Training Ground

by Kate Christie

  Jamie’s breath tickled her neck. “You know, it does get easier. Right now it’s probably hard to imagine, but the pain lessens. It’s almost like you get used to it, or like a callus grows over the bruise. If you press hard enough, you can still feel the pain. But normal, everyday use? You don’t even notice after a while.”

  Emma found Jamie’s hand. “Justin pressed hard enough, didn’t he?”

  She was quiet for so long Emma thought she might not answer. Then: “Yeah, I guess so. But mostly I think I was worried about you.”

  Emma closed her eyes. Here Jamie was putting herself in potential bodily harm for her, and she was thinking about hooking up with Tori. Maybe she was more like her dad than she wanted to believe. “Well, thanks for having my back.”

  “Thanks for having mine.”

  She wanted to tell Jamie she always would, but she didn’t trust herself to keep such a promise. So she didn’t say anything at all, just tried to live in the present moment where Jamie made her feel safe while outside the wind picked up, roaring off the water and across the shore, bending already stooped evergreens a little more with every passing minute.

  Chapter Ten

  THE TRAIN STATION was in a “not so great” part of the city, Emma told her as they trolled the streets at the edge of Seattle’s downtown district looking for parking. Jamie knew she should help look for a spot, but she couldn’t concentrate on meters or the flow of pedestrians in the blocks immediately south of Seattle’s skyscrapers. She was leaving in less than an hour, and she wasn’t sure when—if?—she would see Emma again.

  Without any help from her, Emma soon had the car parked and was leading the way to the train station, Jamie’s duffle over her shoulder.

  “I can get it,” Jamie said again, trying to take the bag.

  Emma swatted her hand. “Stop it. I’m bigger than you, remember?”

  “I’m taller.”

  “Barely. And you, my beanpole friend, are still filling out.”

  Beanpole? Did Emma really think of her like that? Jamie frowned and walked along the street block, the arc of the new Seahawks stadium visible beyond the old train station’s tall, thin clock tower. A clock, incidentally, that most definitely did not reflect the correct time, unless she had somehow missed her train by more than a little.

  “Don’t worry,” Emma said before she could check her watch. “That clock has been frozen forever. The other side is stuck on a different time, if you can believe it.”

  Jamie shrugged, still smarting from the beanpole comment. You didn’t call someone that if you were remotely interested in them. Her shoulders dipped slightly. She had been convinced she was reading the signs correctly since arriving in Seattle. Emma almost had to like her as much as she liked Emma, didn’t she? Why else would they snuggle at night and hold hands when they walked the dog after dinner? That morning she’d awakened to find Emma holding her from behind, and she’d been sure Emma was awake. She’d almost rolled over to ask her what was going on, to demand an explanation for all of the contradictory signals she’d been sending all week. But she’d chickened out, just as she’d done the day before and the day before that, and now any hope she’d had of Emma returning her feelings had collapsed under the weight of a single word.

  As they approached the station, Jamie straightened her shoulders. For the last twenty-four hours, she’d fixated on their imminent goodbyes, dreading the moment she would have to leave Emma. Now, though, she was almost relieved that she was going. A few hours on the train and she would be back with her club team friends, not one of whom inspired even a smidgeon of the angst Emma generated with every look and touch. Even better, she would be back on the soccer field where feelings didn’t matter and the only time someone held your hand was either to wish you luck before the match or to congratulate you on a game well played.

  Inside the station, they double-checked the departure board—still on time—and found an empty bench in the waiting room.

  “So,” Emma said, toying with the zipper on Jamie’s duffle, “did you remember the book?”

  The night before, Emma had given her a copy of John Muir’s The Mountains of California.

  “I thought you said your father gave you this?” Jamie had protested, smoothing her palm across the well-worn cover.

  Emma had waved her off. “I know you’ll take good care of it. Besides, we have other copies.”

  Now Jamie nodded. “Do you want it back? It’s okay if you changed your mind.”

  “No. I told you, I want you to have it.”

  At Emma’s throat, Jamie caught a glimpse of the sun pendant she’d given her peeking out from under the collar of her crewneck sweatshirt. I always wear it, she’d said the morning of her father’s funeral. What did that mean? What did any of it mean?

  She squinted as the loud speaker crackled. This was it. Her train was boarding. Before she could think it through, she blurted, “Can I ask you something?” just as Emma said, “I have to tell you something.”

  They both stopped. It wasn’t the first time they’d talked over each other. Especially when they were debating soccer tactics or referee calls, their words sometimes collided. But this was different. Jamie remembered the passage Emma had quoted from the book tucked away in her backpack, something about not knowing how much of the “uncontrollable” we have inside, urging us up dangerous heights. That was how she felt right now—like she was climbing without a rope and one slip would send her crashing down the mountain.

  “You first,” she said.

  Emma shook her head. “No, you go.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Jamie, I’m serious. What did you want to ask?”

  She stared at Emma, questions cycling through her mind: What are we doing? How do you feel about me? Will I ever see you again? Then she reminded herself for easily the tenth time in half as many days that now was not the time to ask those questions, no matter how much she might want answers. She settled for a less messy one: “Are you going to be okay?”

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t know,” she admitted. And when she opened her eyes, she was crying again, the tears slipping soundlessly across her cheeks.

  Jamie tugged Emma to her feet and hugged her, closing her eyes against the curious stares of the people around them. This was how the visit had begun, her holding Emma and comforting her.

  “I’m going to miss you so much,” Emma whispered.

  “I’m going to miss you, too. But we’ll see each other again,” she said, trying to sound more positive than she felt.

  “When?” Emma pushed away slightly, clenched fists resting against Jamie’s chest. “We both have school and club and the national team, and I leave for North Carolina the first week of August.”

  “August? But school doesn’t start until September.”

  “Pre-season, Jamie. Soccer starts early.”

  She stared at Emma. “Are you saying this is it? I’m not going to see you again before you leave?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She smoothed her hands across the front of Jamie’s fleece. “But that’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want? Because honestly, Emma, I have no idea.” Jamie held her breath. She hadn’t meant to ask. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know the answer.

  Emma looked up at her, hazel eyes dark. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  And there it was. Jamie reached for her hands, holding them briefly before stepping away. “Then maybe it’s time you figure it out.” It came out more harshly than she’d intended, but she didn’t have time to fix this. Her train was being called again. She reached for her bags.

  “Wait,” Emma said, gripping her sleeve. “Don’t leave like this. Please, Jamie. You can’t be mad at me.”

  Actually, she could. But then she remembered that Emma had been angry with her father when he died and now they would never have a chance to make up. God, what was she doing? Emma had been nothing but good to her practically
since the moment they met. She was supposed to be returning that goodness, not punishing her for how she felt. Or, more accurately, how she didn’t feel.

  You can’t help who you fall in love with, she remembered saying to Emma. What was equally true was that you couldn’t help not falling in love with someone, either.

  “Come on then.” As Emma gazed at her uncertainly, she added, “Walk me to my train?” And she held out her duffel bag.

  Nodding quickly, Emma took the bag and followed her from the waiting room down the stairs to the track number printed on her ticket, where a shiny Amtrak train idled. As they reached the platform, Jamie turned and took the duffel, dropping it beside her backpack. Then she pulled Emma into her arms and hugged her tightly again, stroking her hair the way her own mom used to do when she was younger. Emma sighed, hiding her face in her fleece.

  They stood together while people streamed around them until finally Jamie said, “No snot this time, okay? This one’s not waterproof.”

  Emma squeezed her waist and pulled away a little. “Jerk.”

  “For future reference, I’m not mad at you.”

  Emma’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “Completely. I’m mad at this.” She waved between them. “I’m mad that you live so far away. I’m mad that you’re graduating and I’m not. I’m mad that I might never see you again.”

  “You’ll see me again,” Emma said, her voice soft. “You’re my anchor, remember? And I’m yours.”

  Jamie nodded, gazing down at her. “I hope so. Emma, I…” But she stopped. There were so many reasons she couldn’t tell her. So many really good and really awful reasons.

  “I know,” Emma said, reaching up to touch her cheek. “Me, too.”

  And then before Jamie could guess her intent, Emma leaned up and pressed their lips together, her thumb sliding gently across her cheek.

  What the… The thought trailed off as her eyes closed against a rush of sensations. Emma’s lips were soft against hers, their touch as gentle as the hand at Jamie’s waist. She could almost feel the care emanating off of Emma, the tenderness in the way she cradled Jamie’s body lightly against her own as if she were something delicate to be treasured. No one had ever touched her the way Emma did, which shouldn’t have been a surprise because Emma was the only person who had ever looked at her like she actually saw—and appreciated—all of her. And somehow it didn’t really matter that she didn’t know what she was doing or that her hands were resting uncertainly on Emma’s shoulders or…

  All at once, Emma backed away. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry.” And then she turned and rushed away, taking the steps back up to the station two at a time.

  At first Jamie only stared after her, too stunned to do anything else. Then her brain kicked into gear and she called, “Emma, wait! Emma!”

  She wasn’t sure if Emma heard her. If she did, it didn’t stop her from pushing through the station doors and vanishing from sight. Jamie watched the doors as if they might magically re-open and spit Emma back out. What the hell had just happened?

  “Final boarding call for Amtrak Cascades with service to Portland, now departing from track two,” the loud speaker crackled. At least, that was what she thought it said. She was still in shock. Emma had kissed her. Emma Blakeley had kissed her—and then promptly run away. How was that even possible? The kissing part, that is. The running away part seemed all too conceivable. Jamie wanted to go after her so badly that she actually took a step toward the stairs. But then she stopped. The night train to Portland was sold out, which was why she’d promised her parents she would be on this one. The tournament started in the morning and there was no way she could miss the first game. She had promised her coach, too.

  Reluctantly she shouldered her bags and stepped onto the train, soon settling in a window seat in an empty row. The trip would take close to five hours, but the train hadn’t even made it out of the station before she was on her phone dialing Emma. After three rings the call went to voicemail, which meant Emma was either on the phone freaking out to Dani or she’d hit “ignore” when she saw who was calling.

  Crap. Jamie leaned her forehead against the window and ended the call. She couldn’t leave a voicemail. What would she say? “Um, hey, I know you kissed me and pulled a Ty, but I’d really love to talk to you right now and I’m hoping the feeling is mutual.”

  Yeah, no thanks.

  And yet, she couldn’t go to Portland without knowing where they stood, either. She typed a quick text: “Call me? Please?”

  After she hit send, she stared at her phone, chewing on her lower lip. She waited five full minutes, touching the power button every time it started to shut off automatically. Five minutes was a lifetime when you had nothing to occupy your brain. Why wasn’t Emma answering? Maybe she wasn’t near her phone. But the three-rings-to-voicemail situation suggested otherwise.

  To distract herself from the soap opera twilight zone her life had entered, Jamie dug into her backpack and pulled out The Mountains of California. Might as well give Muir a whirl. But after a few minutes of reading the first page of the first chapter (“The Sierra Nevada”) with little to no reading comprehension, she closed the book and looked out the window again, watching as the train traveled farther from the industrial heart of the city.

  Emma had kissed her. She touched her mouth, remembering the feel of the other girl’s lips on hers, soft and warm and tasting of Emma’s vanilla lip balm. She hadn’t known a kiss could be so sweet. Then again, the only thing she had to compare it to was that atrocious spin-the-bottle experience in eighth grade. Michael Henley’s braces had ensured a semi-painful experience, while Trey Renshaw’s kiss had been so fleeting that she didn’t think it counted. And, of course, there was France. But that definitely didn’t count.

  “Come on, Emma,” she murmured, checking her phone again. “Where are you?”

  There was still no response, so she pulled out her iPod and tuned it to the playlist Emma had made her for her birthday, humming along to Pearl Jam’s “Wishlist” while she stared out at gray clouds flitting over the gray-green landscape. I know, Emma had said. And, Me too. What did that mean? Why had she freaked out so badly? It wasn’t like Jamie had put the moves on her.

  And yet now that she was on the train to Portland, she almost wished she had. In bed that morning, she could have turned to Emma and kissed her. She had heard Emma breathing, heard what sounded like the flutter of eyelashes against the pillow they shared. But neither of them had moved until Ty banged on the door and told them they better be decent because he was coming in. At that, Emma had leapt out of bed, run to the door, and thrown it open. The only sign of her brother, though, was his laughter echoing up the stairs.

  “Little bastard,” Emma had muttered as she closed the door.

  By then Jamie’s feet were on the floor, arms stretched over her head as she yawned. She’d thought she caught Emma’s eyes on the strip of skin her raised tank top revealed, but the other girl had turned away quickly and headed for the bathroom. And that was that.

  Now she wished she could have the moment back. Wished she could rewind the clock and wake up all over again in the still-dark room with Emma’s arms around her, their heads resting on the same pillow. She had felt so safe in Emma’s bed, enveloped by her warmth, surrounded by her. Safer than any other moment she could remember in the past year, in fact.

  Nirvana came on, Kurt Cobain singing his famous, unintelligible lyrics about teen spirit, and the memory of feeling safe evaporated. She skipped to the next song, but it wasn’t much better—STP’s “Interstate Love Song,” with lyrics that were a little too close for comfort: leaving on a southbound train, someone lied, time to say goodbye. She paused the music and returned to the main menu, looking for something that wouldn’t make her feel quite so hopeless. Tracy Chapman. That was the ticket. She sang sad songs, but somehow Jamie still managed to feel quasi-optimistic after listening to her.

  She closed her eyes again
st the Western Washington scenery and hummed along with “Fast Car,” wishing she was back in Emma’s car beside her heading anywhere Emma wanted to take her.

  #

  By the time she reached Portland, Jamie was starting to feel more than a little pissed that she hadn’t heard from Emma. Her friend Amy and her mom met her and brought her to the hotel where the team was staying, and still Jamie’s phone stayed silent. All through dinner in downtown Portland with a couple of other families—pasta, for the ultimate in carbo loading—the only texts she got were from people other than Emma. She kept her phone next to her as she and Amy and a couple of other girls watched television and played cards after dinner, but nothing. Finally, right before she went to sleep in a hotel bed next to a girl who was most certainly the wrong girl, she let her anger flare and texted: “Seriously, Emma?” But there was no quick reply, no answer at all before she shut off her phone.

  Soccer did what it always did—took her out of her head and located her inside her body, where she became the action required of her in any given situation: sprinting, tackling, resting, passing, crossing, shooting. She had played with these girls for two years now and knew them better than some of her high school teammates. On the field they were aggressive, all hard tackles and harder goals, while off the field they were goofy. Someone was usually playing a prank on someone else, or telling a joke, or wearing pre-wrap or pony tail holders in unusual, amusing ways. There were teasing remarks about flub-ups on the field, snarky comments about significant others, elaborate jokes about bodily functions, and Jamie joined in as she always did because what was she going to do, allow Emma to ruin the tournament? Not even.

  At breaks in the action, though, she couldn’t help checking her phone, surprised a little less each time by Emma’s continued lack of contact. Jamie didn’t text her again, didn’t call her either. Emma knew how to get in touch if she wanted to. Clearly she didn’t want to. Asshole, she found herself thinking at the end of the second full day of silence. Clearly Emma Blakeley and Justin Tate deserved each other. But thoughts of Justin felt sticky, precarious somehow, so she pushed them away, trying to live in the present moment of rainy soccer fields and uncomplicated team friendships.