Beside her on the double bed of their hotel room, Emma slid her arm around her friend’s shoulders. She’d been there when Maddie had been outed to her family by a college assistant coach who didn’t approve of her “chosen lifestyle.” Her parents had not reacted well, and if she hadn’t been at UNC on scholarship, she might have had to drop out.
“We knew,” Phoebe admitted. “In fact, we helped draft the policy.”
“You what?” Angie, who had been leaning against the wall near the bathroom, straightened. “This is bullshit. I’m out.”
“Ange…” Maddie said.
“Don’t.” Angie held up her hand. “Wouldn’t want to get turned in or anything.”
“Wang,” Ellie tried, “come on. Let’s talk this through.”
But Angie only flashed her a wounded look before stalking to the door.
When Britt followed, Emma caught Jamie’s eye, gesturing subtly toward the hallway. You go after her; I’ll stay here. Jamie hesitated only a moment. Then she nodded and went after her friends.
Emma and Maddie’s room had become an impromptu—and crowded—meeting space following the team conference Jo had called to describe the new coaching staff’s expectations. Dedicating a full training session to setting revised expectations was a fairly common practice any time the national team underwent a “regime change,” as Steph referred to it. But what had taken place in the hotel conference room that afternoon had been neither common nor, Emma couldn’t help feeling, fair.
The first slide in Jo’s PowerPoint had sent whispers cascading across the room: “PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP MANAGEMENT.” Things had gone downhill from there, with straight players glancing worriedly at their queer teammates as Jo explained the team’s new policy regarding interpersonal conflict among US Soccer and National Training Center employees and players.
“Let me be clear,” Jo had said, hands on her hips at the front of the conference room. “This is not about who on this team may or may not be involved with each other. The policy we’re implementing applies to the conduct of every single member of this team, including the coaching and support staff.
“But”—and there was always a but, Emma had thought cynically—“any discussion of personal relationships on the national team must include talking openly about intra-team dating.”
She’d gone on to say that in the past, relationships between teammates had been ignored or even frowned upon, approaches that she believed fostered a climate of secrecy, dishonesty, and fear. The new relationship management policy she and her staff were implementing was meant to encourage responsibility and maturity, from coaches and players alike.
So far all it had done, Emma thought now, tightening her grip on Maddie, was create conflict within the team.
“You heard Jo,” Phoebe said, eyes flicking between the two of them. “This isn’t about you guys. It’s about anyone who has any kind of conflict with anyone else in the federation. Most places of business have rules about appropriate work behavior. That’s all this is.”
Maddie snorted. “My sisters and their friends have boned more dudes at their places of work than I can name while at work, so don’t give me that bullshit. Hetero relationships did not spawn this policy. Homo ones did.”
“That may be true,” Jenny Latham put in. “And you’re right, it does sort of feel like the coaches are singling out the lesbians and bi women on the team. But let’s be honest. If you guys weren’t as professional as we all know you are, you and Angie could become a major distraction.” Her eyes flicked to Emma, who braced for a mention of the Tori Parker debacle. “You and Jamie, too. Not to be blunt, but me boning a dude doesn’t have the same potential to cause rifts on this team.”
“Unless you picked someone’s boyfriend or husband to hook up with,” Gabe pointed out.
“Like Bancroft did,” Phoebe agreed, nodding. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a big part of the reason for the personal conduct clause in player contracts.”
Scott Bancroft, a star striker on the men’s team back in the ’90s, had been abruptly cut from the pool before the 1998 men’s World Cup. Rumor had it that he was having an affair with one of his teammate’s wives—a rumor that had, a dozen years later, been confirmed by multiple sources. Not only had Bancroft broken the athlete code, he had also shown a flagrant disregard of team and federation policy. He was a brilliant player, but after cheating with his teammate’s wife, he’d never played another game in a US uniform.
“As if any of us would do that,” Jenny said. “The point is, this policy could be a good thing. It’s acknowledging your guys’ relationships instead of pretending they don’t exist or, worse, banning them outright. Isn’t that a step forward?”
Emma considered her question. On the one hand, the policy felt like increased scrutiny that, frankly, she didn’t need. But at the same time, Jenny wasn’t wrong. Intra-team relationships did carry the potential for increased drama within the team. While Emma did not subscribe to the melodramatic and blatantly sexist claim that managing emotions on female sports teams was difficult, she didn’t mind acknowledging that women traditionally dealt with conflict less directly than men did. Maybe Jo simply wanted to keep ahead of any potential trouble.
The coach’s comments at the outset of the meeting had appeared to reflect that intent: “I recognize that talking about personal relationships is new for this team,” she’d said, face partially illuminated by the light from the projector. “But we’re all adults here, and by now most of us understand that how we interact with each other can be the key to the emotional-social success of a team—or, as we saw in the aftermath of the 2007 World Cup, the cause of dissolution and chaos.”
According to the handout the coaches had distributed, the new policy was meant to apply to any situation where players might have interpersonal conflict, be it relationship-related (romantic or non-romantic), religious, or political in nature. Basically, Jo wanted the team to have a set of guidelines that would help them navigate any interaction that could adversely impact team unity.
As conversation continued around her, Emma smoothed out the sheet on her lap, rereading the rules: “(1) All staff and players are to behave professionally toward each other and toward any romantic partner on team time, including during practice, competition, team meetings, team travel, overnight hotel stays, locker room visits, and training and weight room activities. (2) Any team member who becomes romantically involved with a US Soccer/NTC athlete or other employee is expected to maintain focus on their role as a team member when on team time. (3) All US Soccer players and staff are expected to avoid PDA and exclusivity/cliquishness during travel, meals, team meetings, practice, warm-up, etc. And (4) under no circumstances is interpersonal conflict to be brought into the locker room or onto the field.”
It all sounded good, Emma thought, tuning back into the room. It just felt—uncertain somehow, like it might be a federation tactic to police the lesbian and bisexual members of the team. Still, if it was Jo’s policy, Emma supposed it made sense that she would want to start her first residency camp on a consistent note.
“She’s right about one thing anyway,” Maddie said from beside her, her voice less hostile. “We are all professionals, and we won’t let any personal drama affect the team. Look at Gabe and Ellie,” she added, gesturing to the co-captain and her ex. “Their break-up didn’t impact their play or the team at all.”
“That’s exactly right,” Emma put in, adding her voice for the first time. “We’re professional enough that we won’t let our relationship drama affect the team any more than the rest of you do. I was around in 2007, and I can tell you that I have no intention of doing anything that might set this team on the road to implosion. I want to win next year as much as the rest of you.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Maddie said, and held up her hand for Emma to high-five.
“Then you guys don’t have anything to worry about, do you?” Jenny quipped as the crack of their hands echoed through the room.
“P
ersonally,” Emma added, “I think you guys are just jealous that we get to spend so much team time with our ‘romantic partners.’” She added air quotes at the end, mocking the policy’s terminology.
“Why do you think I haven’t had a long-term relationship since 2007?” Jenny asked.
“Aw, poor baby,” Maddie said.
Lisa threw a pillow at her. “Nice empathy, 708er.”
“Whatever, Cheesehead,” Maddie shot back.
Jenny raised her eyebrows at Emma, who shrugged back. Maddie and Lisa’s Midwestern rivalry was a mystery to the rest of the team because, after all, weren’t Wisconsin and Illinois basically the same state?
The conversation devolved into the woes of long-distance dating, and soon the tension in the room noticeably waned. Until Jamie and Britt returned with a slightly sheepish Angie between them.
“Sorry,” she mumbled to the group at large.
Maddie crossed to her side and gave her hand a squeeze. Then she stared around the room, mouth set in a firm line. “Does anyone here have a problem with me hugging my girlfriend? Because if you do, I suggest you leave my room right now.”
Not that it mattered, but no one seemed to mind.
“They’re on our side,” Emma heard Maddie murmur as she pulled Angie into a hug. “As long as we don’t fuck this up.”
“Gee, no pressure or anything.” Angie rested her head on Maddie’s shoulder and shot a smile around the room. “I never doubted y’all for a second.”
“Liar,” Gabe said, and everyone laughed.
“Actually,” Ellie said to Phoebe, “I’m wondering if maybe we should ask Jo to tweak the policy. This team is nothing if not handsy. Saying that only certain teammates get to hug or otherwise express affection does feel a bit Big Brotherish, if you ask me. What do you think?”
Phoebe wasn’t one to engage in group hugs or movie night cuddling with the rest of the team. Still, she shrugged. “You have a point. If she’s committed to treating people like adults, I think she has to be prepared to allow us all to decide for ourselves where to draw the line. Half the time I walk into a hotel room and find five people curled up on a bed like a litter of puppies, braiding each other’s hair. Limiting that would be the opposite of her intent.”
Her stated intent, anyway. Emma knew that people who had played for Jo at Virginia or on one of the youth national teams almost uniformly adored her. But she hadn’t had enough experience with the former national team player to feel like she knew her. She liked her, liked how down-to-earth and open she was, appreciated how she didn’t appear to play games. She even admired the way Jo parented her pre-teen son, and her husband seemed like a good guy, too. Her family would be joining her in Utah at some point—though they would not, the players understood, be staying in Jo’s room. Apparently she wanted to demonstrate that she planned to abide by her own policy.
The team cleared out eventually, everyone off to do the usual pastimes at camp in the brief periods of downtime they were allowed—sleep, talk to parents/friends/partners, check email, shower, soak in warm or cool baths. After a brief negotiation, Maddie and Angie went back to Angie and Britt’s room to talk while Emma and Jamie sat down on her bed cross-legged, facing each other.
“This is so strange,” Jamie said, toying with the top of her low athletic socks. Her hotel uniform of shorts and a lightweight sweatshirt made Emma shiver just looking at her. “I’ve played for Jo before, and I didn’t see any of this coming.”
“Neither did I. But Jenny had a good point earlier,” Emma told her.
“What was that?”
As she relayed the part of the conversation Jamie had missed, Emma had to actively work to keep from touching her. But was that necessary? They were alone in her room with the door locked, and Maddie wouldn’t come in without texting first. Players weren’t really considered to be on team time twenty-four-seven at training camp, were they? It was unrealistic to think they could spend weeks in a hotel together without engaging in any form of physical affection. The team had been in residency at the NTC in Carson for a month before the 2011 World Cup, and would likely be again next summer. Did Jo truly believe that people who were in a romantic relationship could spend four weeks around each other without ever touching? That they should refrain from such contact? Doing so would be emotional and physical torture, and certainly wouldn’t make anyone else near them happy, either.
Except maybe a homophobe like Jessica North.
Downstairs, when Jo had opened the floor to questions, North had raised her hand and asked, “Does this mean you want us to report anyone who violates the policy?”
A ripple of reaction had passed over the room, and Emma might have felt vindicated by the hostility being channeled North’s way if she hadn’t been too busy fuming. The athlete code was so strong that Emma, like pretty much everyone else she knew, had kept a variety of secrets over the years for teammates she didn’t even necessarily like, from drug and alcohol abuse to risky sexual behavior. Many of these activities had violated the personal conduct terms of their contracts, but unless their behavior threatened the team or others, that was a line you didn’t cross. Making sure they got the help they needed, absolutely, but ratting them out to the federation? No way. Loyalty on a team was almost as important as fitness, because without trust, what kind of cohesion could you hope to have?
Emma had been relieved when Jo answered, her voice hard, “This policy is intended to encourage honesty and open communication among team members, and to avoid unproductive conflict. As I said before, we’re all adults here. If you personally witness something that you feel crosses a line, I would hope you would address it with your teammate first, same as with any other conflict.”
Mel, the defensive coach, had stepped forward then to hammer home the importance of transparency and productive conflict resolution, not uncommon discussion topics in Emma’s experience with the senior national team. Conflict was a fact of life, especially when you had twenty-plus people routinely competing for eleven starting spots on the number one team in the world. If you didn’t know how to play well with others, then you didn’t belong at this level. That was why players like North rarely lasted long. Team chemistry was an actual thing, and players who were intolerant or outright bigoted about race, sexuality, or anything else caused more problems than they were worth.
“Do you think Jo will report any intra-team relationships to the federation?” Jamie asked now. “Like, is this policy really her idea, or could it be an old school witch hunt?”
“I don’t have any idea,” Emma admitted. “You know her better than I do.”
“I’d like to think she meant what she said, but I don’t know if I do.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“I guess so.” Jamie hesitated, staring down at her socks again, fingers tracing the black Nike swoosh sewn into the white cotton. “We could always take a break, you know. If you wanted, I mean.”
Emma tried to hide her sharp intake of breath, but she suspected she’d failed when Jamie’s gaze shot up and locked on hers. “I… Is that what you want?”
“No, of course it isn’t. But I know what this team means to you, how important next year is. I would never want to do anything to jeopardize that.”
“Oh, Jamie,” Emma said, her breath returning, “you don’t. Just the opposite—you make it better. You make me better. The way you play the game reminds me how much I love it, too. Besides, with you here, there’s no way we can lose. I don’t think you understand how good you are, sweetie.”
The term of endearment slipped out. Emma wasn’t normally a pet name kind of person. She could count on one hand how many times she’d called Sam anything other than her first or last name; same with Will, her other ex. But Jamie was smiling at her now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Emma found she didn’t mind how sappy she sounded.
“Thanks,” Jamie said, voice soft. “You always have such faith in me.”
“That’s part of the deal, isn’t it?” E
mma pressed her forehead against her girlfriend’s. “I’m your anchor, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said, breath gentle on Emma’s lips. “I remember.”
And if they kissed there in the privacy of Emma’s hotel room, it wasn’t anyone’s business but their own.
#
“Funny,” Jenny said, smirking at her. “You didn’t have any problem hitting the crossbar a couple of weeks ago.”
Emma took a deep breath, willing away the urge to slap her longtime friend. It’s only a game, she told herself, not believing the platitude for an instant.
“But that’s how posts are, right?” Jamie put in, patting Emma’s shoulder as she stepped up to take her turn. “Easier to hit when you’re not aiming for one.”
And then she proceeded to hit the crossbar in question seven out of ten tries, easily defeating Jenny and claiming the title of USWNT Crossbar Queen.
Emma could have hugged her—but then she realized she wasn’t technically allowed to. Instead she contented herself with a smile at her victorious girlfriend and an overly sweet, “Shoot, and you were so close to winning!” to a visibly irritated Jenny.
It was Thursday, two days before the upcoming friendly against Mexico, and the coaches had announced that they were changing things up in the afternoon session. Instead of the endless drills and half-field scrimmages pitting offense against defense, practice would consist of games and challenges: taking penalty kicks blindfolded, scoring from the corner, hitting the crossbar, playing soccer tennis, and—one of the team’s old favorites—competing in the piggyback challenge. So far Emma hadn’t performed particularly well at any of these tasks, but after the past few days, that no longer surprised her.
She had come to Utah the previous week already off-kilter, the loss in the NWSL finals against Kansas City was still shadowing her. But it was more than that one loss. Ever since Tampa, she’d felt off. Jo’s insistence that playing defense was no longer enough had made her doubt herself on the field for the first time in recent memory. Her college coach had taught his players that breaking down the other team’s attack was equally important as building an attack, and Emma had embraced his philosophy. As the sign on his door read, “Offense wins games; defense wins championships.”
Outside the Lines Page 11
