Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  Jaye squeezes back, but she also frowns, hesitates before speaking her next words. “You want me to see a therapist, don’t you?”

  “Yes. It helped me. A lot.”

  She sighs. “Mom said the same thing. Actually, she said I’d be crazy to lose the two most important things in my life without trying everything, and therapy could help me so I should do it.”

  Marcia Stokes is going to be a great mother-in-law. “Mother knows best.”

  Jaye’s face brightens, and she smiles, just a little. “Hold me?”

  I ease my body down again, snuggling up with the love of my life. I feel hope in the closeness, hope in the soft lips gently kissing my forehead.

  “I love you, Rachel,” Jaye says, for the first time since August.

  A tightness I didn’t know I was carrying eases, and the first tendrils of a renewed belief in us begin to grow.

  Epilogue

  On a crisp December evening, I stand on the balcony of a luxury suite at an MLS stadium, Sporting KC’s very nice soccer-only venue. A sellout crowd streams in, gathering to watch the international match between the U.S. Women’s National Team and Ireland. The players are on the field doing pregame warmups. Jaye is with them, standing next to the coaches and watching, the end result of a series of events that began with a November phone call.

  We were in Denver by then, having moved back to my house in October. Colorado agrees with Jaye; there are only good memories for her here, and over the weeks I have watched pieces of her old self return, bit by bit, rebuilding the whole with each passing day. She is religious about her physical rehab and also about the sessions with her new therapist.

  The latter is more difficult than the former. “Rehab is like soccer drills,” she tells me. “It’s a familiar thing. Talking to a therapist about what happened, how I feel about it, that’s tougher.”

  “A pain in the ass,” I say, “but the end result is worth it.”

  I believe, though, since Jaye’s natural disposition is upbeat and positive, she won’t need the therapy for very long. She will banish her gorilla permanently. But now, perhaps she will understand mine a little better. When my future dark moments come—and they will—they won’t scare her, and I won’t have to shut her out.

  We’ve already done enough shutting out. Both Jaye and I are working hard to keep our communication honest and open, including couples therapy, and, in keeping with the trend, getting good results all around.

  So our life together is well on the way to “getting back what we had” before Jaye’s injury, with a deeper appreciation of each other this time around. We sleep together, and we’ve resumed making love—carefully—delighted to discover sex between us is still fantastic.

  By mid-November we’ve settled into a nice routine. Jaye does rehab and therapy while I work on a new writing project and prepare for the Christmas release of my latest novel, Triangle.

  The phone call which shakes us up again comes on one of Jaye’s difficult days. She’s pulling a double, as it were, doing rehab in the morning and therapy in the afternoon. Apparently neither session goes well. She comes home cranky and frustrated. I take a break from my writing to keep her company as she ices her knee, and fix us both sandwiches and drinks so we can get French bread crumbs all over the sofa while we chat.

  “The therapist made me talk about life after soccer today. I didn’t want to.”

  “But you did.”

  “She made me cry, Rachel. It still hurts, you know, the idea that I might not play again.”

  “I know.”

  Jaye frowns. “I was so close to playing for my country, to playing against the absolute best. I still want it.”

  “How did she make you cry?”

  “She’s good at getting me to listen to my inner self, you know?”

  “Deep down.”

  A nod. “Deep down told me today there will always be some hurt, there will always be emotional pain, especially if I can’t play again.” She blinks back tears. “Hard to take.”

  I put my sandwich down. “Jaye, your inner self is usually wise, but I think it’s wrong here. You won’t always hurt. Granted, it may take a long time, but you’ll get to the point where you’ll truly be okay with how things turn out.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. You know I’ll always wonder how many books I didn’t write because of my depression. Thirty years is a long time to lose. But, while it haunts me sometimes, I’m okay with it, because of where I’ve ended up. I may only publish ten books instead of twenty or thirty, but I’ll write those ten books. And you may not ever see the National Team, but you’ve had a good career, and this season was a great one. That’s what you’ll remember.”

  “And I met you.”

  “The most important thing of all,” I say solemnly. Then I wink at her and laugh.

  A sweet kiss follows. Jaye’s touch is still tinged with sadness. But the grief is diminishing, working through her as she faces the loss of her true first love. I sometimes still doubt I’m enough to fill the void, but I firmly believe she and I, together, can find things that will.

  Jaye’s cell rings. Our lips part, and she picks up the phone resting on the coffee table. She stares at the display, clearly puzzled, then swipes her thumb across the screen and takes the call.

  “Hello? Yes, Coach Hatfield, how are you doing?”

  I raise my eyebrows. The National Team coach? Whoa.

  Jaye has one of those cell phones where you can’t hear the caller’s side of the conversation, so I sit patiently and glean what I can from Jaye’s words, which are not too forthcoming.

  “Yes, I know about that . . . no, I’m in Denver now, with my partner . . . the crutches are long gone, but I’m still limping a little . . . the rehab’s going well . . . funny, Rachel and I were just now talking about my future, and it’s still too early to know . . . yes, ma’am, my schedule’s free . . . what?”

  Jaye’s body goes utterly still. Her mouth is open, jaw locked in place. Several seconds pass before she shakes off her surprise and speaks.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m still here. I—could you repeat that please?”

  Jaye grips my arm. Tightly. Hatfield does a lot of talking then, and whatever she’s saying has Jaye completely stunned.

  “Yes, I think so,” Jaye says when it’s her turn again. “I’m sorry, this is a little surprising . . . yes, definitely . . . Thank you, Coach . . .yes, any time. Good-bye.”

  Jaye ends the call and slowly lowers the phone. She stares blankly out in front of her, still stunned.

  Gently I loosen her tourniquet hold on my forearm. “Jaye?”

  “The National Team’s last match of the year is in Kansas City on December tenth.” Her voice sounds almost disembodied.

  “Against Ireland,” I confirm. “I was thinking about us going, actually, if you were up for it.”

  Now Jaye turns to me, wide-eyed. “I’m going to have to be. She named me to the team.”

  A lightning bolt, out of a clear blue sky “What?”

  “Coach Hatfield named me to the National Team! She said she talked to the players, and to U.S. Soccer, and they all agreed, and I’m even going to start, so I can walk onto the field and be introduced.” Jaye takes a deep breath, and from her expression, her brain starts to function again. “She’ll have to sub me right out, of course. But I’m on the roster. If I want to be.”

  Suddenly she glares at me. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say honestly. “It never even occurred to me something like this could happen.”

  We’re back to reading each other well again. Jaye knows I’m telling the truth. “Nickory,” she mutters. “Must have been Nickory.”

  “But she’s still suspended.” And will be through the rest of the year. At least.

  “She has clout, though.”

  “Okay, so?” I get back on point. “What are your thoughts?”
/>   Jaye frowns. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “You could see it as a charity thing, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, because it is. And people will say so.”

  “But,” I pause to emphasize my next words, “you could also see it as an unprecedented act, for someone who is truly deserving. Because you earned it, Jaye. You told me yourself Hatfield was going to put you on the team.” I shrug. “It just happened a few months later than originally planned.”

  The frown is not gone. “But I can’t play!”

  I nudge her mind a bit further. “What does deep down say?”

  “Half an hour ago you thought deep down was wrong.”

  “Only on that one thing. What does deep down say now?”

  Jaye goes still, listening to her inner thoughts, and finally comes forth with a bittersweet smile. “Deep down says to accept it as an honor because I’m never going to get another chance.”

  

  So here we are, three weeks later, blessed with a cool, clear evening of perfect soccer weather. The suite whose balcony I occupy for the night belongs to Rick and Becky Kaisershot. Turns out they make a tradition of renting a suite for the last National Team game of the year.

  “We like to invite friends and have a big party,” Rick admits. Tonight’s shindig consists of about twenty people, mostly teammates and assorted family from the KC Blues. They let me invite Toni and Paula, too. Everyone here knows what’s up with Jaye’s newest honor. Everyone heartily approves.

  “It wasn’t fair, her getting injured,” Kirstie Longstreet says with her killer Georgia twang. “I’m glad Jaye’s going to get some recognition.”

  “Would you have taken it, if it happened to you?” I ask her.

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “In a heartbeat.”

  Rick comes up and stands beside me after the warmups end. The players have gone back to the locker rooms, but will return shortly, in uniform, to walk onto the pitch and be introduced.

  “Are you sure your friend Toni wasn’t an air traffic controller?” he asks. “She’s kinda scary.”

  I smile. “Publishers are much fiercer than ATC people. But she’s got a heart of gold underneath the evil stare.”

  “If you say so.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “How did she scare you?”

  “She had Nickory backed into a corner looking for escape. Like a wolf trapped by a badger.”

  I crack up laughing, and Rick joins in. The warrior queen and I will never be best buddies, but we have made an honest truce now, and even been amiable since October. The détente has been a source of relief to Bree, though we’re still trying to bring Jaye around. But, detente or no, I take a not-at-all-guilty pleasure in hearing someone get the better of Ms. Nickerson.

  The announcer booms a good evening to the crowd, and we turn our attention to the field. The teams come out of the tunnel and start marching in parallel lines toward midfield. I don’t have to hunt for Jaye in the line of players wearing red white and blue. I’d know her gait, the blonde ponytail, and the aura of her happiness anywhere. I watch her walk, and my heart swells up with love, pride, and my own happiness.

  Rick casually drops a bomb. “Becky set this up, you know. She asked Coach Hatfield to put Jaye on the team.”

  Well. This is unexpected. “We thought maybe it was Nickory.”

  “Nope,” Rick says. “Becky all the way. She hated how Jaye’s season ended. And she was pissed it cost Kansas City the championship. When Jaye wouldn’t see us afterwards—”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “Not your fault. It happens. But anyway, Becky talked to Allerton and a couple of the team leaders, and they went to bat with the coaches.” He grins. “Hit it out of the park, huh?”

  Impulsively I turn and give Rick a hug. “A grand slam. Thank you.”

  The teams reach the center of the pitch and line up facing the flags of each nation. The Irish side is introduced first, and people in the stands clap politely. Then it’s the USA’s turn, and the claps grow to cheers.

  The starters are introduced by number. Each woman steps forward and waves. Jaye, wearing 22, will go last. Her story has been the talk of the soccer news sites, and she’s not been forgotten by Kansas City Blues fans. When her name is finally called half the crowd rises up to give her an ovation. I know those fans are the ones who followed her play all summer long, who were there when Jaye took KC to the brink of the Promised Land, unable to enter it herself. They are the ones who witnessed it all and remembered. She waves, first to one side of the stadium, then the other, with a heartfelt smile and (I’m sure, even if I can't see them) tear-filled eyes.

  Someone comes up, joins me and Rick. I glance over and see Toni. Rick casually drifts away.

  “Well, Bogart,” she says, “It’s not exactly what she dreamed, but now you’ll always have Paris.”

  I give a short laugh, thinking about all Jaye has been through and all that’s yet to come. Then I stick my tongue out at my dear friend. “I hope so, Sam. I hope so.”

  After the national anthems, the captains shake hands and exchange banners, and then the game begins with an unusual set piece. Jaye stands over the ball at the very center of the field. The referee blows her whistle, and for a brief but noticeable moment Jaye pauses, as if she’s soaking in every sensation as best she can, filing it away in her brain. Then she takes the game’s first touch, kicking the ball over to Wendy Allerton, who promptly boots it fifty yards into the stands. The ref blows her whistle again, action stops, and Jaye is subbed out. The cheers rise up as she strides to the sideline, doing her best not to limp. She hugs her replacement, then makes her way to the stands where her parents have front row seats. She hugs both Tom and Marcia and returns to take her place on the USA bench to watch and cheer on her teammates.

  A moment. Momentous.

  The game turns out more competitive than maybe the U.S. thought it would be. Ireland has a talented goalkeeper, and she keeps the home team scoreless through the first half while her teammates get several chances on goal. The young keeper defending the American net, though, is equally flawless. Nickory will have competition when she comes off her suspension. The teams go to halftime with no score. I watch the match, but glance at Jaye often, over on the bench. I see her interacting with her fellow players, and even from my far viewpoint she’s happier than she’s been in a long time.

  I’m grateful to Hatfield. Jaye and I spent a lot of time talking about the coach’s decision to include her on the team. We both know if tonight’s opponent had been higher ranked, say, Germany or Japan, Hatfield couldn’t have done what she did. The match taking place in Kansas City also helped, as the Blues’ fans would appreciate the gesture. And frankly, the American women are so good, and so deep, they could field a team essentially one player short.

  They prove it in the second half, scoring twice on Ireland while Evans, the American goalie, records a clean sheet. 2-0 is the final. All in all, it’s a perfect night for soccer, and the people who love it.

  When the game is over, Becky and Rick invite everyone, even the Irish side, up to the suite for a blow-out after party. The stadium officials make a half-hearted attempt to close things down, but Wendy Allerton talks them into moving the whole shebang to the stadium’s largest party area instead, so there’s plenty of room for everybody. A good time is had by all.

  Especially Jaye. She keeps me by her side while we mingle with everyone. Jaye introduces me to players I’ve admired for years, so I have a blast, too. When her knee tells her to sit we find a table and let people come to us, and many do, visiting for a minute or two or ten.

  When the U.S. Soccer press staff shows up to film a brief interview, I duck out of the way of the cameras. Jaye, though, strays from the clichéd party lines to give me some credit.

  “It was hard for me after I got hurt,” she says. “It still is. I owe everything to my partner, Rachel Johnston, for helping me to see what
a fantastic season I had, right up until August fifth.” She pauses, spots me lurking well off-stage, and smiles. “I wouldn’t be here without her.”

  When the cameras turn away to other players, I rejoin Jaye. “Your first cap may not have happened the way you dreamed,” I say, “but you have it.”

  Jaye waves and smiles at someone calling her name, then turns her attention to me. “I’m happy, but it still feels incomplete. Will I always wonder what could have been?”

  Before I can reply, Linda Hatfield herself approaches us. “You’re a class act, Stokes,” she says. “I wish things could have been different.”

  “I got more than most players do, Coach,” Jaye says, living up to Hatfield’s words. “Thank you again.”

  “You’d work well within my system,” Hatfield says. “When your knee is healed, and you’re ready, let me know. Your name is in the player pool now, and you’ll be invited to try out.”

  Jaye is not expecting this, and in her surprise all she can manage to say is another “Thank you.” It’s enough. Hatfield claps her on the shoulder and heads off toward Ireland’s coach. Jaye watches her go, then turns wide eyes to me.

  “Good thing you’ve been doing rehab so faithfully,” I comment.

  Jaye lays her head on my shoulder. “I’ll have to try, won’t I?”

  “Of course.” I gently stroke her back. “Tired, finally?”

  “I don’t want to leave, but yeah.”

  “Let’s find the Kaisershots and say good night.”

  Before we can, though, Kathleen Nickerson heads our way. Jaye sees her coming and frowns.

  “What are you doing here?” Jaye asks, maybe more harshly than she has to.

  “Rick invited us,” Nickory says. “Bree wanted me to keep a low profile with US Soccer around, so we’ve been hiding out.”