“Speaking of inferior opponents,” Jenny Latham said as she did squats and lunges in the waist-high water, “anyone want to bet on whether or not we get a day off before Sweden? I’ve got twenty bucks that says we will.”
Several people splashed water at Jenny, who protested even as she tried to defend herself. “What? I’m only trying to make things interesting!”
Emma exchanged a look with Maddie that clearly indicated how little they needed Jenny to “make things interesting.”
“Betting is illegal,” Ellie said irritably.
Jenny threw up her arms. “Oh my god, I obviously do not mean the illegal kind! Lighten up, you guys.”
“I know I’m new here, but isn’t the World Cup already pretty interesting?” Jamie asked, half-smiling at her former FC Gold Pride teammate.
Jenny relented, a reluctant smile replacing her defensive frown. “Good point, Rook,” she said, and sent a palmful of water in Jamie’s direction.
Momentarily, the workout session devolved into a water fight. Then Lacey and her team separated them into smaller groups for stations, and the in-fighting abated. Mostly. When you spent day in and day out with the same people in the pressure cooker of the World Cup, there was bound to be tension. But most of the players were either too experienced to let the tension get to them or, like Jamie, too new to the pressure to recognize its full effects.
When this was over, they needed to go on an island getaway, Emma thought as she jogged in place in the pool, visualizing Jamie beside her in a shady hammock swinging gently in the breeze at the edge of a sunny beach. They would swim in saltwater pools and walk on pristine sand and relax at night in an in-room hot tub. More importantly, they would eat and drink whatever they wanted and not talk about soccer or working out even once—unless they felt like checking out the resort’s exercise room, of course. Endorphins were addictive for a reason.
As Lacey’s assistant blew her whistle to switch stations, Emma sighed and pushed the fantasy away. One day, that would be them. But for now, they had so much more soccer ass to kick.
Chapter Eleven
“We’re downstairs,” the text read. “See you soon?”
“Down in ten,” Jamie texted back, and then ducked into the bathroom to brush her teeth and spray down her bed head before breakfast with her sister and brother-in-law.
Meg and Todd had been at every game of the World Cup so far and claimed to have no intention of missing any future matches, either. With the summer off before they started their new professor gigs in Vancouver, Jamie’s sister and her husband had decided to spend June crisscrossing Canada in their well-traveled Subaru Legacy. This way, they could get to know their newly adopted country, the one that had been willing to give them both jobs at a good university in what Meg insisted—and Jamie was well on her way to believing—was the best city in all of Canada.
Before their final group match against Nigeria a few days earlier, the coaches had given the American players the day off. Jamie and Emma had spent it sightseeing with Meg, Todd, Tyler, and Bridget, who had flown to Vancouver the day before to begin their World Cup vacation. Somehow, Tyler had managed to talk Emma into walking across the Capilano Suspension Bridge, a 460-foot long swinging bridge that hung 230 feet up over the Capilano River. Jamie still couldn’t believe that Emma had agreed to make the crossing, though given that they were on a collision course with Germany in the semifinals, maybe there were scarier things than swaying suspension bridges.
Jamie had enjoyed exploring the cliffs near the bridge, but her favorite part of the day had been renting tandem bikes and riding around Stanley Park, an activity that met the lone recovery day requirement Lacey had assessed for their day off. The weather had been Pacific Northwest perfection, with abundant sunshine and temperatures in the low 70s. Stanley Park was known for its seawall, collection of totem poles, views of the city, and trees. So many huge trees—cedars and fir, hemlock and spruce—and the remains of old growth sentinels that had long since fallen.
There was something about evergreens that had always made Jamie feel calmer. Maybe it was simply the additional oxygen they generated, but a mid-day bike ride under the trees with lunch from a café near Lions Gate Bridge was the break she hadn’t known she needed from all things World Cup.
Until now, Toronto had been Jamie’s favorite urban area in Canada. But after their day off in Vancouver, the capital of BC had overtaken the largest city in the country, in her estimation. Toronto, in the throes of preparing to host the 2015 Pan American Games, hadn’t been selected as a World Cup host city. Instead, the sixth WC venue was a small stadium in Moncton, New Brunswick, population 35,000. Which, really? Jamie was just relieved the US didn’t have to play there. Not that there was anything wrong with Moncton or New Brunswick. It was just that the site was as far in Canada as you could get from Vancouver, other than Prince Edward Island. But Jamie doubted PEI had a stadium, given that its largest city numbered in the low tens of thousands, according to one of her college buddies whose mother had been born there. A hockey rink, yes. But a football stadium that could host a World Cup match? Honestly, she was surprised that Moncton even had a stadium big enough.
Currently, the US team was in—she paused to think about it—Edmonton. Right. They were in Alberta, which was next door to British Columbia. They’d been in Edmonton for four days already preparing for their Round of 16 match. They hadn’t known until after they arrived that they would be playing against Colombia, the third place finishers in Group F behind France and England. In fact, the charter flight had gotten them to Edmonton just in time to check into their hotel and watch the final group matches.
The following day had been about recovery, both from their match against Nigeria and from another travel day. That meant ice baths, workouts in the pool, time in compression therapy boots, yoga, and massage, to name a few. Each player had to pick at least three recovery options after a travel or game day to keep their bodies functioning at an optimum level throughout the tournament. At least Edmonton was only 700 miles from Vancouver, a distance that took a mere hour and a half by plane. If they’d had to travel to Moncton (or BFE, as Ellie and Phoebe referred to it), a direct flight would have taken seven hours.
She doubted Meg and Todd would have driven to New Brunswick. Not even for the World Cup.
When Jamie said as much a few minutes later as they drank coffee and tea in the hotel restaurant, Meg tilted her head to one side. “I don’t know. It’s not every day my little sister gets to play in the biggest soccer tournament in the world. Besides, you know I can’t pass up free tickets.”
“Little sister? Dream on,” Jamie said dismissively. But she smiled at the warm, gooey feeling spreading through her. Meg was moving to Canada because of her career trajectory, but she was road-tripping all across her new home nation because she was and always had been someone Jamie could count on. And also, apparently, because each national team player was allotted a certain number of tickets to distribute to friends and family.
“Um, excuse me?” The words accompanied a tap on Jamie’s shoulder, and she turned to see two girls in pony tails and USWNT home jerseys smiling at her nervously.
“Hi,” she said, smiling back. “How are you?”
“Good,” the older girl said. “Are you Jamie Maxwell?”
“I am. Are you soccer fans?” They nodded eagerly. “Cool. Where are you guys from?”
As she chatted with the star-struck girls, Jamie could feel her sister watching. She ignored Meg, though, as she signed an official World Cup program and thanked the young fans for coming all the way to Edmonton to root for the American team. Only after they’d skipped away did she turn back to her sister. “What?”
Meg gestured at the girls, who had returned to their parents a few tables away with glowing smiles. “They totally love you!”
“They totally love the team,” Jamie corrected. Fans had approached her for selfies and signatures throughout the last few weeks, and it no longer seemed like su
ch a big deal. Still, she couldn’t help sitting up a little straighter at the admiration in her sister’s gaze.
“Yes, you’re famous, and girls and women everywhere look up to you,” Todd said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Now, what’s the skinny on Colombia?”
Her brother-in-law was a secret gossip queen. An avid reader of People magazine, he had been eager to hear whatever details Jamie could glean of the inevitable drama that lurked behind the scenes. He wasn’t picky; it could be anything, politics or personal. But he lived for rivalries and relationship drama that remained hidden from the rest of the world.
“Actually,” Jamie said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no American or Colombian players were around (because, of course, the two teams were staying in the same Edmonton hotel), “Ellie dated one of the Colombian players when they both lived in Sweden a few years back.”
“No,” Todd said, looking happily scandalized.
“Yep.”
“Does Jodie know?”
“Of course. It was public knowledge—at least in soccer circles. Besides, Ellie and Jodie talk about everything.” Jamie knew this from personal experience, having overheard multiple conversations she’d wished she hadn’t while living in the national team captain’s guest room.
“Wait!” Todd lifted a hand to his mouth and whisper-shouted, “She didn’t date the player who accused you guys of belittling Colombia and then promised you would lose, did she?”
“I mean, I would call it more of a boast than a promise,” Jamie said, pushing her hair away from her face as she dodged the question.
He practically squealed. “That’s why Salome Sanchez hates you guys, isn’t it? Because things with Ellie ended badly?”
Damn it. She should have known he’d be following that particular storyline.
Meg gave Todd a look that clearly indicated gossip hour was over and proceeded to ask Jamie, as she had done before each of the previous matches, “Anyway, are you nervous about the game?”
“I don’t think so,” Jamie said, cupping her hands around her mug of pomegranate green tea. “It’s good being here. It feels real. Most of us have been working toward this all our lives, and now that we’re here, turns out it’s just soccer. Obviously on a considerably larger stage, but still the same game, the same tactics, the same strategies. Only the pressure is different, really.”
“Well, you’ve always been good at handling pressure,” Meg said.
Jamie hoped so. Because this tournament had plenty of that, and they had only just finished the group stage. China had beaten Cameroon two days earlier and was waiting to meet the US-Colombia victor in the quarterfinals in Ottawa. Shit in Canada was definitely getting real.
“To be honest,” she told her sister, “I’m more nervous about the officiating.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that ref I told you about in Portugal who majorly effed up the Algarve Cup final?”
Meg’s eyes widened. “No! You got stuck with her?”
Jamie nodded. “Once again FIFA demonstrates their commitment to screwing over the women’s game.”
“I can’t believe Ellie dated Salome Sanchez,” Todd murmured, his eyes focused on the middle distance as if he hadn’t heard a word Jamie and Meg had said.
Jamie glanced at her sister, trying to bite back a smile. Meg only shrugged, her non-verbals clearly communicating that she loved the big dork in spite of his questionable obsessions. Jamie did, too. And not just because he had purchased a World Cup jersey embroidered with her name and number that he had worn for nearly the entirety of their road trip.
After the sibling coffee date, Jamie headed to the team’s meal room to load up for the day. They would be playing Colombia at six that evening, which meant they would have to monitor their caloric intake carefully since the game was scheduled during—ugh—dinner time.
“You ready for Game Day, Jamester?” Angie asked when Jamie sat down at what had become their usual table.
“You know it.” Jamie bumped her friend’s extended fist and nodded at the table’s other occupants, which included her lovely girlfriend who was on her second cup of coffee, judging from the bright smile she sent Jamie. Or maybe she was just excited because the “real” World Cup—i.e., the knockout rounds—was finally beginning. “Totally ready,” she added, and began to shovel food into her mouth. Wouldn’t do to bonk at the Round of 16.
The Round of 16. And yes, she knew she should be nervous, but more than anything she was enjoying the ride. She had played fine through the group stage—nothing spectacular, but solid if you didn’t count the yellow card she’d picked up for a late tackle against Nigeria. As she’d told her sister, she’d learned over the past two weeks that at the end of the day, it really was just soccer.
Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t been nervous at all. Before the opening match against Australia, Jamie’s answer to Meg’s question had been HELL YES. As she stood in the tunnel at that first game—her first ever World Cup match—Jamie had actually worried that her heart was beating so fast it might explode. Or maybe, possibly, she might faint. She had really hoped she would lose consciousness in the tunnel rather than on the field to minimize the photographic evidence. But then Emma had offered up words of encouragement and flashed her that confident smile that told Jamie her girlfriend believed she was capable of amazing things, and her heartbeat had slowed—a little; enough for her to breathe more easily, anyway.
With Emma behind her (literally), she’d taken the field determined to lose herself in the sport she’d been playing since she was four years old and the Berkeley YMCA put on a clinic that Blair, her childhood best friend, was attending and would she maybe like to go, too? She had pretty much been a soccer player ever since that first day she stepped onto a grassy field and a coach told her to run after the black and white ball and kick it with her feet and for no reason whatsoever should she even think of picking it up with her hands. She wasn’t one of those kids who struggled with the penultimate soccer rule, the ones who would randomly pick up the ball before dropping it like a hot potato. For some reason, not using her hands seemed perfectly normal to her.
Ironic that she’d turned out to be a lesbian, really.
She wasn’t the only USWNT player who’d been nervous against Australia, either, but she was pretty sure the team had worked out their nerves between the first and second matches. Getting one game under their belts seemed to have settled her teammates as much as it did her, even the ones who had been to the show before. By the time they’d returned to Winnipeg Stadium for game two against Sweden, their highest-ranked opponent in Group D, the team had seemed more focused.
Still, they’d played Sweden to a scoreless draw, which made the fans and the press grumble about their lack of offensive prowess. The most dramatic moments of the Sweden game had revolved around defensive plays: the many last-minute saves by Phoebe and her Swedish counterpart Greta, Jamie’s teammate on the Thorns; Emma and Lisa’s tight control of the US team’s defensive third; and Ryan’s header off the goal line during one of Sweden’s corner kicks. The Swedish fans had insisted that the ball had crossed the line, but the Hawk-Eye goal-line cam had proven that Ryan headed the ball out with room to spare. Goal-line technology meant that anytime the ball crossed the line fully and completely, the match official’s watch vibrated to indicate a score.
Obviously, that hadn’t happened against Sweden.
Their third and final group match against Nigeria hadn’t fared much better, either, with only a single goal that came right before half time. Not for lack of trying, though. While the US had struggled to stay organized in the face of Nigeria’s characteristic physical play, they had gotten off fourteen shots in total, with seven of those on goal. The Nigerian keeper had played well, with half a dozen saves compared to Phoebe’s two. But what it really came down to was that the US players simply weren’t finishing their opportunities—something they’d struggled with consistently the entire time Jamie had
been around the team.
But now they were at the World Cup, and that struggle could no longer be set aside or excused as part of the preparation process. This was what they’d been preparing for. From here on out the tournament would be single elimination. No matter how great their defense was—and it had been exemplary so far—if they didn’t figure out their offense, they would go home without the trophy, without the title, and, probably, without the number one ranking in the world.
Yet despite the US team’s lack of firepower, the coaches and captains had outwardly projected an appearance of calm throughout the group stage. Melanie said it was a building process, and as long as they kept improving, they were in good shape. No one wanted to peak too soon at the World Cup. One of Jo’s favorite adages was, “It’s not where you start; it’s where you finish.” And Phoebe and Ellie had both said that while the US side may not have played their best soccer yet, they had done enough to win their group, which had been the plan all along. Now they just needed to keep doing enough to get to the podium in Vancouver.
One step at a time, one city at a time, one game at a time. One meal at a time. At least she’d have another meal in a few hours, and then a half-meal after that. Plus there were always Lacey’s recovery shakes after the game, a blend of electrolytes, proteins, and other nutrients composed with each player’s specific body chemistry in mind—as well as her taste buds. If all else failed, Jamie could always drink her shake at half-time and request a refill later.
In the meantime, there was actual bacon and eggs to pre-fill her glycogen window. Because even if Lacey had never said that was a thing, Jamie was pretty sure it must be.
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