“Until now, maybe. You kinda snuck in under my radar.”
“Will you give me the chance to stay there?” Jaye asks. “Or do you really want to be single?”
“I never wanted to be single.”
“Good,” she says, her expression still dead serious. “Because I’m going to do my best to be there for you.”
I give Jaye’s image a wistful grin. “I won’t make it easy.”
“I’m up to the challenge.” Jaye’s face relaxes, transforms into its own beautiful smile. “Bob Marley said once that ‘if she’s worth it, she won’t be easy.’ You’re worth it, Rachel. Trust me.”
Tuesday morning I’m down in the basement as the painters do their work, and I’m toying with a radical idea. Jaye was so sincere last night, and it resonated with me so deeply, I don’t want to wait almost two weeks to see her. What if I surprise her in Portland? Traveling there will get me out of the house for the actual painting part of this project and show her my sincerity about changing my solitary ways. I hope.
I spend the next hour plotting things out. The team will arrive Friday, one day ahead of Saturday’s game, so I will arrive Friday, too. The flight will be pricy, but I can use my frequent stayer points for the hotel (which is also the team hotel for KC this trip, yay) and save some money there. Also, Portland’s light rail system runs from airport to hotel to stadium and back, so I won’t need a car.
Yes, it’s possible. I don’t pull the trigger, though. Not yet.
After a successful day of writing on my part and painting on the crew’s part, I head out for Toni’s. She’s called and told me to plan on Italian, so after a quick stop at King Soopers I show up on her doorstep with some garlic bread and a very nice chianti.
“You’re glowing,” she says as I hand her the wine.
“Must be the radon in my basement.”
“Rachel.”
“That’s a writer’s crutch. People don’t glow.”
“Yes, they do. Who is she?”
I know I’m blushing because my cheeks are hot. Maybe I am glowing. “I told you. A soccer player.”
“And there hasn’t been sex yet?”
“No. But I’d lay odds there’s going to be.”
“And she’s how old?”
“Thirty-one.”
“And you’re how old?”
“Younger than you.” Though not by much.
“So is this a mid-life crisis fling?”
“Not for her.” Toni rolls her eyes, and I get serious. “We talked about that last night, and no. It’s not a fling.”
Toni heaves a deep sigh as we get everything on the dinner table and settle in. “Okay. Start from square one.”
I tell her about the cemetery, and the soccer camp, and Jaye finding out I was The Fyrequeene. “She’s read all my books, she reads my blog. She said she felt a connection with me, the writer, and me, the person.” I blush again. Okay, okay. I’m glowing. “We certainly had a connection Saturday night in KC”
“But no sex.”
“No. We could have, but I wanted to give her a chance to back out.”
“And she didn’t?”
I tell Toni what Jaye said last night, over FaceTime. She takes it in. Toni is fully aware of my history with depression, and she’s not afraid to cut right to the heart of things.
“What if all she wants is a conquest?”
“Why me? I’m no challenge.”
“Maybe she collects celebrities.”
“Toni, I’m not even a celebrity in my own mind. And haven’t you been saying for years I should find a good woman?”
Toni can’t deny this, and she knows it. “Yes.”
“All my instincts are telling me Jaye’s a good woman. Let’s give her a chance.”
My friend does not look convinced.
Dinner with Toni settles things for me, and Wednesday morning I go online to buy airline tickets, book the hotel room, and get a ticket to the Blues/Thorns soccer game. When this is all done, I sit back and take a deep breath. I’ve thrown caution to the winds, which, trust me, I never do, and I’m finding it a heady feeling. I hope Jaye will feel the same way.
I fill in the days to Friday with writing and evening talks with Jaye. I hear her voice, I see her on Face Time, but there’s still a very unreal quality about the whole situation. Romance, real living breathing romance, doesn’t happen to me. My lifelong insecurity rears its persistent, irritating little head, and I keep waiting for the darkness to join up with it and take me down.
But while I wait, I pack a weekend suitcase, print out tickets for the soccer game and airline flight, and get ready to brave the behemoth of Denver International Airport. Crowds again. I shudder and briefly wish I still had my ATC ID badge, which always let me breeze through security.
Thursday night’s chat with Jaye is brief, but satisfying. So far, every moment involving her has been satisfying, even when we’re talking about nothing much. She does want to know when I’m coming to Kansas City again.
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, and it’s the absolute truth. So is this: “But I’ll see you before you go to Washington.”
Friday dawns clear and gorgeous, and my trip to the Rose City, as the Portland chamber of commerce likes to call it, goes smoothly. I arrive at high noon, find the train to the hotel, and my luck holds when they let me check in early. The Blues won’t get here until evening. I have a few hours to kill.
I attempt a nap and manage to doze off for about fifteen minutes. Then I try to read the latest Jane Fletcher novel, but I can’t concentrate. I should be nervous, or worried, but as my iPhone strikes five o’clock (ha-ha, kidding), I’m not nervous at all. I’m excited and eager. Everything about this caper feels right.
I had told Jaye to call after she was free from team duties. “So we can talk for a while.” I’m hoping it won’t be too late, and we’ll have the chance to actually see each other tonight. As long as she likes my surprise. The magic hour finally arrives a little after seven, and my stomach does a flip flop when I hear Jaye’s voice.
“Hey, Rachel.”
“Hi. No FaceTime?”
“Nah. I’m in the room with Nickory, and I didn’t want to be making goofy faces while she’s here.”
“Goofy faces?”
“Yeah. Goofy ‘I miss you’ faces.”
I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “I miss you, too.”
“You’re all I can think about.”
“You still remember how to kick a soccer ball, I hope?”
She laughs. “That’s like riding a bicycle. I’ll always know how to play soccer.” Jaye pauses, then says, “I wish you could be here at the game.”
Here we go. “Yeah? And if I was?”
“I’d score a goal for you.”
“On demand?”
Jaye’s voice drops half an octave. “Wait until you see what I can do on demand.”
My stomach does a three and a half somersault reverse inward twist. “I thought you said Nickerson was there.”
“She is. She’s rolling her eyes.”
Lo, the perfect opening. I pop the lid on the jack-in-the-box. “Okay. Why don’t you get away from her for a while?”
“Where would I go, the bathroom?”
“How about room 1722?”
“What?”
I smile and cross my fingers. “I said, how about room 1722?”
A solid five-second silence ensues, which doesn’t seem like much unless you’re hanging in suspense. Then Jaye says in a hushed voice, “Oh, my God” and hangs up.
I put the phone down and wait. Five seconds is child’s play compared to the minute or so that passes before I hear a tentative knock. I get up, open the door, and there Jaye stands, the expression on her face encompassing surprise, wonder, and delight—with a little bit of irritation, for spice.
“Hi,” I say far more c
asually than I thought I could. “Come on in.”
She doesn’t move. “You’re really here.”
“I really am. I hope it’s okay.”
Suddenly I’m wrapped up in a hug worthy of Hercules. I kick the door closed, hug Jaye right back, and get the same sense of comfort, trust and rightness I got last Saturday. It feels fantastic. Then we kiss, long and slow and tender. That feels fantastic, too.
Jaye comes up for air first and glances around. “This room is smaller than your other one,” she says with a wicked grin. “We’re going to have to use the bed.”
Before I can do or say anything, Jaye tumbles us onto the mattress. She kisses me again, with enthusiasm, and we make out for a few minutes before I bring her back to Earth.
“You have a soccer game to play tomorrow, remember? Aren’t you supposed to save your energy?”
She gives me a smirk, then rolls over onto her back, pulling me with her. She settles into place with her arms around me and goes perfectly still.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll just lie here.”
“Works for me.” I snuggle in.
When I was younger I would have jumped (literally) at the chance to ravish a beautiful woman who has thrown me into bed, but now, knowing how rare and precious moments like this are, I am content to hold her close, feel her arms around me, feel my head on her shoulder, feel the connection of our bodies. I’m still turned on from the kisses, for sure, but despite the erotic charge, I’m not driven to rush down the path to orgasm.
We’ll get there, have no fear. But not quite yet.
Jaye, for whatever reason, plays along. The tension in her body slowly eases. She relaxes into the bed, and into me, and I hope she feels as comfortable and unstressed as I do.
“This is nice,” she says, many minutes later. Her voice sounds slightly surprised.
“This is wonderful.”
“You’re not going to let me stay, are you.”
“Don’t you have a curfew?”
“Nickory would cover for me.”
With some reluctance I shift so I can lift my head and gaze into her eyes. “If we wait, we’ll have the whole night tomorrow, right?” I give her a quick, soft kiss. “I want the whole night, without any worries about games, or curfews, or schedules.”
“It’s not because you still have doubts?”
I lay my head back down on her chest. “Of course, I have doubts.”
Suddenly Jaye’s body tenses again, and she starts to sit up. This means I have to move, too, and after a couple of awkward maneuvers and rearranging of pillows we are both upright, seated on the bed and mostly facing each other.
“Here’s the thing,” Jaye says. “I’m not playing you, Rachel. I don’t lie, and I don’t jump into bed with the nearest warm body. You’ve completely changed my life, and I want to completely change yours. Okay?”
The sincerity in her voice resonates through me like a sweet symphony. But I’ve not lived a life where I get this lucky.
“Okay,” I say, but she hears my uncertainty and frowns.
“Tell me your doubts. Right now. I’ll shoot them down, and we’ll go from there.”
Fair enough. “I truly have been single all of my life.”
“Because you wanted to be?”
“Gods, no.”
“Then I don’t care.”
“Even knowing the worst?”
“I want to know the best, too, and I’m sure the best is way, way better than any stupid depression.”
Goal to the lower left corner of the net. 1-0, Jaye Stokes.
I try again. “I’m twenty years older than you are.”
“I don’t care.”
“We hardly know each other.”
“Isn’t that why people get involved? To know each other?”
Good point. I realize I’m acting like a putz. “Goddess, you’re too perfect.”
“And you’re too scared.”
Penalty kick goal past a diving goalkeeper. 2-0, Jaye Stokes.
“Yes,” I admit. “Terrified.”
“Why?”
I take a deep breath. “Have you ever wanted something too much?”
“Yeah.” A shadow crosses her face. “I didn’t get it.”
“I bet it hurt.”
“Yes, it did.” She caresses my cheek with her palm. “But I tried my hardest. I didn’t give up before I got started.”
The long kick from downfield rockets in under the crossbar. 3-0. Stokes caps the match with a hat trick.
“Next?” She says, ready for more.
“You win,” I say quietly, and she slides forward to take me in her arms. We end up lying down again, my head on her chest, returning to comfortable.
“You win, too, Rachel.”
Yes, if I can quell the terror and insecurity and have a little faith. “It won’t be easy. I have no clue how to be with somebody.”
“I’m not exactly an expert, either. We’ll manage. You came up here because you want this, right?”
So true. “Have I really changed your life? I mean, we still hardly know each other.”
“In the cemetery, when I saw you for the first time, I felt it. Something slid into place, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.”
Wow. How wonderful it must be to have such complete certainty. And why, if Jaye is right, don’t I feel it? I want her, am thrilled with her attraction to me, but if she’s the one I’ve always hoped for, why am I not as sure as she is?
Because it’s too good to be true, my ever-pessimistic inner self tells me. Jaye shifts position, pulling me even closer to her. She wraps her arms around me. Strong arms that envelop my soul and calm my fears. Can I dare to depend on them staying there?
“You want to be sure?” she asks, like she’s been reading my mind.
“Yes. But there’s no way to be sure.”
“I’ll score a goal for you.” Her lips touch my skin, a soft caress. “Then you’ll be sure.”
Portland is the one-hundred-carat diamond of the NWSL. There are at least fifteen thousand people in the stands for this Saturday evening contest. The fans know their soccer, they love their team, and they show their love with loud raucous cheers and singing, a veritable riot of enthusiasm.
The big crowd is distinctly unsettling to me, but I’m handling it okay because I have other things on my mind. Jaye held me last night until she had to make curfew, fortifying me against anxiety and depression. Tonight, if all goes well, she won’t leave me until we have to get to the airport Sunday morning. Tonight, if all goes well, she will indeed change my life. I can only hope there will be something equally meaningful for her.
My seat is a little more than halfway up in the stands, right at midfield. I’m wearing a KC scarf, so my loyalties are obvious, but the Thorns’ fans are still friendly, even after the game starts.
Websites devoted to women’s soccer have rated Kansas City and Portland as the two best teams in the league this year. Tonight they prove it, feeding off the energy in the stadium and giving the crowd a crackerjack match. Though I never played soccer, I’ve watched enough that I see the flow and pace of the game. I usually figure out what a team is trying to do strategy-wise, and I can tell the Olympians from the seasoned pros from the fresh-out-of-college and still learning.
Tonight Jaye is above them all. KC’s coach has put her up front and in the middle, more pivotal to the offensive efforts, and the position fits her like a glove. She glides across the pitch, making and taking passes to get her team close to the goal, setting up scoring chances for the wings and the forward. She plays as if seeing everything from a bird’s eye view, and it’s a beautiful thing.
I remember what she told me about being “an eighth of a step too slow,” and shake my head. Other than Kirstie Longstreet, the Blues’ striker, Jaye is easily the fastest player on the field, and she uses her speed to full advantage.
It’s not her fault the
y don’t score, and not her fault Portland gets an early goal when Sandra Conway, Canada’s version of Wendy Allerton, beats Nickerson with a perfect shot from ten yards out. The crowd goes wild, but KC fights hard, hangs in there, and midway through the second half, Jaye feeds a short pass to Longstreet, who immediately kicks it back to a sprinting Jaye. The move is known as a give-and-go, and it fools two defenders, leaving Jaye with only the ball and grass between her and the goalkeeper. Jaye shoots, putting the ball in the net past the diving goalie to level things 1-1.
I jump up shouting, waving my scarf like mad as the crowd goes quiet. Jaye accepts the hugs of her teammates before looking up and throwing a quick salute in my direction. Even from here, I see her huge, radiant smile.
I sit slowly as the action resumes, and suddenly it hits me. “I’ll score a goal for you.”
Scoring is difficult in soccer. One can’t do it on demand, particularly at this level, where even the best players, like Allerton and Conway, average less than a goal a game. But last night Jaye made a promise, and tonight she delivered, beating the odds for her team. And for me.
The last of my anxiety flees, inundated by the rush of happiness surging through my veins. We have something, Jaye and me. We have something special.
The game ends tied at one, an appropriate result for the two best teams in the league. If the season plays out as expected, the Blues and Thorns will eventually battle to determine a winner, but that’s months in the future. My right now, Jaye’s right now, is only minutes away.
I let the crowd thin out and give the players time to work the autograph line before making my way down to the field. I find the dressing room area, and when Jaye finally emerges, she spots me right away. I watch her approach, take in the happiness on her face and the piercing shine of her eyes as they meet mine—and I know I’m going to have the night of my life.
“The team’s doing dinner, and you’re coming with us,” she insists, taking me by the hand. “I want to be with you for the rest of the night.”
Portland. Saturday night. Any restaurant will certainly be noisy and crowded. I open my mouth to make my automatic objection to this idea, but Jaye kisses me in front of her teammates, the fans in the stadium, and all the stars above. Another rush of happiness washes my doubts away. For her, now, I will do anything.
Game Changers Page 6
