Girls of Summer

by Kate Christie

  Jamie released her arm. “I wouldn’t call it a speech, but yes, I did say that. And I still think you could help a lot of kids by coming out. But I said that before you told me about Boston, before I knew why you and Sam broke up. I mean, I would love it if you were okay with us being more public, I’m not going to lie. But I don’t need it. It doesn’t have to be an issue between us, Emma. That’s what I’m saying.”

  Emma squinted at her, and then she sighed a little, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “Really? Because I saw the way you looked at them today…”

  “So I’m a little jealous that they’re not world famous athletes with restrictive relationship clauses in their employment contracts. Can you blame me?”

  Emma smiled and shook her head. “No. Nope, I can’t.”

  “Good,” Jamie said. “Now come on. Don’t want to be late for virtual reality, do we?”

  They were almost back to Penn Station when Emma glanced over at her and said, “So Laurie was a senior when you were a sophomore?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “Just like me.”

  “Just like you.”

  “Huh,” Emma said, and her voice dropped. “Do you perchance have a thing for older women, Maxwell?”

  “Apparently,” Jamie replied, sliding her hand across Emma’s back and letting it rest briefly against the curve of her waist. From experience, Jamie knew that the skin there was soft and supple, and yet just beneath the surface Emma’s abs were as strong as steel. Or rocks. Or whatever other abdominal-defying simile was currently most popular on the Interwebs.

  “Why,” Emma teased, “because you need someone to look after you?”

  Jamie shifted her caress into a light squeeze. “No, because I’m more mature than the average person my age.”

  “Right.” Emma coughed into her elbow, the words she muttered clearly audible: “Skateboarding while stoned.”

  “You know I don’t do that anymore!”

  “Oh, yeah? When was the last time? We’re talking ballpark. The year will do.”

  Jamie sighed, her eyes seeking the train station only a block away now. “2012.”

  Emma burst out laughing.

  “What?” Jamie went for the easy guilt trip. “It was hard watching some of my closest friends win a gold medal without me.”

  Emma’s smile faded into something softer. “Aw, I know.”

  “You don’t, though.” She stopped and bit her lip, realizing that the joke had somehow turned sour. She’d been about to say that Emma had never really suffered, that she’d been handed everything. That she was, maybe, spoiled. But that wasn’t fair. While Emma may have come from a place of privilege—as did Jamie; as did most American soccer players, especially of the white, female variety—she had risen to where she was now by working her ass off. You couldn’t play at their level without sacrificing friendships, relationships, family events. Not everyone understood being chucked over for a soccer tournament, even if it was to qualify for the World Cup or the Olympics.

  Then there was the constant work to keep your body at an elite level. You could take a day or two off here and there, even a week every once in a while. But the older you got, the harder it was to come back. That was why most of the athletes Jamie knew subsisted on a steady diet of carbs, protein, and exercise; why routine ruled the life of even the most gym-averse professional soccer player. The level of focus required—on diet, sleep habits, exercise regimes—to maintain supremacy in a sport where there was always someone younger, faster, hungrier aching for a shot at your spot ensured that Emma and Jamie and everyone else on the national team was about as far from spoiled as a person could get.

  “You’re right,” Emma admitted, her hand brushing Jamie’s. “I don’t know what that felt like. But you’re here now, and I, for one, am thrilled you made the roster. Even if you occasionally still show the decision-making skills of, say, a fourteen-year-old boy.”

  Jamie tilted her head. “That’s fair.” She wished she could kiss Emma’s cheek, wished she could let her lips linger on the warm skin that would likely smell faintly of foundation and an earthier scent that was all Emma. But she contented herself with a return smile. “I’m glad I made the roster, too—even though that means I now have to suffer through Media Day.”

  A sign on a stone building they were passing caught her eye: The Church of St. Francis of Assisi. She glanced into a courtyard, and sure enough, there was the church named for the patron saint of animals and nature, a corner of quiet in the most unquiet city Jamie had ever known. It seemed like a sign. It was a sign, wasn’t it?

  “It’ll be fine,” Emma assured her as they reached the station.

  Jamie pulled open the door and held it for Emma. “How do you know?”

  “Because this isn’t my first rodeo, remember?” They crossed the station, following signs to the PATH train back to New Jersey. “And even if it’s not, it isn’t like video and audio recordings are forever.”

  Jamie only just stopped herself from smacking Emma in the ass. Instead, she contented herself with a flick to her girlfriend’s shoulder. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t,” Emma said, smirking at her as they found the correct stairwell. “Last one to the platform has to do the other one’s laundry!” she added, and sprinted ahead.

  Technically, the team’s laundry was done by unlucky federation interns. But that didn’t prevent Jamie from sprinting after her. Emma’s quad was sore, after all, a weakness Jamie fully intended to exploit. Emma, she knew, would have done the same.

  As she gained on her laughing girlfriend, Jamie remembered what Laurie had said: “I thought you would be happier with someone who shares your passion.” Her ex had been completely right about that.

  She passed Emma at the very last stair and blew past her onto the train platform, still laughing as waiting passengers glanced up from their phones disapprovingly.

  “Jerk!” Emma said, and stuck her tongue out.

  Jamie glanced around to make sure they no one was in earshot before saying, “That’s what you get for getting involved with someone younger, old lady.” And then she was off down the platform, Emma’s indignant laughter echoing in her ears.

  They could do this, she thought as Emma caught up to her and they found a spot to wait. With Emma at her side, even facing down 200 sports reporters at Media Day didn’t seem as daunting.

  Or did it? The jury was still out on that one.

  Chapter Nine

  As the opening chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner” rang out across Red Bull Arena, Jamie stood on the field with her teammates and surveyed the sold-out crowd, sweat pooling at the small of her back in the early summer heat. As a West Coaster, she had never been a fan of this kind of heat and humidity, but this was a good warm-up for the World Cup. Canada might be north of the border, but summer temperatures for many of the tournament sites averaged in the 90s.

  The anthem ended and the starters gathered for a photo, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiles wide. Jamie could feel the anticipation rising in the stadium, both among the fans and among her teammates. Finally, they were playing an actual match. The game against Korea—the last match of the send-off series—was supposedly the reason they’d come to New Jersey. But while the past few days had been filled with the usual training sessions on the field and in the classroom, multiple formation walk-throughs, and individual and team video analysis, they had also been chock full of media appearances. Fortunately, the PR team provided training on public speaking at most national team camps, and since they’d arrived on the East Coast, Caroline and her staff had spent time after dinner each night coaching them up. Jamie was pretty sure their tutelage was the only reason she had survived Media Day.

  First on the docket at the hotel on Times Square had been a surprise lunch visit from Robin Roberts, during which the Good Morning America anchor had delivered an inspirational speech about overcoming breast cancer and leukemia. Her talk, during which she thanked the players for taking the T
itle IX baton and “just running with it,” had rightfully gotten the team buzzing about character and perspective, two of the life lessons Roberts had highlighted. Her visit had been the perfect lead-in to what had easily been the most nerve-wracking experience of Jamie’s life. But each time she had felt herself close to floundering during the individual sessions, when each player was given their own microphone to respond to questions from reporters, she had channeled an image of Roberts speaking a few hours earlier. After all, being on the proverbial hot seat wasn’t anything like sitting in a chair for hours on end while life-saving medicine poured through your veins, setting your nerve endings aflame.

  After Media Day, the team appearance on stage at Good Morning America the following day had felt like a breeze to Jamie, mostly because she hadn’t been tasked with holding a microphone or responding to Robin Roberts’s questions. Being on camera wasn’t one of her strengths. She’d been interviewed like everyone else for her individual player profile on US Soccer’s YouTube site, and she’d appeared in a few promo videos, but usually not with a speaking part. She felt fairly confident standing in the group with her tattooed arms folded and her game face showing, but anything else? Not so much. She couldn’t even bear to watch her “23 Stories” video once she’d approved the demo.

  Emma, on the other hand, was accustomed to center stage in US Soccer’s many promo videos. Along with Ellie and Jenny, she’d volunteered to handle one of the mics on GMA. They’d all done beautifully, of course. They had seemed comfortable chatting with Ed Sheeran backstage, too, another feat that had proved beyond Jamie’s abilities. She’d been too tongue-tied to even think of trying to request a selfie with him. Celebrity interactions with anyone other than her famous girlfriend and their teammates was not really her thing.

  During their two minutes of on-camera fame, Robin Roberts had given a shout-out to Angie’s birthday. Jamie and Britt had elbowed their friend as a band of American Outlaw supporters in the crowd cranked up their instruments and sang the birthday song to a blushing Angie. Only half an hour from where she’d grown up, Angie was in her element in the New York metro area. Jo had even given her the start today against South Korea, and her name had drawn an even larger roar from the crowd than Ellie’s. Or maybe an equivalent one. It had only been three weeks since Ellie had broken the international scoring record, and the crowd was clearly pumped to see history made.

  As the team gathered for its final pre-match cheer, Jamie was just pumped to finally play.

  The game started well enough, with an American goal opportunity almost immediately after kickoff. But Jenny clanged the ball off the crossbar, and as the Korean keeper grabbed the rebound and motioned her team upfield, Jamie could feel it: The doldrums were settling in.

  It happened like that sometimes. One missed shot, one foul call, one yellow card, and a team’s energy would crash for no discernible reason. Warm-up had felt a bit tight, in Jamie’s opinion, but not tight enough for what followed. The US team couldn’t seem to find their footing. Not literally because Red Bull Arena offered a beautiful, natural grass surface. The field was in excellent shape, so it couldn’t be blamed for their poor passing or sluggish shape. The blame lay squarely on the players because soccer was a players’ game.

  Coaching decisions could also take a toll. Like most of her teammates, Jamie believed that tasking Ellie and Rebecca with serving as the lone strikers up top while Jenny played outside midfielder was not the best use of personnel. Ellie might be the leading scorer in the world, but she was no spring chicken, as she herself would be the first to admit. Making her responsible for pressuring half the offensive quadrant meant she spent more time chasing down the ball than capitalizing on scoring opportunities. What was wrong with the formation from the previous two matches, with Maddie playing the ten and Jamie the six beside Gabe, with Ellie, Jenny, and Rebecca sharing striker honors? Honestly, the final game of the send-off series was hardly the time to be experimenting with the line-up, Jamie had heard more than one player complain. While she understood that they had to be ready to switch things up in Canada in case of injury or fouls, she suspected that today’s personnel changes had translated into a lack of confidence across the board.

  Whatever the cause, Jo suggested strongly at halftime that they figure it out and FIX IT. The stadium was full of fans looking to send them off in style with a solid victory under their belts.

  They didn’t fix it. The lethargy continued in the second half, and Jamie could almost feel the disappointment pressing down on the crowd as the minutes ticked steadily away without a score on either side. When the final whistle blew with the score tied 0-0, the crowd applause was more polite than passionate. The team shook hands with their heads down. They’d played to a scoreless draw against South Korea, a team they’d beaten on seven previous tries. Jamie could imagine what the press would say about what could essentially be considered a loss on the eve of the World Cup. It didn’t help that she’d played poorly, either. She had only just earned her starting spot. She couldn’t afford to blow it this close to Canada.

  The day wasn’t a total soccer bust, though. The 2015 FA Cup final that morning at Wembley Stadium had seen Arsenal defeat Aston Villa for a record 12th title. Not only that, but Arsenal had finished the season ahead of Manchester United, as Jamie delighted in reminding Emma over dinner that night.

  “Whatever,” Emma said. “At least we both made Champions League.”

  “Your boys barely made it,” Jamie said. Only the top four teams in the Premier League advanced to the group stage of Champions League, and their teams had come in third and fourth, respectively.

  “Winning ugly counts just as much as winning pretty,” Emma said primly.

  “I guess Man U would know about winning ugly.” As Emma narrowed her eyes, Jamie laughed. “You said it, not me!”

  Their match against Korea had ended an hour earlier, and now they were stuffing food into their mouths as fast as they could, chatting about anything and everything—except the game. Usually after a friendly, everyone wanted to dissect the match. Tonight, though, that wasn’t the case.

  “Maxwell.”

  Jamie glanced up from her plate, her smile fading as she realized Jo was standing at the end of the table. “Yeah, Coach?” she asked, swallowing in what she hoped was a subtle manner rather than one that revealed her sudden abject fear.

  “Visit me later, will you?”

  “In your room?” Jamie asked, her mind not firing on its usual cylinders.

  Jo’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, in my room. Twenty minutes, okay?”

  “Yes, m’a—sure thing.”

  “Ooooh,” Angie murmured once their head coach was out of earshot. “Someone’s in trouble. Were you out of your room again, Max?”

  Jamie was pretty sure this was a reference to their youth days. Specifically, to the night she found out about Tori Parker and snuck out of her room to call Emma. Thank god those days were over, never—she hoped—to return.

  “Nah,” she said casually. “She probably just wants to talk about you.”

  “Jamie’s in tr—wait, what?” Angie frowned.

  “You know, about the thing that happened on GMA with the Outlaws.”

  Angie stared at her, the wheels turning inside her head almost audible.

  Jamie couldn’t help it—she cracked up. “Oh my god, you should see your face.”

  “Hey, that wasn’t funny,” Angie complained.

  “It was totally funny,” Britt said, and held out her fist for Jamie to bump.

  Emma caught her eye, her expression encouraging. Jamie nodded, trying to project confidence. Fake it ’til you make it, a lesson she’d learned in therapy, was a useful tool in manifold situations.

  Any semblance of humor fled as soon as she started the short walk to the elevator. Oh god oh god oh god, please don’t let her bench me. She repeated the words over and over like a mantra, even though she understood at some level that doing so was as ineffective as most such prayers. Jami
e had no control over the coach’s decisions regarding playing time. All she could do was show up and try her hardest, and hope that was enough.

  The USWNT coach was alone in her suite, reading glasses propped on top of her head, trusty laptop on the coffee table. “Jamie,” she said, closing the computer. “How are you doing?”

  Jamie perched on the other end of the sofa, trying to keep her jumpy legs still. “Fine, thanks. How are you?”

  Jo smiled slightly. “I’m well. You know, not many people ask me that.”

  “Probably because they’re scared of you,” Jamie posited, and then immediately backtracked. “Not that there’s anything to be afraid of.”

  “Thanks,” Jo said. “I think. So, this will be your first World Cup with the senior side. Are you feeling prepared?”

  “I think so. At least, as much as I can be. Emma and Ellie say you can’t really anticipate what it will be like until you’ve done it, so…” She shrugged, unsure what Jo was looking for.

  “How did you feel about the game today?”

  “Oh. Um, not so good, I guess?”

  “Which part? Or parts. It doesn’t have to be just one thing.”

  “Well, the team wasn’t really clicking,” Jamie said. “I mean, obviously.”

  “Okay. Why do you think that is?”

  Jamie frowned, regarding the woman before her. She had watched Jo play for the national team when she was younger, and then she’d played for Jo on the under-16 and under-23 sides. Jo had been her role model, her mentor, her leader. Was she really asking Jamie to share her thoughts about the team, or was there something else going on?

  “I think the scoring struggle is real,” she said, her tone cautious.

  “Yes, but why? In your opinion.”

  Jo had always valued direct communication, so Jamie took a breath and said, “It seems like our midfielders and strikers aren’t making the kinds of connections we need. The 4-4-2 feels a little old fashioned, to be honest.”