Outside the Lines

by Kate Christie

  “Justin Tate,” she supplied, and made a face. “He was awful, wasn’t he?”

  “Justin Tate?” her brother echoed from the doorway. “Why in god’s creation are you talking about that massive douchebag so early on a Sunday morning?”

  “Language,” their mother said, frowning mildly in Tyler’s direction. “And it’s not early.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” he said, and came over to kiss her cheek. “I meant d-bag.” Then he punched Emma in the arm. “Dork.”

  She whacked him back. “Nerd.”

  “What smells so good?”

  “Emma made french toast.”

  “Sweet. I love it when my sister serves me breakfast.”

  “Just for that, you don’t get any,” Emma declared.

  “Yes I do.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Mom, Emma’s being mean,” he whined.

  “Children,” she said mock exasperatedly, and then hugged them both to her sides. “It’s so good to have you home at the same time, and with your partners, too.”

  Emma didn’t point out that Minnesota wasn’t her home. To his credit, neither did Ty.

  #

  Whereas Saturday had been about showing Jamie the city, Sunday was mostly an indoor day. Specifically, a Mall of America day. Emma couldn’t believe they were doing it, but once Jamie heard Ty say there were roller coasters, giant slides, and a zip line, there was clearly only way to spend the afternoon. Other than the slides and zip line, Emma and Bridget stayed on the ground chatting while the rest of the crew—including their mother and Roger—went on every ride, even the SpongeBob and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles rides.

  This was the most time Emma had ever spent with Bridget. She loved her brother, but it was nice to converse with his future bride all on their own. Bridget, however, seemed less enthralled with the alone time, responding to Emma’s questions about her family and her childhood in the Boston suburbs with short, monosyllabic answers until finally she turned to Emma and blurted, “I have to ask you something.”

  Emma, who had been relaxing against the railing near the TMNT ride entrance, straightened up. “Oh. Okay.”

  “It’s—god, I used to watch you play on television, and now…” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird, aren’t I?”

  Frankly, she was. “Why don’t you just ask me whatever it is?” Emma suggested.

  Bridget nodded. “Okay. Here goes. Emma, would you consider being one of my bridesmaids? I understand if you can’t. I mean, you barely know me, and—”

  “I would be honored,” Emma said, smiling at the younger woman.

  “You would?”

  “Completely. I would love it.” She started laughing. “I totally thought you were going to ask me something else.”

  Bridget tilted her head. “Like what?”

  “Like, what it’s like to play in a World Cup, or if I’ve ever hung out with the NBA players at the Olympics…”

  “I have always wondered if you guys get any say over uniform design,” Bridget volunteered.

  “Unfortunately, no. The federation thinks we’re far too opinionated as it is. And in this case, they would be correct.” Emma couldn’t even imagine the amount of “discussion”—i.e., straight-out arguing—that would be involved were they to be given input into their uniforms. “Anything else? We are about to be sisters, so if you have any other questions about the national team…”

  “Are you serious?” Bridget asked, fidgeting with the strap on her purse.

  “As long as you promise not to leak anything I tell you to Sports Illustrated.”

  Bridget’s questions covered familiar territory, but Emma answered more honestly than she usually did as she confessed that her primary emotion after making her PK in the 2011 World Cup quarterfinals was enormous, overwhelming relief; that losing to Japan a week later was the worst disappointment she’d ever experienced on a soccer field and yet, at the same time, how gratifying it had been to see the tears of joy on the face of Ichika Yamamoto, her Boston Breakers teammate who had lost an aunt and young cousin in the tsunami; that it was surreal and not as good for the ego as one might suppose to see her own face in magazines and on television; and that she felt grateful usually and overwhelmed occasionally by the responsibility inherent in being a role model for young girls.

  “Thank you,” Bridget said as the rest of the family approached. “Not only for agreeing to be in our wedding but also for letting me fangirl all over you.”

  “Of course,” Emma said, and slipped her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “I’m thrilled to have a part in your wedding. And I promise, you can always ask me about soccer. We’re family. Or we will be soon, anyway.”

  Ty and Jamie were riffing off something that had apparently happened during one of the rides, but he paused as he saw them standing together. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s all good,” Emma assured him, giving Bridget’s shoulders a squeeze before releasing her.

  “Very good,” Bridget added, smiling up at Ty as he kissed her cheek.

  “Hey, you.” Jamie stopped next to Emma and began to drift in as if to kiss her, too. Then she caught herself, eyes widening. “Oh. Whoops. Sorry.”

  Emma glanced around to see that no one in the vicinity appeared to be watching them and leaned forward, pressing her lips quickly to Jamie’s cheek. “No worries. Where to next?”

  She didn’t think anyone saw the gesture. They’d been tucked between ride entrances, nearly hidden by the huge Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles display, and yet as they walked through the mall, she felt the old anxiety begin to crystallize. Ty and Jamie were strutting along with their arms around each other, singing over and over again, “Yo ho! Look out below, look out below, when you hear them call, ‘Timber!’” The song came from the Log Chute ride that had featured giant, animatronic—“and super creepy,” Jamie insisted—versions of Paul Bunyan and his great blue ox, Babe. Bridget was laughing, and her mom and Roger were smiling indulgently, but Emma couldn’t stop worrying about who might have seen that ill-conceived kiss, or how a blurry photo or shaky video might find its way online and be noticed by Twitter user EmBlakily77, the most recent handle to hijack her mentions.

  “Paul Bunyan supposedly cut down half the forests in the Midwest,” Bridget pointed out. “Not much of an environmentalist’s hero, is he?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” Ty said, lifting an eyebrow at their mother. “Not exactly the most environmentally-conscious of states you’re from, is it?”

  “I didn’t mean—” Bridget started, but their mom stopped her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, patting the girl’s arm. “Ty and Emma like to tease me about my home state. I don’t take it personally. I happen to know more about Minnesota than the two of them will ever allow to penetrate their narrow minds.”

  “Dang,” Ty said to Emma. “Did you hear that?”

  “She’s just jealous that the Vikings suck and the Seahawks rock,” Emma said.

  Ty high-fived her and the conversation moved on to NFC rivalries, but Emma still couldn’t escape the jittery feeling she remembered well from the last few months of her relationship with Sam. She’d thought she left it behind for good when she and Sam broke up, but the old paranoia was definitely flaring up again.

  It wasn’t long before Jamie dropped back to walk beside her. “You okay?”

  She nodded quickly. “Fine. Just tired.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’m glad you’re here.”

  And she was. Only, she wished they were back at her mom’s house right now watching the NFL or Premier League and yelling at the refs together, their only audience people she was related to. Or maybe back in London where female footballers flew beautifully if problematically under the radar.

  It wasn’t like they could hide out at home or in foreign capitals forever. But as strangers swirled around them in the largest mall in the country, Emma thought it might be nice for a little while, anyway.

>   #

  Despite the fact they’d gone to bed early, four-thirty still came way too soon the following morning. The six-thirty AM flight violated Emma’s self-imposed travel rules, but it was the only non-stop to Seattle that she and Jamie had been able to switch to that had two seats available in business class. On the plus side, Jamie had taken minimal persuading to borrow enough frequent flyer miles to upgrade her fare.

  “Twist your arm?” Emma had joked, and Jamie had simply kissed her, presumably to shut her up. A win-win as far as Emma was concerned.

  The town car she’d reserved showed up on time, and even Ty roused himself long enough to see them off, his eyes red-rimmed and cheeks stubbly. As Emma hugged Bridget warmly, she saw her brother do the same with Jamie, their mom standing in the background by herself. And she thought as she sometimes still did, I wish you were here, Dad.

  Then they were dragging their bags out to the car and collapsing in the warm back seat, where soft music played as the driver navigated the mostly deserted streets between Lake Harriet and the Minneapolis airport. The terminal was busier than the traffic had been, but they made it through security and to their gate in plenty of time, where Emma dozed while Jamie played a video game that Ty had convinced her to download. Some things hadn’t changed at all since they were teenagers.

  On the plane, Emma asked the older businessman in the seat next to hers if he would mind switching with her “friend,” and he agreed readily, though he did give Jamie a side-eye once he realized who he was trading with. Jamie nestled in beside her in time for take-off, during which she held Emma’s hand and distracted her from the unnatural act of airplane flight by quizzing her about their New Year’s Eve plans with Dani and her boyfriend.

  Almost as soon as the seatbelt button dinged, Jamie was up in the aisle, stretching her legs and back and even throwing in a few jumping jacks.

  Emma started laughing. “Ty was right. You are like a puppy.”

  “Takes one to know one.” Her head shot up. “Wait. You and Ty were talking about puppies? Is that what you got me for Christmas? A puppy?!”

  When Jamie had asked if they could exchange gifts the night she arrived, Emma had had to burst her bubble and tell her that her gift was back at home in Seattle. Now she watched her girlfriend, waiting for the logistics of the situation to sink in.

  “What?” Jamie asked. Then her shoulders drooped. “Oh, I get it. You haven’t been home in a month, so that would make it a dead puppy, wouldn’t it?”

  “I promise, I’m not giving you a dead puppy for our first Christmas together.”

  “Might be kind of hard to explain to the kids later. What is it, then?”

  Emma’s heart fluttered at Jamie’s casual reference to their future progeny. “Like I’d tell you, Maxwell.”

  “Fine,” she said, and pouted, her lips eminently kissable.

  Emma didn’t press her in return. Knowing Jamie, she’d cave and tell Emma what she’d gotten her. (See, Emma thought. I like some kinds of surprises.)

  After a few tai chi exercises, Jamie sat back down. They chatted about Christmas presents they’d given and received both this year and in the past, which led somehow to reminiscing about the flight to Seattle they’d shared after Jamie’s first residency camp the previous December. Perhaps because she hadn’t yet consumed enough coffee, Emma found herself confessing that when the flight attendant told her what a cute couple they were, she hadn’t bothered to correct him.

  “Well, we are,” Jamie said. “So you were having impure thoughts about me even then, huh?”

  Emma swatted her shoulder. “No! Well, maybe a few. But I’m not the one who thought—” she lowered her voice in case anyone within a ten-foot radius was listening “—that someone was trying to get me to join the mile high club.” As Jamie grinned and lifted her eyebrows suggestively, Emma recoiled. “Not a chance. Talk about a violation of the personal conduct clause.”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  Dang it. Now she really was having impure thoughts.

  Emma retrieved the deck of cards her mother—er, Santa—had put in her stocking. “Anyway, didn’t you promise to teach me your favorite card game?”

  “That’s right.” Jamie’s smile turned competitive. “Let’s see what you got, Blake.”

  Over the next half hour, Jamie taught her a game called Bastard that she claimed to have played obsessively with Britt back in their Arsenal Ladies days, whiling away many a rainy English night. But Emma, who was “a god-damned natural,” according to Jamie, kept winning, and winning, and winning some more. Eventually Jamie threw her cards down on the tray so hard that it shook the business-suited traveler in front of them. After Jamie apologized to the stranger, they agreed that maybe card games weren’t the best way to pass the flight.

  “I asked my mom about my dad yesterday,” Emma announced. The words sort of flew out. Once again, she blamed her non-caffeinated state.

  “You mean about me?” Jamie asked.

  “Yeah. It turns out he didn’t dislike you. My mom says he was worried about me getting too close to you because…” She paused, her brain finally cluing in to the decided lack of wisdom in broaching this particular subject at this particular time and place. A bit late to change courses now, though, so she rushed ahead: “She said your mother told him you’d recently experienced a trauma and weren’t, um, in the best place.”

  “She told your dad about France?” Jamie demanded. “Before you and I were even friends?”

  “Not in any detail. Though the words self-harm might have been used. I think.” Emma nearly clapped a hand over her mouth. Jesus. What was her problem?

  “You think.” Jamie flexed her fingers against her thighs. “Wow. I did not see that coming, and yet, I totally should have.”

  “At least now we know he wasn’t being homophobic,” she offered.

  Jamie frowned at her. “No, he just thought I was going to embroil you in some tragic lesbian suicide plot. That’s not homophobic at all.”

  When she put it that way… “Right. Valid point.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Jamie’s tone was curt and she looked away, chewing on her thumb nail.

  Emma reached for her hand and tugged it down, smoothing one finger over the nail’s jagged edge. “Don’t.”

  “Seriously?” Jamie pulled her hand back, her expression settling into something harder than Emma was used to. “Things don’t always have to be perfect, Emma.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because I’m not so sure.”

  “Is this about me beating you at cards?” Emma asked, and then wished she hadn’t as Jamie snorted, eyes pinning her in place. “Okay, so it’s not about the cards.”

  Abruptly Jamie stood. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she said, and stalked away, her movements short and choppy.

  Great. Emma glanced out the window, for once unconcerned that she was in a large metal container a mile above the earth. Mostly.

  When Jamie returned from the bathroom, Emma tried to catch her eye. “Hey.”

  “What.” It came out flat, unquestioning.

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing.” Jamie rummaged through her backpack.

  Emma tamped down the urge to throttle her girlfriend. It was her own fault for bringing up a sensitive subject when they were stuck on an airplane surrounded by strangers. “Don’t shut me out, Jamie,” she said, channeling her mom from the previous morning. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Not everything has to be fixed, Emma. That’s sort of the point here.” Jamie gave her a look laced with something like contempt. No, Emma corrected herself—with actual contempt.

  “Fine. Not everything has to be fixed,” she said shortly, and reached for her headphones. She dialed up a recent playlist, turned her head to the window, and closed her eyes.

  Normally she slept better with Jamie beside her, but not this time. This time she couldn’t get her mind to quiet, couldn’t get the
image of Jamie staring at her with such condescension out of her mind. Her father used to say, “The best defense is a good offense.” The phrase echoed in her mind now, and she pictured Jo Nichols and the last video review session in Brazil, when Jo had criticized Emma’s lack of offensive production in front of the whole team. She’d said complimentary things as well, and Emma wasn’t the only one who felt the sting of her critique. Although perhaps words like “criticize” and “critique” weren’t entirely accurate. Jo was a straight shooter, a direct communicator, but not unnecessarily harsh like Jeff Bradbury, their old coach. She simply pointed out what she observed, and if the player had done well, then the observation was positive; if they hadn’t, her commentary reflected that fact.

  Beside her, Jamie shifted restlessly, her knee jumping. She was clearly upset, and the recognition thawed some of the coldness in Emma’s chest.

  “Hey,” she said softly, reaching for her hand.

  But Jamie moved out of her reach. “Leave it, Emma.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she turned her head away.

  For the next hour, Emma read an ebook Ellie had recommended on fostering a scoring mentality, glancing at Jamie every so often to see if she might be ready to talk. But Jamie remained quiet through the rest of the flight, only relenting when the plane bucked semi-violently as they descended toward the airport runway. But even then she held Emma’s hand almost furtively, her eyes forward as the plane landed and taxied to the terminal.

  At baggage claim she played on her phone while they waited for their luggage, and then she stared resolutely out the window on the cab ride back to Queen Anne. Emma played on her own phone, relieved to see that her social media accounts were blissfully quiet even as she contemplated her next move with Jamie. Would she listen if Emma apologized? Maybe Jamie was PMSing. She was so fit that she didn’t get her period regularly, but that didn’t mean her hormones couldn’t act up. Still, Emma didn’t imagine that any query after her possibly fluctuating hormones would be well received.

  When they reached the condo, Emma dropped her bags in the hall and turned on a light. It wasn’t even lunch time on the West Coast, but winter clouds hung low and thick, lending the city an air of twilight.