Time, Emma supposed, would tell. For now, she’d better find some ice or her ankles—and Ellie’s back—were going to hate her tomorrow.
#
Emma glanced around Jo Nichols’s hotel room, bemused to see a younger player who had cried a few days earlier at the news of Craig’s firing now giggling and wrestling a teammate for a Hershey bar. It was Wednesday, their third night in San Diego, and Jo had invited the team to her room for bonding over s’mores and Despicable Me, her son’s favorite movie. The following day they would meet China in a rematch of the previous weekend’s game, only with a new coach at the helm.
Emma never slept well in hotels, but the night Rob and Barry had made their pronouncement, she’d experienced more difficulty than usual shutting off her brain. Ellie and Maddie had said they’d slept fitfully too, and even Angie had dark circles under her eyes on the way to the airport the following morning. On the flight to San Diego, most of the players had spoken in hushed tones, their usual smiles and friendly jibes conspicuously absent. How could the federation throw the program into such turmoil so close to qualifiers? Whoever took over was going to have to work some major magic in a very short period of time, they’d agreed.
Now, only a few days later, the mood on the team was lighter. Despite what had happened in Colorado, training in San Diego had been positive. It helped that most of the players had played previously for Jo or otherwise knew her from her long tenure at US Soccer. But also, maybe Rob and Barry had been right, more than one person had whispered at breakfast or on the team bus. Maybe Craig hadn’t been a good fit for the program.
Either way, the game the following evening, “the first in the Jo Nichols Era,” as Ellie kept referring to it, would be interesting.
“It’s not her era if she isn’t named head coach,” Emma pointed out after she and Ellie had successfully smuggled a plate of s’mores back to their room.
“She will be,” Ellie said confidently, licking marshmallow from one thumb while the other moved rapidly over her phone’s screen—texting Jodie, no doubt.
On the flight to California, Ellie had admitted that she’d picked Emma as her roommate for the trip in the interests of synchronicity: They were sharing a room on the road while their girlfriends were sharing space back at home. Ellie loved synchronicity. Emma did too, if she was being honest. She picked up her own phone and scrolled through her private Instagram feed, smiling at the short video the Thorns had posted of Jamie and one of her teammates practicing slide tackles on a rainy field, water spraying every which way.
Unfortunately, she made the mistake of skimming the comments. Public figures, especially those of the female persuasion, should never read comments on the Internet. Scratch that. Human beings should never read the comments.
“What’s with the frown?” Ellie asked, plopping down on the bed beside her and gazing over her shoulder. “That video is awesome. What, are you afraid your girl is going to get hurt?”
“I’m always afraid she’s going to get hurt.”
“Good point.” Her eyes honed in on the small screen. “Oh. I see.”
“I thought people your age needed reading glasses,” Angie commented as she barged into the room, Maddie in her wake.
“Hey, shortie.” Ellie winked at Maddie. “Red.”
“Her hair isn’t red,” Angie huffed and dropped onto the empty bed, reaching immediately for a s’more and the TV remote.
Ellie gazed at Maddie, pretending to be shocked. “You mean your dye job is upstairs and downstairs?”
Emma bit back a smile as Angie stared between the two veterans, mind clearly working. How the younger woman could still be so gullible after this long was a mystery.
Maddie rolled her eyes at Ellie and patted Angie’s thigh as she sat down beside her. “She’s pulling your leg, sweetie. Seriously,” she added as she too stole a s’more, “what are you guys looking at?”
“Instagram comments,” Ellie admitted.
“Dude!” Angie’s eyes remained glued to the muted television. “You never read the comments.”
“I know. It was just a slip.” Emma closed her Instagram app.
“Let me guess.” Maddie paused to swallow a large bite. “More assholes asking why men are allowed on the women’s national team?”
US Soccer had posted a video of Ellie leading the team off the bus before Sunday’s match, and as usual, a mob of trolls had commented on her gender identity.
Ellie rescued the paper plate from the bedside table before their visitors could steal more s’mores and handed it to Emma for safekeeping. “In the NWSL, actually. Jamie’s in their crosshairs this time.”
“Fuckers,” Angie announced.
“Bastards,” Emma agreed forcefully, or as forcefully as she could manage with the delectable blend of chocolate, graham, and marshmallow melting in her mouth.
“How is the other half of your hashtag, Blake?” Angie asked.
“Good. Oh, she told me to tell you she likes your new ’ship name.”
Angie’s forehead creased. “What new ’ship name?”
“You know—Nowang?” she replied, purposely mis-rhyming Angie’s last name with rang.
Angie’s mouth dropped. “That’s not our ’ship name!”
“Have you not checked Tumblr lately?” Emma asked.
Angie pulled her phone from the pocket of her black Nike hoodie, almost dropping it in her haste.
“Babe, she’s effing with you again,” Maddie said, placing her hand over Angie’s. “Although in my opinion, Nowang sounds better than Wangvak. That just sounds like a vacuum company.”
Emma and Ellie exchanged a look. It really did.
Angie shook her head. “No thanks. I’d rather sound like a Chinese manufacturer than a 1950s housewife. I mean, come on, Madgeline? I’m not even sure how you pronounce that one.”
“I don’t know,” Maddie said, pushing up the sleeves of her own Nike hoodie—also black. “I think it sounds romantic. You know, like Brangelina.”
Angie started to make a face and then stopped. “Huh. Angelina Jolie is hot. Plus she’s a known bisexual.”
“You two do realize that matching outfits aren’t required,” Emma put in, snuggling deeper into her wool sweater. Ellie liked to sleep cold. Emma had teased her about hot flashes, but alas, the age jokes hadn’t had any effect on their room’s temperature.
The couple on the other bed exchanged a secretive glance that wasn’t remotely secretive.
“You must not have read the woman-loving-woman manual recently,” Maddie said, and moved to place a resounding kiss on her girlfriend’s lips.
“Whatever.” Emma kept her eyes firmly on the television as she said, “Hand over the remote, Ange.”
“Yeah,” Ellie added, holding out her hand between the two beds. “No way you get the remote. Also, lips unlocked if you want to stay.”
“You’re just jealous because your girlfriends are together,” Angie said smugly, tossing the remote at her.
The truth of this statement didn’t prevent Emma and Ellie from glaring at her.
“You mean currently in the same household, right?” Ellie asked, her voice pitched lower than usual.
“Well, I didn’t mean together together. Gross!”
Ellie nudged the TV volume up slightly. While SportsCenter showed highlights from the evening’s baseball games, the four friends discussed the afternoon training session and, inevitably, the coaching situation.
“I don’t know,” Maddie said. “Call me paranoid, but in my darker moments I can’t help wondering if they fired Craig because of the turf issue. Like, what if the federation is trying to sabotage our chances next year by chucking our coach this close to CONCACAFs?”
Emma and Ellie exchanged another look, considerably less amused this time.
“You don’t sound paranoid,” Emma admitted. “Ellie and I said the same thing. The fact is, if we win the World Cup next year, we’re going to be in a significantly better position to renegotiate the
CBA.”
“When does the MOU expire again?” Angie asked.
“A year from December.”
“So six months after we WIN the effing World Cup, baby!”
“Yeah, boy!” Ellie held her hand up between the beds for Angie to high five.
As a younger player who didn’t regularly start, Angie wasn’t as involved in talks with the federation about collective bargaining agreements (CBAs) or memos of understanding (MOUs). Only contracted players in positions of leadership and prestige typically took on the business of negotiating. Players whose status was less guaranteed were given a chance to voice their opinions on all matters that affected them, but they weren’t asked to stick out their necks and potentially risk their careers.
“Still, sabotaging us would be a fairly egregious case of cutting off their noses to spite their faces,” Ellie said. “I have to believe that, for the most part, they want us to succeed.”
“It’s the least part that worries me,” Maddie said. “How many women are in positions of leadership in US Soccer? Not that many. The federation is barely better than FIFA when it comes to issues of equality. In fact, maybe they’re worse. At least FIFA isn’t willfully violating the Equal Pay Act.”
“Besides,” Angie added, “everyone knows how salty US Soccer is that we’re more successful than the men’s team—including the male players themselves.”
“Not all of them,” Maddie qualified.
Angie stared at her. “Did you just ‘not all men’ me?”
“Christ, I did. Sorry, babe.”
“It’s okay. Sometimes it’s hard to resist our default cultural programming.” As all eyes in the room snapped to her, Angie shrugged. “What? Max and I used to room together on the twenty-threes. I’m a nerd by association.”
Emma forced herself not to sigh like a moody teenager at the mention of her absent girlfriend. It was a little ridiculous how much she missed having Jamie at camp. Being apart from Sam and Will had been difficult too, but it had felt like part of the job, a necessary evil to achieve her career goals. With Jamie, it was different. Jamie could—should—be here in this room with them, dishing out the teasing jabs and smiling her adorable smile. She should be getting ready to suit up for tomorrow’s friendly in sunny SoCal, not slide tackling her club teammates in the rain a thousand miles away.
“You okay?” Ellie asked, nudging her.
“Yep.” Emma bit her lip. “Well, no. How do you and Jodie do it?”
“It’s hard, Emma, I’m not gonna lie. Sometimes I’m not sure we’ll make it. You know how high the divorce rates are for athletes. We’re on the road what, an average of 260 days out of the year? That’s seventy percent of the time. But it’s worth it for me.”
“Okay, but how do you make it work?”
“FaceTime.” She shrugged, broad shoulders moving against Emma’s. “You get comfortable with sex mediated through a small screen pretty quickly—assuming you haven’t already?”
Emma felt her cheeks flush. Stupid Scandinavian prudishness.
Predictably, Angie perked up at the mention of sex. “You guys sharing Skype tips over there? Can’t say I miss that.”
“Me either,” Maddie said, and then whispered something in Angie’s ear.
Angie shot off the bed. “Gotta go! Later taters.”
Laughing, Maddie followed her.
“Make good choices!” Ellie bellowed after their retreating figures. As the door slammed behind them, she pointed the remote at the television. “Want to watch something? I have enough Sheraton points to pay for a movie every night for the next three and a half years.”
Emma didn’t ask if she would still be playing in three and a half years. That question was better left to reporters. “Same here.”
“I’ll let you pick up the tab if you really want.”
“Glad someone will.”
Ellie started scrolling through the pay-per-view options. “Yeah, I’ve noticed your girl’s got some pride. That’s a good thing, Em.”
“I know. I just wish she’d let me treat her more.”
“She’s still starting out. You and I have been doing this for so long that we don’t remember what it’s like to live month to month.”
In truth, Emma had never had to live like that. Her parents had been better off than most of her friends’ parents growing up, and that was saying something since they’d lived in one of Seattle’s wealthier suburbs. Jamie’s parents weren’t hurting by any means, but they couldn’t give her the down payment for a condo. Or maybe they could, but they wouldn’t. They believed the struggle made any eventual success more rewarding, according to Jamie.
“But I could help,” Emma said. “I want to help.”
What she meant was that selfishly, she wanted Jamie to have her own apartment in Portland so that when the Reign’s bye week came around, they wouldn’t have to spend it hanging around other people. Ellie and Jodie were among her closest friends, but Emma wanted Jamie all to herself.
“Be patient,” Ellie said. “Jo Nichols is a huge Jamie Maxwell fan. I would bet my Kegerator she’ll give her another shot—and you know how much I love my Kegerator.” She coughed out a laugh. “Hey, check out this porno title: Bend Her Like Beckham.”
“What?” Emma’s gaze shot to the screen, and then she shoved Ellie sideways as she saw the movie menu paused on an image of Olaf, the snowman from Frozen. “Jackass! I can’t believe Maddie told you about that.”
“You should have seen your face. But what do you say—Frozen?”
Emma shrugged. “Why not?”
They sang along, because of course they knew all the words to “the first Disney princess movie to critique the love-at-first-sight trope!” they exclaimed, laughing as they quoted Jamie. Then they sighed because yeah, they missed their girlfriends. But even so, the movie was light and fun with a touch of darkness and a compelling message about love and sisterhood—exactly what they needed the night before the first friendly in the Jo Nichols era.
Later, as she slipped under the covers and reached for her eyeshade and ear plugs, Emma wondered if Ellie knew more than she was saying. Had Jo already accepted the position? Was US Soccer waiting to make the announcement out of some (albeit small) gesture of respect toward Craig? And what had Ellie and Phoebe known about Craig’s firing, for that matter?
It’s up to us to decide how to respond, Ellie had said at the team meeting Sunday night. Again, that wasn’t entirely true, Emma thought as she lay in bed, the sound of Ellie’s low snoring muffled by her ear plugs. They may be in charge of their own mental resilience, but ultimately the team’s direction—from lineup decisions to strategic formations—was guided by the coaching staff. And if their next head coach was indeed going to be Jo Nichols, Emma’s future with the national program suddenly felt less assured than it had only a week ago.
During down time the last few days, she’d Googled Jo and discovered that she was known for favoring defenders who possessed the ability—and desire—to score. As a youth coach, she had developed a reputation for turning strikers into outside backs, whether the player welcomed the change or not. At Virginia, where she’d coached for the last decade, she’d emphasized the importance of building offensive opportunities as a unit. More than once she’d said in interviews that there was no room in her program for “one-dimensional” players: those who only scored or defended. Jo prized well-rounded athletes who could create as well as destroy.
Despite her father’s one-time contention that she could be the next Mia Hamm, Emma knew herself. She was a defender, period. While she could help start the offense and even got off an assist every once in a while, she was no more a finisher than Phoebe was. She was a center back and that was enough for her. It had been enough for Marty and Craig, too. Both former coaches had told her that they believed without reserve in her ability to organize a strong defense. Would Jo Nichols feel the same way?
Emma shifted under the sheets and decided to distract herself from things she couldn’
t control by picturing Jamie asleep in her boy shorts and tank top a thousand miles up the coast. One good thing had come out of the team’s turmoil—as Emma had thought previously and Ellie had confirmed, Jo was a fan of Jamie’s. She had discovered her as a teenager, and while she may not have been able to convince Jamie to leave the West Coast for college, she had started her in nearly every U-16 match and, later, most U-23 matches as well. Not that Emma had noticed. Well, okay, maybe she had. But she didn’t have to be embarrassed by that fact anymore, did she? It wasn’t creepy if the pining was mutual; it was simply a case of star-crossed love.
Whatever happened with her own playing time under the eventual new coaching staff, she would appreciate any opportunity for her relationship with Jamie to be less star-crossed and more favored by the soccer gods. Because while she might not believe in the power of such deities herself, Jamie certainly did.
Chapter Three
Jamie flicked her sweaty hair off her forehead. God, she needed a haircut. But that would have to wait. Right now she had a throw-in to take.
The game was almost over, but the fourteen thousand-plus fans at Providence Park were still at the edge of their seats. Portland had been knocking steadily on Seattle’s goal since half-time. Neither team had broken through, however, and the score remained a scoreless tie.
A diagonal run in the center caught her eye, and she turned her body quickly, whipping the ball over her head into the path of her teammate Isabela. The Brazilian international drove toward Seattle’s central defense while Jamie trailed in a supporting position. As she watched, Emma closed the space, eyes focused on the ball despite Isabela’s shoulder dips and half-steps.
Damn it, Jamie thought as Emma coolly stripped the Brazilian player. Also, nice, because that was her girl.
She stepped up to intercept Emma, but she didn’t get the chance. Isabela, clearly frustrated, slide-tackled Emma from behind, getting mostly player. Emma slammed to the ground as the ball caromed, and even though Jamie knew the whistle had shrieked, even though she could hear the Thorns fans whistling derisively at the referee’s call, all she could see was Emma sprawled awkwardly on the turf.
Outside the Lines Page 5
