“What would you do to change things up? You must have some ideas.”
“Maybe,” Jamie allowed. “I kind of like Chelsea’s take on the 4-5-1. I know people say it’s all about defense, but it seems like a modified version of Gardiola’s 4-3-3 to me, with the striker on top free to create without having to worry as much about defensive responsibilities.”
At that, Jo laughed a little and shook her head.
“What?” Jamie asked.
“Are you sure you haven’t been a fly on the wall at our coaches meetings? Because that’s one option we’ve been discussing. You may have a future in managing, kiddo.”
Managing? Jamie tested the idea, picturing herself in Melanie’s role as an assistant with the national team or even, someday, Jo’s. Huh. She could almost see it.
“What about you personally?” Jo asked. “How did you feel out there?”
“Slow,” Jamie admitted, sure her leaden legs had shown.
“Too much soccer lately, or not enough?”
Jamie thought about the question. “Neither. More like too much thinking. Usually when I play, everything else fades away. But not today. I couldn’t get my mind to stop spiraling.”
“Spiraling, huh. You do tai chi, don’t you?”
“Usually, but it’s been hard to work it in lately. Our schedule’s been so wonky.”
“Wonky is the perfect word, and unfortunately, it’s not about to change anytime soon. So what can we do to make sure you don’t miss your self-care routine moving forward?”
The phrase “self-care routine” was so reminiscent of trauma recovery doctrine that Jamie startled slightly. Jo was watching her as calmly as ever, her eyes and face warm and engaged. Was this an opening? Did she know that Jamie knew that she knew? Had Emma…? But no, Emma would have said something if she’d spoken to Jo again. Wouldn’t she?
Jamie glanced down at her phone and smoothed her thumb across the power button. “I have an exercise app I use most days. I guess I could add an entry for tai chi right after I brush my teeth at night.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Let me know if you need help. Lacey, I’m sure, could always be convinced to develop a team-wide model for habit development and retention.”
Her tone was dry, and Jamie smiled. “No doubt.”
“Well, if there’s nothing else…” Jo said, lifting an eyebrow.
Jamie paused, chewing her lip. The other woman seemed to be waiting for something. Was this about Lyon? Only one way to find out.
“Emma told me you knew,” she blurted, entirely unrehearsed. “About Lyon—from Pete, I mean.”
“Ah,” Jo said, nodding. “And you have questions for me?”
“Not really. Or, I mean, maybe just one?” As Jo gazed her at encouragingly, she added, “I guess I just wonder—would I even be here without, you know, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Jo said. “Only you can answer that question.”
Jamie frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you are who you are now because of your history. Would you have persevered through injury after injury if you didn’t already know how strong you were? If you didn’t already understand what it means to be a survivor?”
Jamie toyed with the hem of her shorts while she thought back to the year that had followed the worst night of her life. In the immediate aftermath, she had struggled. Hard. She’d even considered ending her life when the pain and fear had seemed too much to live with. But then her parents introduced her to Shoshanna, and Jamie had slowly begun to emerge from the darkness. One of the many useful things Shoshanna had taught her was that pain exists both as a learning tool and as a motivation to heal and repair whatever has been injured. If you burn your arm on the door of a wood stove, you’ll remember the next time you load the stove to be careful of the hot door. You’ll also want to treat the burn because if you don’t, it might become infected, which could lead to increased suffering.
Shoshanna approached psychological injury from a similar vantage point. Under her tutelage, Jamie had learned to heal her emotional wounds by reconditioning her outlook to match who she wanted to be, not who she had been during and immediately after her assault. Shoshanna had encouraged her to use the pain of the attack as a motivator to heal and improve rather than sinking under the weight of her shame and anger. Part of that improvement had included focusing on what she loved most—soccer—and becoming as good at it as she possibly could. Flourishing in the aftermath of psychological injury was one of Shoshanna’s central goals for the sexual assault survivors she counseled.
Jo was right: What had happened in France was part of Jamie, as was the difficult and rewarding work she’d done afterward on the road to recovery.
“I don’t know if you remember the pre-game talk I gave in Brazil,” Jo said when Jamie remained silent. “It’s one of my favorites, based on the premise that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I genuinely believe that we’re all shaped by our experiences. Sometimes we’re led by love, and other times we’re forged by fire. But metal that’s heated isn’t only more pliable; it’s also stronger. And yes, I know, I’m getting all inspirational speaker-ish here. But one of the things I appreciate most about you, Jamie, is your ability to fight. You fought through Lyon and its aftermath. You fought back from your ACL injury and then again from a broken ankle. You know what that stubborn persistence tells me about you? That you’re a warrior. And I need a team of warriors because the World Cup is serious business, and I need serious people to help me bring that title back to this country.”
Jamie was already smiling by the time Jo finished. “You stole that line from a movie, didn’t you?”
Jo smiled back. “Only the last part.” She hesitated and then held her arms open. “You’re here because you earned your spot, Jamie. I promise.”
Jamie scooted forward and let herself be hugged. “Thanks, Coach.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Jo patted her back and then pushed her away in a typical jock move. “Now get out of here and rest up. R&R takes a surprising amount of energy.”
“At least we get to sleep in.”
“True. Have a good night, kiddo.”
“You, too,” Jamie said, and gave Jo a two-fingered salute before slipping out of the suite.
At the end of the corridor, which looked like every other hotel hallway she’d ever been in, Jamie bypassed the elevator and headed down the stairs to her own floor. The talk with Jo hadn’t gone at all how she’d expected, but it had been good. With every step, she felt her muscles flex, felt how, if she wanted, she could run a 5K right now, even after playing a full match earlier in the day. The listlessness that had plagued her during the game was gone, and her head felt clear. Jo, she was beginning to think, was a genius at assessing her players and their needs. That was why she got the big bucks, Jamie supposed. Though nowhere near the big bucks the US Men’s National Team coach received, of course.
Later, after brushing her teeth and tying chi, as Angie liked to call it, for a solid fifteen minutes, Jamie lay in her hotel bed and stared up at the ceiling. Back to basics, she reminded herself. Control the things you can—attitude, work ethic, and effort—and let go of the things you can’t.
She had this. Or, she would after team vacation, anyway.
#
It wasn’t an actual vacation, more like a 48-hour break from pre-World Cup scrutiny. Jamie and Emma took advantage of the free time by booking a hotel suite on the Upper West Side not far from the Museum of Natural History, just the two of them for two whole nights.
During the day, they dined on their favorite Cheat Day foods—pizza, cheeseburgers, and fries—and hung out with their friends on the team. “The national team takes Manhattan!” Jamie, Britt, and Angie took inordinate pleasure in shouting randomly as they rollerbladed through Central Park or surveyed the city skyline from the top of the Empire State Building. At night, Jamie and Emma retired to their quiet room in an ornate older building whose gargo
yles reminded Jamie of Ghostbusters. Emma had stayed there the previous year during a trip to meet with one of the medical foundations her family was involved with, and Jamie fell in love with the room’s Victorian feel and the view of the San Remo and Central Park in the distance. But what she loved most of all was the plush king-size bed that she and Emma could stretch out on, or roll across, or even (it was only once) tumble off of during a particularly passionate moment.
They weren’t hurt, fortunately. Otherwise, Ellie and Jo would have killed them. Jamie didn’t really think she would blame them, either. If the news got out that two USWNT starters managed to injure themselves days before the start of the World Cup while engaging in spirited lesbian sexcapades? Yeah, that wouldn’t be completely embarrassing or anything. Not to mention, likely a violation of US Soccer’s personal conduct clause.
But 48 hours off the federation clock was always going to go too fast, and soon it was their last morning drinking coffee and tea in the hotel restaurant and dining on the flakiest croissants Jamie had ever had the pleasure to taste. Soon, very soon, they would have to catch a cab to JFK to meet the rest of the team for their flight to Winnipeg. While Jamie was beyond ready for the World Cup to start, she would miss being off the team clock with Emma. At least they were going to Canada together. Other players were about to embark on an extended absence from their partners, except for Phoebe, whose college soccer coach husband had the summer off and would be following the US team around Canada for the next five weeks.
Across the breakfast table, Emma had her phone out and kept showing Jamie her favorite photos from their tour of NYC. She had uploaded a few to her private Facebook page, as had Jamie, but in general they refrained from sharing anything too personal. Facebook and Instagram weren’t the most secure platforms, and even if they had been, passwords could always be hacked. That was one reason Jamie had never posed for a naked pic of any kind. Well, that and she was at heart a giant prude. Pictures that showed off her tattoos were one thing, but boobs or other body parts? No, thanks.
“What about this one?” Emma asked, holding up her phone.
“Aw, I love that one,” Jamie said.
Maddie had taken the shot of them on the Empire State Building’s observation deck. The photo was from behind, and Emma had her arm around Jamie’s waist and her lips pressed to her cheek in a stolen kiss. Jamie was turned toward her slightly, and with her Sanskrit bicep tattoo and part of her Phoenix tattoo visible under her racing back tank top, it was obvious just whom Emma was kissing.
Emma stared down at her phone, lips pursed. “Maddie always takes the best shots of us, doesn’t she?”
“I know. I really feel like we should return the favor, but I think our picture-taking skills might be crap.”
“Mine are, but you’re the artist in this relationship.”
Jamie smiled into her tea. So many things about that sentence and the soft tone Emma had delivered it in made her happy.
“All right then,” Emma announced, suddenly businesslike. “I’m putting it on Instagram.”
“Cool,” Jamie said, and took another bite of her croissant, the buttery dough instantly melting on her tongue.
“My public Instagram,” Emma clarified, her fingers moving over her phone screen.
Jamie looked up. “Your public—but that’s linked to your Twitter feed, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.”
“But you’re kissing me!”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” She winked exaggeratedly at Jamie. “Get it? Like the Melissa Etheridge album?”
“I am a lesbian, Emma. But what exactly are you trying to do here?”
“As a lesbian, shouldn’t you understand the concept of coming out?”
Jamie felt her jaw drop. “Wait, what?”
Emma shrugged. “I thought about what you said, and you’re right. I could help a lot of people. Plus we’re under a social media blackout, so you know, this is the perfect time to do it.” As Jamie continued to stare at her, she added, “Honestly, in a few days, no one’s going to care who’s kissing who.”
Her reasoning made sense, but was this really the time to call attention to their relationship? Would they end up being a distraction to the team? Given the way they’d played on Saturday, they probably couldn’t be blamed for any future poor showing. The offense had been struggling since long before Jamie had joined the team. If anything, their stats had improved since she’d been on the scene.
“I don’t know, Em,” she said, “I thought—I mean, I didn’t think you wanted people to know about us.”
Emma sighed quietly. “I know, and I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I love you, Jamie, and I’m not afraid for people to know that.”
Jamie blinked and exhaled long and slow. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure of you. Everyone else, not so much.” But Emma hit the post button anyway, sending their photo out into the Interwebs along with the caption, “It’s been real, New York! See you on the flip side. GO USA!!!”
“Should we have warned Caroline?” Jamie asked half an hour later as their cab driver took them across the city, flying over slight hills and banking around corners as if they were in a chase scene from a movie. Her phone had lit up with so many notifications that she’d had to turn off her social media feed, but her text messages weren’t as easy to silence. The team’s PR manager had informed her that her presence was requested in a meeting as soon as they landed in Winnipeg.
Emma showed her a matching message on her screen. “What are they going to do, kick us off the team right before the World Cup starts? We’re riding the wave, babe, and they can’t risk knocking us off the board.”
“Ooh, nice analogy,” Jamie said. “That’s why you decided to do it now, isn’t it? Because the world’s eyes are literally upon us?” It was so clever, perfectly befitting the captain of the national team’s nerd squad.
“Maybe. Anyway, it’s not like we broke the terms of our contract. We weren’t on team time, and a kiss on the cheek is hardly a violation of the relationship clause.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re a genius and I love you?” Jamie asked, grinning at her girlfriend.
“Keep it coming,” Emma joked.
“No, I’m serious. I’m really proud of you,” she said, squeezing Emma’s hand.
“Thanks,” Emma said softly, intertwining their fingers and holding on tight. “The feeling is completely mutual.”
They didn’t let go until they reached the airport where their teammates mobbed them and congratulated Emma on sort of, pretty much coming out. And then they were boarding the plane that would take them to Canada, where the title of World Cup champion was on the line. As Emma had predicted, that would no doubt overshadow everything—even #Blakewell’s first official public (cheek) kiss.
As the plane taxied down the runway, Jamie thought of Jessica North, one of the last players cut before the World Cup. She hoped North saw the photo and was forced to recognize once again that Jamie and Emma were headed to Canada together to represent the stars and stripes while she would be stuck at home, watching the World Cup on television knowing that almost could have been her.
Karma really is a bitch sometimes. Even for those who don’t believe in it.
Chapter Ten
“Hold the elevator,” Emma called, jogging down the hotel corridor. She’d gone back to her room before dinner to grab her purse, even though she didn’t really need it. But after what had happened in St. Louis, she didn’t like to be far from her mace. So here she was, racing to catch the elevator she had heard ding from halfway down the hall.
She skidded to a stop in the elevator alcove, her words of thanks freezing on her tongue as she came face-to-face with Taylor O’Brien standing beside three women Emma immediately recognized as Australian national team members. This wasn’t awkward or anything, given the US and Australia would be opening up their World Cup group play in just a few hours. Against each other.
“Emma,” Taylor sai
d, the relief in her voice palpable. “Hi.”
Emma hid a smile and stepped into the elevator car. “Hey, Taylor.” As the doors slid closed behind her, she slipped past Taylor and pulled Elizabeth Trent into a firm hug, smacking her on the back. “Lizzie!”
“Blakie!” Elizabeth crowed back, and they pulled away, laughing.
“I can’t believe I haven’t run into you yet,” Emma said, giving Trent’s teammates a jock nod—silent eye contact with a quick upward jerk of the chin. They returned the gesture as Taylor looked on, mouth slightly open. Emma only just resisted teasing her about catching flies.
“Same,” her Aussie friend said. “I mean, we got here the same day you did.”
“I think our federations have been trying to keep us apart,” Emma confided.
“Whatever,” Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like we’re guys. You’d think they would know by now how small the women’s football world is.”
“Right? I bet the only reason they didn’t stagger the meal schedule today is because it’s Game Day.” As the elevator arrived on the ground floor, she added, “By the way, this is Taylor O’Brien. Taylor, this is Elizabeth Trent. We played together in Boston back in the day.”
The door opened, depositing them in the hotel lobby, and all five women filed out, heading for the hall where the team meal rooms were situated. Along the way, Trent introduced her teammates, two of the “whippersnappers,” as she called them fondly, who had recently “invaded” the Aussie national team. Emma smiled at the newbies, but the Australian pair merely eyed her suspiciously and sped away as soon as they reached the meal rooms. Taylor waved awkwardly and also skedaddled.
“Oh my god, did you see their faces?” Trent asked as she lingered beside Emma in the corridor.
“Totally. Newbies. What can you do?”
“They are so going to have their minds blown.” Trent’s expression grew sly. “Speaking of fresh blood, I understand you’re dating a newcomer yourself.”
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