Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  Jaye’s cries leave no doubt about what I accomplish. We may or may not find out later if she was loud enough to animate zombies. I stay with her, inside her, until the orgasm stills, then I kiss my way up her body and settle my head on her shoulder.

  “I’ll grant I don’t have a lot of experience here,” I say, “but you come like no one else.”

  She laughs, fully achieving low and sultry. “You make me come like no one else.”

  “I’m so glad you like sex.”

  Jaye keeps laughing, grins at me wickedly. “Turn over.”

  Before I can obey, we hear the boom of a door slamming, hard. The townhome’s front door, I think. Jaye and I freeze for a second, startled, but hear nothing after but silence.

  Jaye sits up. “Nickory?” she calls.

  I lie back, mood broken. Our afternoon delight is over. “Maybe it’s Bree.”

  “Bree’s shift ends at four. It’s Nickory.”

  We get up and dress, but when we leave the bedroom we find we’re alone in the house. Jaye is mystified. I am not.

  “She came in and heard us,” I say, parking myself at the kitchen table. “And she got mad and left.”

  “But why?” Jaye’s tone is skeptical. I watch her as she grabs a pitcher from the fridge and two glasses from a cabinet. She pours us cold water and joins me at the table. “It’s not like there’s never been sex here. I’ve heard them plenty of times.”

  I nod. “Have they ever heard you?”

  A glare. “No! You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought home.” Her glare fades to thoughtfulness. “Do you suppose she was embarrassed?”

  Kathleen Nickerson does not strike me as the type to be embarrassed. “Why slam the door?”

  “To warn us we were bothering the neighbors?” Jaye’s eyes twinkle, and I go with it, unable to dampen her infectious happiness.

  “Damn,” I say. “We might have to go back to the Hampton Inn.”

  Jaye shakes her head and finishes her water. She pours another glass and changes the subject. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  It takes me a moment to remember my “perusal” of her incredibly sexy body, but with remembrance comes a slow, satisfied smile. “No.”

  Jaye raises an eyebrow. “Explain.”

  “You don’t have any tattoos.”

  Jaye raises her other eyebrow. “You did that whole crazy sexy thing to see if I had any tattoos? As if you haven’t already seen enough of me?”

  My smile goes nova. “It was a great excuse to check you out.”

  Jaye sits back. “Can I do the same thing?”

  “No need. I promise I don’t have any tattoos.”

  “Then why should I?”

  I shrug. “It’s a little unusual for your generation. To not have any.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Name one person your age or thereabouts who does not have a tattoo.”

  Jaye grins at the sure winner. “Nickory.”

  Point number one in my blog is correct. Good job, Rachel. “But she has the hair.”

  “I guess. Do you want me to get a tattoo?”

  I shake my head. “No. I like you exactly as you are.”

  “Actually, I was going to get one, once,” she says thoughtfully. “But Mom and Dad always said to be sure that if I got a tattoo, I had to be ready to live with it.” She raises her hands and “quotes” her next words for emphasis. “For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. When I was seventeen and still knew everything, I decided when I made the Olympic team I’d get an Olympic tattoo. I knew I could live with that For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life.”

  As she sounds out the words a second time, her smile fades, and her tone drops into a rueful sadness. “But, as we know, I never made the Olympic team.”

  I gently squeeze her hand. “It’s not too late.”

  “Yes, it is. I guarantee you there have never been any over-thirty Olympic rookie soccer players.”

  “You’ll be the first, then.”

  Jaye smiles, but doesn’t pursue it. “So what’s your excuse?”

  “On the tattoos? Same as you. There was never anything I wanted to commemorate that permanently.”

  “Will there ever be?”

  I hear a semi-hopeful note, and it loads the question. I lean forward and give Jaye a gentle kiss. “I won’t ever get a tattoo. But there are other ways

  to commemorate things.”

  “Like how?”

  I sit back and hold up both my hands. And load the answer. “No rings, see? I might, maybe, could be persuaded to wear a ring.”

  We both go still, aware I have put something out there, something profound, without ever addressing it directly.

  Jaye stands up, comes around to my side of the table, and pulls me into her arms. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  

  The next morning my eyes pop open at five a.m. I get up to swim at the townhome’s community pool, and, since I don’t have a waterproof music player, my thoughts coalesce around Jaye’s best friend and why she and I clash.

  I remember one of my first impressions upon meeting Nickerson, the one about being fiercely protective of those she loves. Does she see me as a threat to Jaye? Or does she simply not like me?

  We’ve put on a polite veneer, Nickory and me, but a couple of times I’ve noticed her question something I say in a snarky way, to make me seem stupid. She’s good at it, so subtle that even now, four days into my stay, I can’t prove she’s zinging me on purpose.

  But she is, I have no doubt. As I exit the pool and towel off, I wonder if Nickory might be jealous, then immediately laugh off the thought. Who could be jealous when they’ve got someone like Bree Thompson for a lover?

  Bree is the glue holding the Three Musketeers together. In our brief acquaintance, I’ve watched her do most of the cooking, all of the mediating, and provide the nebulous-but-crucial core which keeps the arrangement sane and thriving. Our conversations reveal a bright, discerning woman who loves her partner deeply, and accepts her partner’s best friend as a roommate. If I was Bree, I’d be jealous. But I don’t see any hint of green-eyed monster in her at all.

  When I get back to the townhome Bree, speak of the devil, is sitting in the kitchen, coffee in hand and iPad tuned to the virtual morning newspaper. She’s in her scrubs.

  “Working again?” I ask after we say hello.

  “I need to leave in thirty minutes,” She says as she gestures toward the countertop. “Bagels and cream cheese by the toaster.”

  Sounds good. I hit the bathroom, change out of my bathing suit, and return to the kitchen to load up on food and caffeine.

  And a little chat. “Interesting blog you posted yesterday,” Bree says casually.

  I calmly add cream and honey to my hot tea. “I was blowing off some steam.”

  Bree peers at me over her coffee mug. “Because she walked in on you guys?”

  “I’d already posted it by then. Besides, she didn’t walk in on us.”

  “Kat may not have opened the bedroom door, but she knew what was going on.”

  Kat. Hmm. Bet Bree’s the only one who gets away with that name. “Yeah, kind of hard to miss.” I finish stirring my tea and take a tentative sip. “Am I the only one who feels like she and I are one wrong move from a major fight?”

  Bree snorts. “You wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “Depends on the terms. Fists? I’m toast. Words? She’s buried before she starts. Pistols at ten paces? Probably even.”

  Bree bites back a laugh and nods, like I’ve confirmed something. “You’re both alpha personalities. Nickory’s not used to having someone like herself around.”

  The statement floors me. “I’m not an alpha personality!”

  Bree shoots me a “honey, get a clue” laser, a glare which combines sarcasm and street smarts the likes of which only certain people can convey.

  “Bullshit. You’re both leaders, deep dow
n. She’s led the National Team. You could lead armies into battle if you had to. You’ve just never had to.”

  I open my mouth to protest again, but stop short. Think about my former occupation, where my fellow controllers and I were totally in charge of the skies around Denver. We were the generals, each plane and its pilots the soldiers, even if no one ever referred to it in those terms. I had the big picture, knew the strategy, issued the orders to make the whole game run smoothly. There was hell to pay if a pilot tried to do something I didn’t want him doing in my sector. I excelled at commanding this battlefield, reveled in it sometimes, thrived, too, until the stress and responsibility of keeping so many people safe slowly ate away at my health and stamina.

  Bree sees this all play across my face, raises an eyebrow, and smirks.

  “Okay,” I say. “Maybe. Is that why Nickory hates me?”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  My turn for a sarcastic glare. I’m not as good at it as Bree. “No, she ignores me or puts me down because it’s fun.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Yes, she does. And I don’t know why. I’m not an enemy, am I?”

  Bree takes a long sip of coffee, gives herself time to formulate a reply. “She’s always been protective of Jaye.”

  “To the extent of driving girlfriends away? Is that why Jaye never brought anyone home before?”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes. And I believe her.”

  “You should. Jaye’s crazy about you.”

  “Is that what Nickory doesn’t like?”

  Bree frowns, and finishes her coffee. Something else is going on here, and I’m about to ask what when the sudden entrance of a third voice startles us both.

  “There you are. I didn’t like waking up alone.”

  Good thing Bree’s coffee mug was empty, because it goes skittering across her iPad. As Bree makes a great catch to keep it from shattering on the floor, I turn to see a sleepy-eyed Jaye smiling at me. Wearing a rumpled t-shirt and shorts, blonde hair tousled, she’s delightfully sexy.

  “I got up early and went swimming,” I tell her, feeling the mild tension of the last few minutes disappear.

  Jaye puts her arms around my shoulders, hugs my neck. “Good. Now you’re done, you can come back to bed with me. ’Morning, Bree.”

  Bree stands up and puts her coffee cup in the sink. “Hey, Jaye.”

  “Come on,” Jaye says, tugging me out of the chair. “I want to wake up properly.”

  I get to my feet, roll my eyes at Bree as if to say “who’s the alpha personality now?” and let myself be led away down the hall.

  

  Jaye is subdued on Friday. I don’t call her on it until we’re doing the after-dinner dishes.

  “You’ve been quiet all day. Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Yes, and I don’t want to leave her. But it’s still too soon for all of that, right?

  “I wish I could stay. But I have another trip to prepare for.”

  “What trip?”

  “I’m driving to Cape Cod next month.” This is an annual thing for me, something my perennially single self always anticipates with pleasure.

  “When exactly?”

  I tell her, and watch as dismay spreads across her face. “But that’s right after our next road trip. I won’t see you for, for almost a month!”

  “No. I’ll drive through Kansas City on the way. I’ll see you then. Plus, I bought a ticket to your game with the Breakers in Boston. And—” I hesitate.

  “What?”

  “I noticed you have ten days between the Boston game and your next game against Houston. I was hoping you could get a couple of days off and come to Provincetown with me.”

  Jaye dries the last of the glasses as she thinks about this. “That’s possible. We usually have Mondays off, and with the long break, I might be able to get Tuesday, too.”

  “Try. I’d love to share P-Town with you.”

  Jaye smiles, but she’s still not back up to cheerful. “Do you have to go back to Denver? I mean, couldn’t you stay here until it’s time, then leave? You said you had enough clothes for a week. Wouldn’t that cover your trip, too?”

  Hmm. I have to service the Toyota, but I could take it to a mechanic here. I have clothes, yes, plus my computer and ice cooler. Money is a matter of hitting an ATM. I pay my bills online. I could stay.

  Except for one thing. I glance over toward the living room where Nickory and Bree are watching TV. Do I bring up the tension between me and Nickory? Between Jaye’s lover and her best friend?

  I decide not, opting for another reason which also happens to be true. “It could work. But I’ll be honest, Jaye. I’m not used to sharing a house with three other people, and I’m starting to feel a little crowded.”

  I see her hurt expression and try to explain myself better. “If it was you and me alone I’d stay in a heartbeat.” With a wet hand I playfully deposit soap on her nose. “I can’t get enough of you. But for me, four’s a crowd, and I think I need some down time.”

  A long silence passes while she thinks about it. Then a quiet sigh, and a surprise. “And you want to get away from Nickory.”

  Jaye’s perceptiveness is one of the things I’m coming to love about her. So is the willingness to bring up a potential difficulty. She’s braver than I am, I think to myself.

  I put the last pot in the drain rack and pull the plug in the sink. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry we’re not getting along better, and I don’t want to do anything to mess up your friendship.”

  “Other than blog about it?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to risk doing anything worse.”

  Jaye finishes drying the pans before she speaks again. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. But I planned this trip in January. I’ve made deposits and reservations.”

  She shushes me. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  Kitchen chores done, I wrap my arms around Jaye and pull her close. “Come to Provincetown,” I say.

  Jaye rewards me with a soft kiss. “I’ll try.”

  

  Saturday goes by way too fast. Bree is working, and the other two Musketeers both have errands to run, so I spend the day alone at the townhome, reluctantly packing for the drive home tomorrow.

  I suppose my life in Denver needs some attention, but I acknowledge it’s a life with no real ties. Sure, there’s Toni and Paula, valued friends, but they’d value me, and I them, no matter where I lived. There’s no job, no family, nothing to hold me to Colorado. Well, except the newly remodeled and painted house. The house I decided would be my home. A house plenty big enough for two.

  I consider the ease with which I’ve slid into Jaye’s life, the ease with which she’s slipped into mine. Were she not living with Nickory, I probably would have stayed when she asked, stayed until my trip to Cape Cod. That would have been a good chance to find out if we can really be together, or if I’m too locked into my solitary ways.

  But Jaye does live with Nickory, and it’s far too early to ask her to change the arrangement. As wonderful as our relationship has been so far, we’re still moving awfully fast. No need to ramp it up to light speed.

  Yet.

  Packing done, I take a nice afternoon catnap since Jaye is not likely to let me get much sleep tonight. When I get to the stadium, I at last make use of the field pass Jaye has gotten me. I walk down the sideline to join Bree, who has come directly from work.

  “Bogey!” she shouts as I draw near. “Come on down!”

  I half-glare at Bree as I sit beside her on the team bench. “Did you call me Bogey?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Why?” As if I don’t know the answer.

  Bree tries hard not to laugh. “Jaye said you guys had a conversation where you compared yourselves to Bogart and Bacall.”

  “So no
w I have a nickname?”

  “She does love a good nickname.”

  “Lovely.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  I sigh. “In my former job, “bogey” referred to an unknown or unidentified radar target, usually something expected to be a problem. Then there’s Bogey Man—

  Bree stops me. “I think you need to be telling Jaye this, not me.”

  “Yes. Agreed.” I cast my gaze out on the field, spot Jaye, and see her let loose a kick sending the ball right toward us. Covering two-thirds of the pitch in full flight, the ball makes one bounce, and all I have to do is stand and raise my hands to catch it on the hop. Bree chuckles. Jaye makes her way over, and I wonder if it’s possible to grow tired of someone who smiles every time she sees you.

  I deeply hope not.

  “Hey Bogey!” Jaye calls.

  My heart leaps inside of me, but I don’t smile. Time for the Bogart Discussion, Part Two.

  “Jaye,” I greet her neutrally. “Bogart.”

  “What?”

  “You can call me Bogart. You cannot call me Bogey.”

  “But that’s what they called him. I Googled it.”

  “Okay. Did you Google Bacall?”

  “You’re going to call me Bacall, right?” She’s like a kid in a candy store. “That would be so cool.”

  Bree doesn’t bother to hide her laughter this time. I manage to stay dead-pan. “I could call you Bacall. I could also call you Betty.”

  “Betty?” Apparently Jaye did not Google Bacall.

  “Lauren Bacall’s real name is Betty. She’s Betty to all her friends.”

  “But I don’t want you to call me Betty.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Whyever not?”

  The light comes on. “Oh. But Bogart’s okay?”

  “Bogart is fine.”

  I’m rewarded with her amazing smile. “Good.”

  I’m also rewarded with my first nickname. Ever.

  

  Tonight's opponent is the Seattle Reign, who win the NWSL prize for clever team name, playing on the city’s local climate and the team’s implied dominance. Clever, though, is not enough to keep Kansas City from raining goals all over them. Jaye gets the first one, a right-place-at-the-right-time, easy put away off a rebound. Her scoring streak is now four games and counting. Nickerson is uncharacteristically porous, giving up one goal in each half. Seattle’s goalie surrenders more, though, and the final score is 4-2.