Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  I vaguely register the referee as she blows her whistle, the Blues players as they move toward Jaye, the Portland side congregating awkwardly nearby. I want to close my eyes, but I don’t. The least I can do for Jaye is watch. As Kansas City’s trainers run out on the pitch, Jaye’s teammates are waving for a stretcher. Sherry and Kirstie kneel beside their teammate, and the others stand close, looking grim.

  “Fuck,” Rick says under his breath. I couldn’t agree more. He’s managed to get me back on the sidelines, where Bree puts a supportive hand on my shoulder.

  The crowd starts to murmur when the ref approaches Celia Green, then they boo wholeheartedly as the red card, for a blatant or reckless penalty, comes out. Green is out of the game, and Portland will play the rest of the way one woman short, ten instead of eleven.

  Nickory, meanwhile, has come up from her position at the far goal, close enough to check out the damage. She watches the trainers tending to Jaye, then turns and says something to the referee, who says something back. She scans the Thorns players and spots Green, who is only now starting a slow walk off the field. Nickory heads over in her direction.

  “Fuck,” Rick says again.

  “Oh, Kat, no,” Bree echoes him.

  Everyone in the stands and on national TV sees what happens next. Nickerson stands in front of the Thorn, blatantly blocking her way. The two exchange words, Nickory’s expression hard as granite, Green’s defiant and taunting. Then the coup de gras as Nickory suddenly balls her gloved fist and punches Green in the face.

  Now there are two players lying on the pitch. Green holds her face and curls up into a fetal position. The referee stares at Nickory in shock, but pauses only for a moment before pulling out the red card again. A few in the stands start cheering. It’s a crazy mix, then, of cheers, boos, and hushed words. Jaye is lifted into the stretcher, Green continues to lie on the field, and Kathleen Nickerson, warrior queen, walks toward the locker rooms, not an ounce of regret in her stride.

  “Rick, get me over to the ambulance,” I say, and then he and I are moving, too, running toward a future that has changed in the blink of an eye.

  

  I don’t get to see Jaye before the ambulance takes her away. Rick drives us to the hospital. By the time we get there I’m too late to see Jaye in the emergency room. Cursing the bad timing, I go to the reception desk to find out her condition and run into an unexpected obstacle.

  “Are you a relative?” the nurse asks.

  “No, a good friend.”

  “I can only give out information to relatives or approved next of kin,” the nurse says.

  Next of kin? “I’m the closest thing to family she has in Kansas City.”

  “Name?” I give the nurse my name, my brows knitting together in puzzlement. She checks something on her computer screen, then tells me primly “You’re not on the list.”

  “She’s her partner,” Rick interjects. “If you check they’re wearing the same rings.”

  We’re in Missouri. The nurse is less than impressed. I see her reaction and wish Rick had kept quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse says, curtly. “If you’re not on the approved list, I can’t tell you anything.”

  I take a mental step back and count to ten. “Who is on the list?” I ask when I can do it without exploding.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  A stare-down ensues. Despite my age, I’ve rarely run into blatant prejudice against my sexuality. I watch the nurse’s expression shift from coolly neutral to triumphant in her power over me, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands from forming fists and punching her out.

  My eyes narrow. “Is there actually a list?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you have any intention of notifying anyone on it?”

  “That’s not in my job description.”

  “So this seriously injured patient will have to go through this entire experience alone?”

  “Not if family shows up.”

  “Her family is here,” Rick says, his voice low with a touch of menace.

  I touch his arm to silence him, then check out the badge around the nurse’s neck. The letters are small, but I can make out her last name, Meade. Now I know who to file a complaint against later. “You skipped the class where they told you nurses were supposed to be kind and compassionate, didn’t you?” I say. The nurse’s expression doesn’t change at all. I turn my back on the hate.

  “Come on, Rick.” I stalk away from the desk, through the waiting area, and out the door. Standing at the entrance, I breathe in the warm night air and try to find some calm. When I was working I never panicked. I try to remember how I managed. I’m about there when I hear my name.

  “Rachel!”

  Bree and Nickory come quickly up the steps. “How’s Jaye?” Bree asks me, agitated. “Why aren’t you in there?”

  “I’m not family. They won’t tell me anything.”

  “Are you kidding?” Nickory’s is a growl of disbelief.

  “As soon as the desk nurse found out I was Jaye’s partner, she totally froze me out.”

  “Bullshit,” Bree says.

  Nickory goes into warrior queen mode. “Come on.” We all follow her back inside. She walks right up to the nurse and asks about Jaye.

  “Are you on the next of kin list?” the nurse says primly.

  “Yes,” Nickory replies in a tone that would freeze molten lava. “Nick-erson, Kathleen.”

  The nurse checks something, and must find the name there because she is visibly disappointed. “Do you have ID?”

  How nice to see Nickory’s dagger eyes aimed at someone else. With deliberate calm she pulls out her wallet and presents a driver’s license. Nurse Meade examines it, eyes Nickory, and smiles.

  “This picture is of a blonde,” the nurse says. “You’re not blonde.”

  Indeed, Nickory’s hair has been dyed mourning black since Boston.

  “Listen, lady,” Nickory says, “I’ve already broken someone’s nose tonight. I don’t mind going two for two. If you don’t let us in to see our friend, I’ll make sure you’re the next patient in the ER.”

  Nurse Ratched’s—sorry, Meade’s—eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”

  Out comes the venom glare. If it was even half real, the nurse would be shriveled into crusty particles of skin. “No,” Nickory says. “I’m making a solemn promise.”

  I don’t normally condone violence of any kind, but if Nickory makes good on her words I’m tempted to provide an alibi later. She and the nurse stare each other down, neither inclined to give an inch. Nickory’s hand clenches and starts to come up, and at the last second, I change my mind and grab her fist with both my hands.

  “Nickory, no. Sanctimonious, homophobic, narrow-minded little twerps are not worth going to jail over.” The warrior queen stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Nurse Ratched’s face wrinkles in puzzlement. Guess I used too many big words for her.

  We’ll never know what would have happened next because the ER doors open with a swish, and a huge, dark oak tree of a man comes striding through them. He’s at least six foot six and three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He’s in scrubs with a name tag very similar to Meade’s.

  “Bree!” he says with a voice that escaped from the basso profundo section of a choir. “Glad you texted me.”

  The cavalry has arrived.

  “Hi, Neil,” Bree says calmly.

  I turn to see Nurse Meade shrinking visibly into her chair. I would, too, if Neil was the enemy coming my way. He lumbers majestically over to the desk and around to Meade’s side of it. There’s not much room back there, and she has to shrink even more to avoid being crushed. Paybacks are hell.

  Neil twitches his nose, like he’s smelling three-day-old fish. “Figures it’s you,” he rumbles, then ignores her as he checks a computer screen. “Stokes, Jaye. Knee injury. Right?”

  “Right,” Nickory says.
/>
  “Okay. I can bring one of you back there.”

  Nickory, to my surprise, gestures at me. “Her.”

  Neil nods at me. “Come on.”

  And it’s my turn to walk through the swinging doors.

  

  Neil leads me to a cubicle with the curtain closed. Before he pushes it aside, he gives me some information.

  “The doctor says you can come in for five minutes or so. She’s stable, and she’s been given medication for the pain. Don’t expect her to make too much sense.”

  “Thank you, Neil,” I say from my heart.

  “You’re welcome,” he says as he lifts the curtain aside, and motions me in. “I’ll wait here. Five minutes.” He pulls the curtain closed. He’ll hear all we have to say, but we have at least a pretense of privacy.

  The first thing I notice is that Jaye still wears her uniform. The second observation is her eyes. Her pupils are the size of saucers. Neil wasn’t kidding when he said she was medicated.

  “Bogart,” she says raggedly.

  I take her hand, lean over, and kiss her lips. “Hey, Bacall. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  “S’okay.” Jaye sounds like a little girl fighting sleep. She’s high as a kite. “Stay with me, Bogart. Stay with me, please.”

  I bring her hand to my chest, to my heart. “I’ll stay as close as I can. You’re going to get X-rays soon. I can’t go with you there. But I’ll be here. I’ll be close by.”

  She rolls her head from side to side on the pillow. “It’s gone, Rachel. My knee is gone.”

  “No, Jaye. You’re hurt, but you’re going to get better.”

  “It’s all gone.” Then a sudden moment of lucidity. “Did we win?”

  Fuck. “I don’t know. I left as soon as they put you in the ambulance.”

  The basso profundo rumbles from the other side of the curtain. “Yeah, KC won. 2-1.”

  Did Bree tell him? It doesn’t matter. Jaye relaxes a little. “Good.” She watches me, but her eyes blur like she’s fading out again. Those scary dark pupils are desolate. “I’m done, Rachel. My career is over.”

  “Shh. We don’t know that yet.”

  “My body knows.” The hollowness of her voice is chilling. I lean down and kiss her again, then rest my cheek against hers. Her despair washes over me, and I feel it mingle with my helplessness to settle in for the long haul.

  “We’ll get through this, Jaye,” I murmur. “Let the doctors take care of you. We’ll get you healed.”

  I hear a clatter outside the curtain. I brush one last kiss against her cheek and straighten up.

  Neil opens the curtain. “X-rays, round one.”

  “You’ll stay here, Rachel?” Jaye beseeches me, wide-eyed.

  “I’ll be back with you as soon they let me, Jaye. I promise.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” Reluctantly I loosen her grip and let the ER people do their jobs. Jaye is wheeled off, and Neil guides me back to the swinging doors.

  “Do they know anything yet,” I ask him. “Is it as bad she thinks?” When he doesn’t answer right away I try a lame joke. “Be honest with me, Hawkeye. I can take it.”

  Neil graces me with a ghost of a smile and a full house of sympathy. “It’s bad. I’ll tell the doctors to bypass Meade, and they’ll give you the details when they can.”

  My heart clenches in my chest, but I keep walking. As we reach the doors, I touch his arm. “Thank you for your kindness, sir.”

  He nods in acknowledgment, then lets me back out into the waiting room.

  

  Turns out Neil is a charge nurse in the ICU at this hospital, but he worked with Bree a couple of years earlier, and they stayed in touch. I’m eternally grateful.

  In the waiting room, several of Jaye’s teammates have joined Rick, Bree, and Nickory. All eyes turn to me, and I give them what little I learned, including Jaye’s belief that her knee is ruined.

  “She’s right,” Nickory says. “I saw it before they got her on the stretcher. It’s wrecked.”

  There’s no venom in her eyes, or her voice. She’s simply being matter of fact. I try not to start crying.

  “Your season is wrecked too, you know,” Rick says to her, and he’s right. Nickory will certainly be suspended, probably fined. Maybe arrested?

  Nickory shrugs. “Green’s is, too.”

  “Kat,” Bree says with resignation.

  And so, I think silently, is Kansas City’s. In one fell swoop, the team has lost two of its best players. Will Jaye’s amazing season all go for nothing?

  “It wasn’t worth it, Nickory,” I say.

  She shakes her head in disagreement, her face bearing the expression of someone who’s lost the battle but is still sure of winning the war. “Green did it on purpose. So did I. Fair is fair.”

  Warrior queen to the end, even as she’s falling on her sword.

  The swinging doors fly open, and we put the Blues’ wake on hiatus. An average-sized man, not a tree this time, comes into the lobby.

  “Who’s with Stokes?” he asks. Ten people stand up. He gives us the bad news.

  “Shredded” is the word he uses. Green’s swift kick has snapped the Anterior and Medial Cruciate ligaments in Jaye’s left knee and torn her meniscus as well.

  “You can’t tell without an MRI though,” Bree says, trying to find an out.

  “True,” the doctor says, “but from the movement of the knee, and the severity of the pain, it’s a good bet. Vegas quality.”

  The air leaves the room. Jaye’s dream season is indeed over. In the blink of an eye, in one eighth of a second, she has gone from MVP and probable National Team member to not even being able to walk. Life is a cruel game sometimes, and yeah, yeah, bad things do happen to good people. But this seems particularly sadistic.

  The doctor finishes up. “I can release her in about thirty minutes, but she’ll have to come back Tuesday for the MRI. She needs to keep the leg elevated, iced, and move as little as possible. I’ve written a couple of prescriptions for the pain, and the nurse at the desk will arrange for a wheelchair and crutches.”

  No, she won’t. I can guarantee that one. “Better get Neil again,” I say to Bree, but she’s one step ahead of me.

  “I’m texting him now.”

  

  Jaye sleeps most of the way home. Rick takes us back to the stadium to get my car, then follows us back to the apartment complex. He helps me get Jaye up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. I take it from there, settling Jaye into our bed, then taking my place beside her, away from the injured knee. Tentatively I lay my head on her shoulder, feeling the relief when she wraps her arm around my back, holds me close. Her grip is so tight, I have trouble breathing, but I don’t care. She is here, she is with me, and she’s letting me be with her.

  

  As the week passes, however, things go downhill fast. The Tuesday MRI does indeed confirm the doctors’ suspicions. Jaye’s knee has suffered the “unhappy triad”: fully torn ACL and MCL, plus tears in the meniscus. All three require surgery, and because of the meniscus damage, she won’t be able to put any weight on the knee for six weeks after the operation. Rehabbing the ACL could take up to a year. Best case scenario, she’s fully healthy again when next year’s season is ending and plays pro soccer again when she’s thirty-three, about the age most players start thinking retirement.

  Jaye takes this news with a weird, defeated sort of calm. She knew it anyway. “I’m done,” she’d said that night in the hospital. When I try to tell her the doctors can’t know her full prognosis until she starts her recovery and rehab, she stares at me, eyes devoid of hope.

  “I’m done. It will never be the same.”

  Plenty of athletes have had injuries like this, a startling number of them women. Even Nickory lost a season in college with a torn ACL and made a full recovery. Most of the athletes who came back good as ne
w, though, were in their teens or twenties. Jaye is older, and she already believes the worst.

  I try to stay upbeat but realistic. Jaye doesn’t notice. She won’t talk about what happened. I try to raise the subject of her injury a couple of times, but she brushes me off.

  “I can’t talk about it, Rachel. It hurts too much.”

  The only words with any real substance are still spare. And devastating.

  “I feel empty inside,” she tells me. “Like there’s nothing there.”

  Soccer’s only a game, sure. But Jaye truly, madly, deeply loved the sport, loved to play, and the cruelty of her exit from the field, on the cusp of finally achieving her ultimate goal, begins to appear like it will be too much for her to handle.

  I find her state of mind terrifying. I’m willing to deal with tough times, but how? I keep silent about my own fears because this isn’t about me. I fight my helplessness against her silence by trying to let my love seep out of me, by osmosis, every time I hold her.

  Maybe it works. Jaye is silent and closed, but she’s not completely disengaged. She’s able to get around well enough to attend her team’s final regular season game on the Saturday after the disaster. She sits on the bench and puts on a good face, smiling at her teammates and shouting encouragement. But it’s clear the Blues are not the same team without Jaye at center. Nickory, to no one’s surprise, has been suspended indefinitely for punching Celia Green. Her statement to the press is solidly in character: “I was absolutely out of line with my actions. I accept the suspension. I will do my best to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” Twenty-four words, and not one of them an apology.

  The backup goalie, a Canadian named Rheaume Delacroix, holds the Houston Dash scoreless even as Houston’s goalie does the same to the Blues. The 0-0 draw makes no difference in the standings. Kansas City still finishes “at the top of the table,” first in the league. But their playoff opponent, Wendy Allerton’s NY Flash, undoubtedly smells blood in the water.