“I see,” the officer said, frowning slightly. “And do you have this dossier on hand?”
“No, but I could email you a copy,” Jenny said, turning on her phone. “I’ve got it on Dropbox.”
The police officer slid her business card across the table, and while Jenny typed the information into her phone, the officer gazed around the room. “Does anyone else have similar records? We might need them to cross-reference the perpetrator’s actions. It’s possible Ms. Latham wasn’t his only target.”
And, crap. Emma should have seen this coming. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? More importantly, now what? She could lie, but Caroline and Jo would both know she was withholding evidence. There really wasn’t a choice, was there?
Lifting her head, she said, “I do,” just as Maddie raised her hand.
Emma and Maddie exchanged a startled glance even as Jamie leaned away from the table.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, her eyes on Emma. “Since when?”
Emma gave her a look that she hoped conveyed her sincere apology and her equally heartfelt desire not to have this particular conversation at this exact moment.
“Sorry,” the officer said, glancing around the room. “Apparently that was a loaded question.”
“It’s fine,” Jo said. “We just try to keep these things quiet. The players have enough on their plates. The last thing we want to do is spend unnecessary time and energy on off-the-pitch issues. Sometimes, like tonight, it catches up to us.”
Her words were as much for the players, Emma knew, as they were for the officer, while her warning look was aimed directly at Jamie. To her credit, Jamie managed to stifle whatever else she wanted to say upon learning that her girlfriend was secretly stockpiling files on an online stalker (stalkers?), but Emma could feel her seething quietly beside her. She’d moved her chair away from Emma’s, and as the officer finished taking their statements, Jamie sat stonily, arms folded and mouth pursed in the way Emma had learned to dread.
The officer finally dismissed them with assurances she would be in touch soon. Jamie rose and started toward the door, practically vibrating with angry energy. Before Emma could react, Jo held up a hand.
“Wait a second, guys. Before we release you, I’d like Mary Kate and Caroline to chat with you.”
Jamie wavered, and for a moment, Emma thought she might actually stalk out. But Jo was staring at her coolly, eyebrows raised, and Jamie retook her seat, avoiding Emma’s entreating gaze.
This, Emma thought, facing front and center again, was exactly why she hadn’t told her.
Mary Kate went first, offering up general information about trauma response and suggesting that anyone who might need help processing what had happened earlier should stop by her room later. She would be happy to talk, any time of the day or night. They didn’t even need to call first.
Caroline, the team’s PR rep, went next. Basically, she explained, they weren’t to discuss the incident with anyone outside the team. Not with friends or family and especially not with members of the press. This was not the type of subject the US national team discussed in public forums. Emma had expected this, but as Caroline finished issuing her directive, she wondered again if there was video evidence of the incident already floating around the World Wild Web, as Maddie sometimes called it.
Maddie, who had a dossier like hers, as did Jenny.
Why hadn’t they talked about that fact? Probably because her friends, like Emma, had been cautioned to keep their situation quiet. Couldn’t let anything besmirch the federation’s reputation, could they? Or maybe that wasn’t fair. In their meeting in LA, Caroline had suggested that online harassers were attention seekers, and the best way to defuse their fixation was to deny them what they were looking for. Emma didn’t believe it was that simple, but she did come from a long line of Scandinavian Minnesotans who believed that ignoring unpleasant emotions just might make them go away. Jamie, on the other hand, raised in crunchy Northern California, was more of a processer. This could be both a blessing and a curse, Emma had come to realize.
As soon as Jo released them, Jamie was out the door, her shoulders tense and jaw set. Emma followed her, aware of Maddie and Angie watching sympathetically. This is what they got for inter-team dating, she could almost hear Jenny thinking at her. Loudly.
In the lobby, Jamie veered toward the hotel entrance, her movements short and choppy. Emma followed her outside onto the hotel’s curved drive, trying to decide if she should give her space. But a car was pulling up and the concierge nearly bowled Jamie over, and Jesus, she was going to get herself hurt.
“Jamie, wait!”
Jamie’s brow furrowed as she glanced over her shoulder. “Leave it, Emma.”
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s not safe.”
This part of downtown St. Louis, only steps from the Mississippi River, was an odd mix of parking lots, hotels, and reclaimed factory spaces. Despite the fact they were staying at a luxury hotel attached to a popular casino, Fitzy had informed them when they arrived that the neighborhood was not one to get lost in after dark.
Jamie glanced away, still frowning. “I need some air.”
“I get that, but don’t walk away mad. Come back inside. Please?”
Another long moment passed during which Emma contemplated using her slight advantage in weight and upper body strength to keep Jamie from storming off. Then Jamie nodded jerkily. “Fine.”
She turned and followed Emma back into the building, not saying a word as they walked to the elevator. Only when Emma pressed the button for the eighth floor did Jamie turn toward her, frowning again. “What are you doing?”
“You said you needed air,” Emma explained, leaning against the back of the elevator, hands folded behind her. “Personally, I could use a drink. It’s not every day someone on the team gets attacked by a delusional fan.”
At that, Jamie’s shoulders slumped. “Emma…” she said, her voice low.
“Yeah?” she asked, hope—the annoying pest—flaring inside. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe they would be okay.
But Jamie only shook her head and watched the numbered floors change in silence.
On a Sunday night in April, the hotel’s rooftop restaurant wasn’t busy. At the entrance, Emma stopped and exchanged a few words with the host, who glanced between her and Jamie and nodded, her eyes curious. Emma touched Jamie’s arm and led her outside to the part of the patio where an upscale bonfire/fountain combo created both warmth and soothing sounds. A pair of curved wicker chairs with thick cushions sat empty in a corner, and Emma nodded in their direction.
“Will you sit with me? Please? I really think we should talk about this.”
“Now you want to talk about it?” Jamie’s tone was more than a little bitter. Still, she let Emma guide her to the corner where a stone wall topped with low bushes provided a sense of privacy without hiding the view of the nearby Gateway Arch and the city’s assortment of taller buildings, all lit up against the evening sky.
“Thank you for not leaving,” Emma said, depositing her purse on a low coffee table.
Jamie dropped onto the other chair and folded her arms across her chest. “You’re welcome,” she said, her tone grudging at best.
“I’m sorry,” she offered, fidgeting at the edge of her seat.
“You’re sorry,” Jamie repeated, her tone still edged with antagonism.
“I am. Truly.”
“About lying to me? Or about getting caught?”
“That’s not fair,” she said, sitting up straighter on the absurdly comfortable patio chair.
“Isn’t it, though?”
Emma was still cycling through responses in her mind when an aproned server appeared with schooner-sized glasses of beer, a plate of french fries, and dark red cloth napkins that matched his apron.
“Here you go,” he said, smiling as he deposited the food and drinks on the coffee table. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” Emma said, and reached for her beer.
She took a long pull, grateful to have something to do with her hands. Then she noticed Jamie wasn’t drinking. “It’s a lager shanty, if that helps.”
As the scent of fried food wafted between them, Jamie’s stubborn expression relaxed slightly and she leaned forward, delicately rescuing a single fry from the pile. She dipped it into the spicy house ketchup and lifted it to her mouth almost reluctantly. But after she’d chewed and swallowed, her lips turned up. Infinitesimally, but Emma saw it. French fries were Jamie’s weakness. She didn’t let herself indulge often, a fact that Emma wasn’t above exploiting.
“Now who’s not being fair,” Jamie grumbled, her eyes on the plate as she went back for more.
Emma considered saying that she had never claimed to play fair but decided that was probably not the best line to go with, considering. Instead, she helped herself to a handful of the fried potato goodness. Rattled by the afternoon’s events, she hadn’t eaten as much at dinner as she normally did after a game, and now her calorie-deprived body was communicating its displeasure. Judging from how rapidly the plate of french fries disappeared, Jamie’s body was staging a similar revolt.
They had barely finished wiping the salt from their fingers when their server appeared beside them. “Another order of fries? Or would you like me to bring you a menu?”
Emma looked at Jamie, her eyebrows lifted.
“More fries, please,” Jamie said, only slightly less grudgingly. Then she added politely, “Thank you.”
As the server whisked the empty plate away, Emma leaned back in her chair, toying with the cloth napkin in her lap. Jamie was sticking around for at least as long as it took to demolish another plate of fries. Right. She could work with that.
“I’m sorry for keeping my online situation a secret,” she said before the silence could settle too heavily between them.
“It isn’t exactly a secret, though, is it?” Jamie asked, face closing again as she refolded her arms across her chest. “I mean, the staff obviously knows. That’s what all the meetings have been about, haven’t they?”
Emma took a breath, willing herself not to respond to the obvious aggression in Jamie’s tone. She glanced up at the sky, but there were no stars to be seen. She wasn’t sure if that was because the sun hadn’t been down for long or because the city’s light pollution blocked out the constellations. Maybe both.
“I know you’re upset, and I understand why,” Emma said, trying to keep her tone even. “But what was I supposed to do?”
“Are you serious? What were you supposed to do?” Jamie repeated, her tone disbelieving. “You were supposed to freaking communicate with me, Emma, not let me get blindsided by someone else.”
“I didn’t want my baggage to be a burden for you when you were trying to make the roster. Why is that so terrible?”
“It’s so terrible,” Jamie said, “because you lied to me. For months! Again.”
“Again?” Emma shook her head. “What are you even talking about?” But as Jamie continued to stare at her, one eyebrow lifted in challenge, Emma remembered: Tori Parker. Her lie of omission regarding the former youth pool player was why Jamie had stopped talking to her the first time. The first time. A chill settled over Emma that had nothing to do with the cool spring night. That wasn’t actually—Jamie wouldn’t do that again. She wouldn’t summarily cut Emma out of her life over this, would she?
Jamie shook her head. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to be honest, Emma. What is it, like, a congenital defect you inherited from your father?”
“Actually, behavior is learned, not inherited,” Emma shot back before she could stop herself.
Jamie’s lips parted no doubt to release another well-placed barb, but she didn’t get a chance as their server appeared and slid another plate of steaming fries between them.
“All set for now?” the man asked, already backing away.
This time, Emma only nodded, not trusting her voice.
Silence descended again as they devoured the food in the same ruthless, efficient fashion as before. When they were done, Jamie wiped her mouth with her napkin and stared at Emma across the low glass table. “I have a question. Has what happened to Jenny ever happened to you?”
Emma hesitated only briefly before shaking her head. Despite the threats over the years, no one had ever shown up in person at a team event or, worse, her home. Not that she knew of, anyway.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem so sure,” Jamie said, her voice biting.
“No, I’m sure.” Emma wished she could rewind. Why was it she never seemed to say the right thing when someone was angry with her? “I’ve never had anyone approach me in person. It’s only been online.”
“How long has it been going on?”
Emma paused. “Do you mean recently, or in general?”
“What do you mean, in general?” Suddenly Jamie’s gaze sharpened. “Oh my god. This is the thing your brother was talking about, isn’t it?”
Freaking Tyler. Why had he opened his big mouth? “I was going to talk to you about all of this after Champions League—”
Jamie cut her off, scoffing. “Of course you were, Emma. Totally believable.”
“I really was. I was just waiting until you heard about the roster, and then I didn’t think it was the best topic to bring up right before you flew back to Europe.” Right before you flew back to France, she really meant, but she was fairly certain she didn’t have to make that distinction obvious.
Jamie gazed at her a second longer, her lips pursed in that way that variously signaled anger, fear, hurt, or any combination thereof, before she balled up her napkin and deposited it on the coffee table. “If that’s it,” she said, her voice hard as she rose to tower over Emma, “I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
What? What did that even mean? Emma stared up at her. She wanted to tell Jamie to grow the fuck up. She wanted to ask if they were breaking up. She wanted to beg Jamie not to go, not to leave her alone. She wasn’t sure she could take being left—again, god damn it—by her. What kind of tattoo would she mark her body with this time? An arch to signify the setting of their final meal together?
But it wouldn’t be their last meal together. Jamie had made the roster, which meant they had many, many more shared meals to look forward to in their future.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK. This was exactly what Emma had worried would happen before she and Jamie had started dating. And it was all her fault, once again. Jesus, she was such a mess. Jamie would be better off without her, just like Sam was. Emma had heard through the lesbian sports professional grapevine that Sam was engaged to her field hockey coach girlfriend. More power to them both.
“Fine,” she said after a long moment. She leaned forward and reached for her purse. “See you when I see you.” She pulled out her credit card and glanced around, looking for their server.
Jamie pulled a few bills from the pocket of her team sweats and flung them onto the table. “I’ve got the tip.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m the one who dragged you out here.”
“It’s fine, Emma.” She grabbed her schooner glass and gulped down its contents. “I’m out.”
“Fine,” Emma echoed. She held her own glass between her palms, the heat of the bonfire at her back, the Gateway Arch lit up before her. And then: “Safe travels,” she added, because she couldn’t not say it. Jamie would be flying across the Atlantic twice in the next week, not to mention crossing the English Channel. Even if they were breaking up, Emma still had Jamie’s itinerary in her email. She would still be checking her flight status tomorrow to make sure she’d arrived in London, would still be following Arsenal’s progress in its two semifinal legs against Lyon, would still be setting an alert on her phone for when Jamie’s return flight to Portland was supposed to land. Even if Jamie wanted nothing more to do with her, Emma couldn’t stop caring just like that.
She felt rather than saw Jamie pause beside her, heard the soft sigh fall from her lips.
“Safe travels to you, too,” Jamie said, her voice low. “I’ll call you when I get back from France.” And then the familiar heat of her beautiful body shifted closer, and Emma’s eyes drifted shut as Jamie’s lips brushed her hairline, her touch as light as a ghost’s.
In the next moment she was gone, her warmth replaced by the weak gusts of heat from the gas bonfire. Emma lifted her glass of beer and drank deeply, her eyes on the Arch. The architect responsible for the design had died before the metal and glass behemoth could be completed, she’d read in the guide book. He’d only been 51—two years older than her father when he died. Her dad had come to St. Louis more than a handful of times to ply his surgical technique. Had he stayed at this very hotel? He must have looked out over a similar view, anyway. Had he missed her and Ty and their mom? Or had he been only too happy to take a break from the family life he’d seemed increasingly a peripheral part of by the end? Maybe his girlfriend—that woman, as Emma still thought of her—had flown out to meet him, and they’d enjoyed a romantic St. Louis getaway.
Yeah, no. Emma barely considered this possibility before rejecting it. Her father had traveled to far more interesting locales than the gateway to the American West. It seemed more likely that his girlfriend had met him in New York or LA for a weekend of—Emma stopped the thought, wrinkling her nose. Way too much information.
Was lying in fact a behavior she’d learned at her father’s knee? She supposed it was possible. She lifted her nearly empty glass to the grayish brown sky. “Thanks, Dad. Honestly.” And then she laughed—if you could call it that—at her own word choice.
The server appeared at her side again, his smile sympathetic as he touched Emma’s credit card, still lying face up on the table. “Is that it, or can I get you anything else?”
“Another beer would be good, actually,” Emma said, tapping her glass. “Only, make it a pint this time?”
“Of course,” the man said, nodding.
Emma sat back in her chair, arms folded across her body, and watched a helicopter blink its way along the twists and turns of the Mississippi River. Tomorrow night at this time, she would be watching a similar scene play out over the Space Needle and Puget Sound. And Jamie, where would she be? Crashing at Allie’s cousin’s flat in Camden, where Emma had surprised her five months earlier on the spur-of-the-moment trip that still stood out as the best vacation ever.
The Road to Canada Page 15
