let’s talk, Blake.”

  Emma waited, but the coach didn’t say anything else, merely watched her with sharp eyes that Emma had often thought didn’t miss much. She tried to wait Jo out, but finally the silence was too much. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked, relying on an open question—her go-to in situations where she didn’t feel in control.

  “How are things?” Jo asked. “I believe you met with Caroline at January camp. Was she able to assist you with some of your online issues?”

  The subject matter threw Emma briefly—wasn’t she here so that Jo could upbraid her for her conduct at the scrimmage?—but she tried not to show it. “Sort of. I mean, she offered some advice that was helpful. Basically, I’m no longer running my professional social media, and I’ve changed my personal accounts as well.”

  “But…?” When Emma frowned slightly, Jo added, “I thought I heard a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  “But there’s really nothing anyone can do,” Emma admitted.

  “There isn’t, is there?” Jo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “We didn’t have anything like that when I was playing. We had the press reporting on our major tournaments, of course, but until the ’96 Olympics, we were barely on anyone’s radar. The team didn’t start having the kinds of problems you’re describing until after ’99, and even then, there was no social media to create the echo chamber we currently see.”

  “Sounds nice, actually,” Emma said, half-smiling.

  “It was.” Jo paused. “I have a question. What went through your mind this afternoon when you went after that boy?” Despite the topic, she didn’t sound critical. Rather, she seemed genuinely curious.

  Emma cleared her throat and glanced at the sleeping child in the next room.

  Jo followed her gaze and waved a hand. “Don’t worry about Brandon. He could sleep through an earthquake. Oh, wait, I shouldn’t tempt fate. Earthquakes are an actual possibility here, aren’t they? I’m still getting used to the California thing.”

  “A little different from Virginia?”

  Jo nodded. “Probably as different as North Carolina is from Seattle. But back to my question. What were you thinking about that made you react that way?”

  She shrugged. “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking. I literally saw red, and the next thing I knew I was shoving him. It was like my body took over, and I was just in there watching.”

  “Lizard brain,” Jo said. “That’s the term Mary Kate uses to describe the emotional state when fight or flight takes over. It definitely fulfilled an important evolutionary role when our species was less established, but it’s not quite as useful these days.”

  Emma glanced down at her hands in her lap. Against her better judgment she said, “I’m sorry I lost control.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I am in the abstract sense,” Jo clarified as Emma’s gaze flew back to her. “Not because that kid didn’t have it coming because while I will deny this if you ever quote me, let’s face it: He more than had it coming. But mostly I’m sorry because I think I know what was behind your manifestation of lizard brain, and there’s nothing I can do as your coach—or even as a friend—to make that part okay.”

  Unexpectedly, Emma felt tears threatening. As long as she was angry, she didn’t have to feel what lay beneath the heat: a deep, abiding grief that Jamie, like so many other girls and women, was forever changed by what had happened to her. Grief that Sam had feared for her safety because of her relationship with Emma. Grief—and, yes, rage—that it migh
t be happening all over again and there was nothing Emma could do to stop it.

  She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat and looked down at her hands again, toying with the hem of her sweatshirt. “It’s awful,” she admitted, “knowing what happened to her and not being able to make sure nothing like it ever happens again.”

  “You’re right,” Jo said, nodding. “What happened when she was younger was terrible. But Jamie doesn’t let it define her. She’s worked hard to move on with her life and achieve her dreams, just as you have.” She paused. “Have you talked with her yet about the online situation?”

  “No, I didn’t want to throw her off her game right now.”

  “I understand your reasoning, but I think she might be more resilient than you’re giving her credit for, Emma. Besides, secrets aren’t good for anyone.”

  “I know that,” Emma said, a little irritated. She didn’t tell Jo how she should handle her marriage or her child, did she?

  Jo steepled her fingers. “Did you know that research shows that keeping secrets can impact not just your emotional well-being but also your physical health? The problem is that people don’t just think about something they’re keeping from others when they actively have to hide their secret. They also think about whatever they’re hiding even when it isn’t in danger of being found out. That’s what adds the extra physical and emotional stress.”

  That… actually made sense. Emma thought of her father. The damage to his heart hadn’t appeared overnight. It had taken months, possibly even years of stress to damage the muscle. Months and years during which he had spent more time away from his family than with them, months and possibly even years during which he’d had a secret affair that very nearly ended his marriage and had irrevocably harmed his relationship with his daughter.

  If he had lived, she’d often thought, she would have eventually found a way to forgive him. If he had still been alive right now, she would have viewed him through a more empathetic lens than the self-righteous, black and white viewpoint she’d possessed as a teenager. She might not ever fully understand how he could have done what he’d done, but she wouldn’t have held him to such high standards. The world was far more complex than she’d realized in high school.

  “I didn’t know that,” she told Jo. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “And yet…?”

  “And yet, I still don’t think this is the right time to tell her. I will tell her, and soon. But not before… just, not right now.”

  Jo eyed her a moment longer and then, finally, nodded. “Timing. I get it.”

  Emma was pretty sure she did.

  “In the meantime, I’m going to ask something else of you,” Jo said. “I want you to talk to Mary Kate about all of this. I don’t mean Jamie’s history or your current relationship, but about the harassment you’ve been experiencing. I’ve watched you play for a while now, Emma, and I’ve never seen you lose control like you did today. Bottling up your feelings is doing no one any favors, especially not asshole boys on the under-seventeen team.”

  Emma coughed out a laugh before slapping a hand over her mouth.

  Jo looked at her over her reading glasses. “Again, if you quote me on that, I will deny it. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Emma said. “I actually met with MK in January, but I’ll see if I can get another appointment before New Zealand.” She realized what she’d said and flinched slightly. “I mean, before the end of camp.”

  “It’s okay, Blake,” Jo said, smiling. “You will indeed be on the roster for New Zealand. You’ve risen to the challenges I’ve thrown you, just as I believed you would. Despite your Rocky impression this afternoon, your spot on this team isn’t in any danger.”

  Emma stared at her, the lump in her throat returning. “Thanks, Coach. Seriously.”

  “It’s nothing you haven’t earned. Good luck with balancing everything. I hope you know you can reach out for help at any time. That’s what the team behind the team is for.”

  “I know.” She rose. “I should probably be heading to bed.”

  “Sounds good. Don’t be a stranger, Emma.”

  “I’ll try not to be.”

  Their eyes held a second longer, and Emma wasn’t surprised anymore to see the kindness and genuine caring alongside the strength and determination that had always defined Jo, both as a player and a coach. In addition to her work with the federation, she had managed the University of Virginia program for more than a decade before assuming her current mantle. Those who had played for her still sang her praises. She obviously cared about her players, possibly even as much as she cared about the game itself.

  How lucky they were that the team was finally in the right hands, Emma reflected as she returned to her room. Then she caught herself. Now who sounded like an evangelical robot? It was possible she was starting to see the light where their head coach was concerned. Having her spot guaranteed didn’t hurt, obviously. Now if only Jo would hurry up and make Jamie an official member of the roster. Once she did, Emma could come clean and there would be no more secrets between them.

  Gulp.

  As she stepped out of the stairwell, she pulled out her phone and typed Jamie a quick message: “Jo was great. Very understanding. Called it an attack of lizard brain and says my spot is safe.” She added a gecko emoji, followed by, “Just wanted to let you know.”

  Jamie’s reply came back almost immediately, just as Emma reached her room: “Glad to hear it. Also unsurprised because pretty sure your spot was never in question.”

  Emma paused in the hotel corridor. “I really am sorry about earlier.”

  This time, the reply took a bit longer. “I know. It’s okay. We’re good.”

  The size of the wave of relief that washed over Emma was a little embarrassing, really. “Good. See you in the morning?”

  “See you in the morning,” she confirmed.

  “Sweet dreams, Jamie.”

  “Sweet dreams to you too, Em. Love you.”

  “I love you too,” Emma wrote back.

  Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard, remembering what Jo had said about Jamie’s resilience. But what about Emma’s resilience? She understood that what had happened to Jamie wasn’t about her, but it wasn’t entirely not about her, either. What had Jamie said on the phone one night when they were in high school? That France hadn’t only happened to her. The damage was like concentric rings on the surface of a lake, extending out well beyond the initial point of contact to anyone and everyone who loved her.

  In a matter of weeks, Jamie would be returning to Lyon for the first time since that initial point of contact. Emma was tempted to fly to France with her, but she had her commitment to the Reign to think about. She couldn’t just take off for personal reasons, no matter how compelling those reasons might be.

  As she closed the door behind her, Emma nodded at Jordan VanBrueggen where she lay in the bed by the window, reading her Kindle. The Lyon trip was still weeks away. For now, Emma should focus on getting through the rest of camp and the game against New Zealand. One day at a time was not only a helpful adage for alcoholics and other addicts. It was also a pretty useful slogan for athletes.

  Sheesh. She was definitely drinking the Kool-Aid now. But that was probably a good thing, Emma thought as she turned off her phone and got ready for bed. After all, they had a world title to win. A cheer from her high school team popped into her head: A team united can never be divided.

  One could hope, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  “No way am I getting in there,” Angie said, backing away from the tram door.

  “Oh, come on.” Maddie grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. “It’s your size, Ange!”

  Jamie exchanged a look with Emma, who shrugged in what Jamie read as resignation.

  “After you,” Emma said, waving toward the absurdly small elevator car.

  “Let’s do it,” Jamie said, and ducked to enter the car.

  Th
e doors were only four feet high, according to Emma’s guide book, and the seats inside each tiny elevator car—or “tram” as it was officially called—were also on the small side. They hadn’t been settled long when the door slammed shut automatically and the tram began to climb. Jamie held her breath, expecting the swoop and whoosh of the Empire State Building or Seattle’s Columbia Tower, but it never came. Then she remembered that the guide book had said the cars only moved at 3.7 mph. Doh—that was just cruel. Way to prolong someone’s fear of heights.

  And by someone, of course, she meant Emma.

  “You okay?” she asked her girlfriend softly, rubbing a thumb over her wrist.

  “Yep,” Emma said, lips tight as she gazed at the concrete walls and metal spikes slipping past the tram’s lone window.

  Jamie had expected to see St. Louis as they climbed—seriously, why else would there be a window in an elevator?—but the view before them was decidedly interior. Only after they’d arrived at the top (indicated by a sign that read, “You’ve reached the top!”), abandoned their tiny elevator, and maneuvered up a narrow stairway did they finally reach a series of small, rectangular windows that offered a proscribed view of the world below.

  After one look at the distant ground, Emma seemed content to share facts from the book while the rest of their group gazed out on the mighty Mississippi River, the city of St. Louis, and the surrounding countryside.

  “The Gateway Arch is the world’s tallest arch and the tallest man-made monument in the Western Hemisphere,” Emma read, her eyes fixed on the book. “It stands 630 feet tall—”

  “Wait,” Maddie said, glancing between the view and Emma. “How can this be the tallest building? The Sears Tower in Chicago is twice as tall.”

  “Not the tallest building,” Emma corrected her. “The tallest monument.”

  At that moment, the Arch seemed to sway, and Angie grabbed Maddie’s hand. Emma looked slightly green too, so Jamie edged closer, hoping to provide reassurance without setting off her girlfriend’s sensitive PDA alarm.