For a little while, she had thought she and Jamie might share that path. Maybe they still would someday in the near or far future. But in the meantime, in just under two weeks, she would fly across the country to the place where her collegiate soccer career would begin. And after that, who could say? Being an athlete is a precarious endeavor. You can never be sure if your body—or mind, for that matter—will hold up under the pressure.
For now, though, national championship berths and World Cup victories and Olympic gold medals were still only dreams that she may or may not ever achieve. For now, she thought she wouldn’t mind resting in the circle of her mother’s arms a little longer as the summer sun set over the Olympic Peninsula and a ferry boat cruised across water that rippled orange and pink, reflecting the last light of day from clouds gathering overhead.
~END~
Book Two of the Girls of Summer Series
Thank you for reading Training Ground, the first book in the Girls of Summer series. Don't worry—Emma and Jamie’s story continues in book two, Game Time, due out in autumn 2016! Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first chapter…
GAME TIME, Book Two
Chapter One
~November 2013~
EMMA STROLLED THE AISLES of Fremont’s natural foods co-op, basket slung over one arm, reusable bag and purse on the opposite shoulder. She was getting over a cold and it had taken nearly all of her energy to pull on skinny jeans and a cardigan, so when the two teenaged girls who had been trailing her since the ice cream section finally got up the nerve to tap her shoulder, she was tempted to ignore them. But then she remembered how the last two American professional women’s soccer leagues had folded due to lack of support, and she turned to face them, a smile plastered to her face.
“You’re Emma Blakeley, aren’t you?” the bolder of the two asked, and then giggled, her cheeks turning red as her friend elbowed her.
“Yes. And you are?”
At least they didn’t say they were her biggest fans. They did, however, ask for photos. Emma acquiesced, grateful she had washed her face and redone her pony tail and mascara before leaving her condo. No doubt the photos would be up on Twitter and Instagram before she finished shopping. She gave them her usual plug to support the Reign, the local professional team that had recently completed its inaugural season in the National Women’s Soccer League, and then the two girls skipped off. Sure enough, Emma’s phone vibrated against her hip with a series of notifications as she continued down the juice aisle.
Had she ever been that young? Just then high school seemed impossibly distant. Even though she was back home after nearly a decade on the East Coast, living in Seattle as an adult was significantly different from growing up in the suburbs. Her current life barely resembled her childhood, not least because her brother lived in DC now and her mother had recently moved back to Minnesota. The only thing tying her to Shoreline was Dani who, after ten years in Southern California, had taken a job this summer with a Seattle PR firm. They had seen each other often over the years, given US Soccer’s proximity to Long Beach where Dani had lived and worked after college. But now they saw each other almost daily again, and their friendship had resumed as if they’d never been apart.
Speak of the devil. Emma was about to check out when the text alert she’d picked for Dani—a whistle—sounded. She tapped the screen.
“Call me?” Dani had texted.
“At PCC. Call you in fifteen.”
“Better yet, meet at yours?”
“Perfect. See you soon.”
Emma wondered if her friend’s desire to see her was truly urgent or if her text merely reflected her usual lack of patience with social niceties. With Dani, it was hard to tell the difference.
No one else recognized her as she left PCC and walked to her car, a Subaru Legacy that had been all but given to her by a Bellevue dealership when she’d signed with the Reign. After anchoring the back line in the last World Cup and Olympics and earning all-league honors first in the Women’s Professional Soccer (WPS) league and now in the National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL), she was a recognizable figure in soccer-crazy Seattle.
Ten minutes later, Emma pulled into the parking garage beneath her building on West Highland. Normally she would take the stairs to the third floor, but today she rode the elevator. She still wasn’t feeling back to full strength after the cold she’d managed to pick up during a recent Nike photo shoot in LA.
Her general text alert sounded as she was unlocking the door to her unit, followed immediately by three more chimes. A group chat usually meant either the national team or her club, and with Reign pre-season months away and NT training camp starting in a few weeks, it wasn’t hard to guess which. US Soccer was supposed to release the official camp roster that afternoon. Was that why everyone was feeling so chatty suddenly? For a moment she considered leaving her groceries on the counter and checking the federation’s website, but she was pretty sure she already knew what it said. Besides, Dani would be here momentarily to discuss the implications, no doubt.
Speak of the devil… Emma had just kicked off her Chucks when the buzzer sounded in Dani’s signature rhythm. She buzzed her friend into the building and headed into the kitchen to put away the perishables. A minute later she heard Dani push through the unlocked front door, slamming it as she always did.
“So?” the other woman demanded, rounding the corner from the hall.
Head still in the refrigerator, Emma glanced over her shoulder. “So what?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Apparently not.” She kept her tone even despite the fact she could probably guess what had her oldest friend smiling so smugly.
“Here.” Dani shoved her phone at Emma, who took it and leaned against the nearest counter.
As she’d expected, the browser was open to a US Soccer story about the upcoming national team training camp. She scrolled through the list of players invited to attend, pausing as she read the name: Jamie Maxwell. For the first time during Emma’s tenure on the national team, she and Jamie would both be in LA for residency camp.
Toying with her pony tail, Emma shrugged and handed Dani her phone. “And?”
“You can’t expect me to believe you have no reaction to the idea of spending two weeks with her.”
“It’s been almost a decade. Besides, we’re both professionals. It’ll be fine.”
Dani’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask if it would be fine. I asked how you felt about seeing her.”
“We’ve seen each other before, Dan. Don’t go stirring up drama where it doesn’t exist.”
“Another dodge.” As Emma stared at her, Dani held up her hands. “Fine, I’ll let it go for now—as long as you promise to feed me. As if Mondays don’t suck enough, I missed my afternoon coffee break.”
They settled on Thai and called in the order. Then, wine in hand, they retired to Emma’s living room where large picture windows and a private patio looked out over Kerry Park, the Space Needle, and the lights of downtown. In late November the sun set by four thirty each afternoon, so Emma was used to seeing the city all lit up. Her favorite time of year in her hometown was summer, when the sun didn’t set until after nine and the city skyline remained twilit even later. And yet, she always welcomed the return of rain in autumn. This was her first full year back in Seattle. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the Pacific Northwest until she’d moved back.
At first she’d rented an apartment not far from here, uncertain where soccer would take her in the future. But then Dani convinced her to check out this listing, supposedly just for fun. One visit and Emma knew—this was it. The view from the living room alone had been worth the condo’s exorbitant price tag, an amount paid not by her national team salary—right—but by her endorsements. As one of the higher paid pro women soccer players in the world, she didn’t have to worry about where her next paycheck would come from. Then again, with the trust fund her father had left, she likely wouldn’t ever have to worr
y about affording her more than comfortable lifestyle.
As usual, she and Dani talked about nothing and everything as they waited for their food to be delivered, eventually transferring to the kitchen bar where they spread out their containers of sweet and sour chicken and spicy phad thai. Dani was dating a guy she’d met at a club on one of their frequent nights out in the city—the Reign girls liked to have fun in the off-season—but it wasn’t serious. Emma meanwhile had been single for almost a year and wasn’t looking. With her schedule, having a relationship took way too much effort.
“You don’t have to have an actual relationship to have sex, you know,” Dani said.
“So you say.”
“Are you sure you’re not a lesbian? I’ve heard serial monogamy is big with the Sapphic ladies.”
Emma sipped her wine, trying to decide if she should respond to her friend’s jab or not.
“I know,” Dani said. “It’s the person you’re attracted to, not the gender.”
“At least you don’t call us ‘the gays’ anymore.”
“Not where you can hear me, anyway. Speaking of gay… When’s the last time you saw Jamie? Last year at the Olympics?”
She should have known Dani wouldn’t give up that easily. “You know it is.”
“Do you think this means she’s back in the pool for good?”
“No idea. I’m not on the coaching staff, am I?”
“Ooh, a bit snippy, are we?”
Emma frowned at her. “Seriously, Dan, let it go.”
“Fine,” her friend grumbled. “But I’m here if you decide you want to talk about it.”
After dinner, they poured more wine and caught up on Grey’s Anatomy on DVR. Then Dani hugged her and headed out with promises to text as soon as she got home.
“You’re still coming to Thanksgiving at my house, aren’t you?” Dani asked as she slipped into the hallway.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” She waved as Dani ambled off down the hall.
Alone again, she refilled her wine glass and put her feet up on the coffee table, watching the lights of helicopters and commercial airplanes crossing over the city while Pandora played Adele on her Bluetooth speakers. Jamie Maxwell. It was hard to believe they would finally be in LA together after all these years. Jamie had worked out with them in London before the Olympics the previous summer, but she had only been around for a handful of practices and had gone home to her own flat each night. Residency camp was different. Camp meant two weeks sequestered together in the same hotel where Jamie had ended their friendship back in the day. Two weeks of double sessions, team meetings, group meals, bonding exercises, and general hanging out while cameras documented their every move. You know, to make things even more interesting.
The modern obsession with cameras wasn’t all bad, of course. Emma would never admit as much to Dani, but she’d kept track of Jamie not only via the national team’s impressive grapevine but also on social media, where she’d been stalking—er, following her for years. It wasn’t like she could be considered a genuine creeper, she assured herself whenever she pulled up Jamie’s Facebook page, Twitter feed, or Instagram profile. She only checked once in a while to see if their paths might cross. Because as professional American soccer players with a whole slew of friends in common, their paths were bound to cross.
The first time they had, in the summer of 2010, it had been six long years since their friendship blew up. By then Emma had been a pro for two years and a mainstay on the national team for three, while Jamie was in her first professional season with the WPS after a solid career at Stanford. Emma was playing in Boston that year for the Breakers while Jamie had been drafted by the Bay Area side, FC Gold Pride, at the end of her senior year of college. That season, their teams were scheduled to meet four times. But midway through the summer, Emma learned that Jamie had torn her ACL—right before her first scheduled call-up to the senior national team.
Her ACL surgery and recovery took her out of contention for the 2011 World Cup squad. That team played so well—despite losing to Japan in the finals—that the coaching staff decided not to make any significant changes going into the 2012 Olympics. As a result, Jamie didn’t make it back into the pool until a few months after the Olympics. This time it was Emma’s bad luck that kept them apart. Sidelined by a burst appendix midway through the gold medal victory tour, she’d had to watch from her mother’s living room in Minneapolis while Jamie won her first cap against Ireland before a huge crowd in Portland. She’d played beautifully, assisting on not one but two goals in the twenty minutes she was on the field, and Emma couldn’t help but be excited for her—and for the team, too. Jamie was still one of the most talented playmakers Emma had encountered, and she had long believed Jamie deserved a spot on the national team. If only she could stay healthy long enough to win it.
Emma had been watching with her mom again a few days later when Jamie started the second half, again against Ireland but in Arizona this time. Watching, too, when an Irish player slide-tackled her clumsily at midfield. Jamie’s initial scream had echoed throughout the suddenly silent stadium, and as Fox ran the replay on a loop, the sickening snap of her ankle could be heard over the crowd’s collective gasp. Emma had held tightly to her mother’s hand as they watched the trainers load Jamie onto a stretcher, her lower leg immobilized. That was it for Jamie’s first call-up. By the time Emma rejoined the national team for January camp in LA, Jamie was already back in England with her club side trying to make it back from her second potential career-ending injury in less than three years.
As the months passed, Emma hadn’t been surprised to learn that not only did Jamie recover, she went on to post the best stats of her professional career to date. Jamie had proven before that she was a survivor. Her perseverance had earned her another shot at joining the national team pool, and this time there would be no avoiding being in the same place at the same time.
Assuming they both stayed healthy. But it was the off-season in England, too, so unless Jamie injured herself skateboarding—she’d posted more than one Instagram video of herself cruising down a London street on a long board—they would soon be together for thirteen intense, fun-filled days and nights at US Soccer headquarters in sunny Southern California.
Please don’t let us be roommates, Emma thought, sipping from her wine as a helicopter flew past the Space Needle, the whir of its rotor blades a blur against the night sky.
#
When the familiar Los Angeles exchange flashed on her phone a few days before Thanksgiving, Jamie ducked into the kitchen, took a few calming breaths, and managed to say in a voice that didn’t tremble at all, “Hello?”
“Jamie Maxwell?”
“This is.” She bit her lip, trying to control her heart rate through sheer force of will.
“Carrie Fitzsimmons here, manager for the US Women’s National Team. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ma’am? Really?
“Glad to hear it. First of all, congratulations on another fantastic season at Arsenal. A lot of people on both sides of the pond were impressed with the season you put together, especially after what happened against Ireland last year.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” And there it was again.
Out of habit, she painted a circle on the floor with her right toe, relieved as always when the ankle joint operated flawlessly. After that Irish hooligan had destroyed her latest national team dream, she had almost given up. But here she was a year later, stronger and faster than ever and fielding a call from the federation.
“How’s that ankle treating you these days, anyway?”
“Fine. No problems.”
“And are you match fit?”
“I am. We were up in Scotland a couple of weeks ago for Champions League.”
“All right, then. I won’t draw out the suspense. You may have heard we’re putting together a training camp in LA next month. We’d like you to attend—if you’re available.”
Jamie made herself pause
a beat before replying. “I’d love to be there. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“It’s nothing you haven’t earned. Is your email address still the same?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send you the details, then. We need to move quickly to get your travel arrangements made, so don’t be a stranger.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And for the win…
As soon as they hung up, Jamie sent a group text to her dad, sister, and best friend: “Guess who’s going to national team training camp in LA next month?!”
Meg’s reply came all of ten seconds later: “My awesome baby sister! Woo hoo!!!”
Britt’s reply followed: “Way to go, stud!”
And her dad wrote, “That’s my girl!”
“So? Did they invite you back?”
Jamie glanced up to see her girlfriend watching her from the kitchen doorway. “Yeah, they did.”
Clare closed her eyes briefly and nodded. Then she moved forward and pulled Jamie into a hug, fitting her head under Jamie’s chin as she always did. “Well done, love. I’m happy for you.”
Was she, though? Jamie wouldn’t blame Clare for being uneasy. Her first call-up had come exactly a year earlier, and Clare had been watching the game with friends when she went down. The injury had brought them closer in the end, but for a while Jamie had struggled. Last January in particular had been a dark time, the darkest she could remember since the aftermath of a certain trip to France ten years earlier. Clare had stayed at her side as she worked to lift herself back into the light, but it had been a difficult road for them both. And now here she was ready to risk her own health and their joint happiness for another shot at the dream that had always eluded her.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, rubbing a gentle circle against her girlfriend’s back. “I promise.”
Clare leaned back and gave her a look that said she shouldn’t make promises she might not be able to keep. Then Jamie’s phone buzzed again.
Training Ground Page 29
