“I know how cold you get in hotels,” her mother said, her voice more hesitant now. “And also, I thought it might be a way you could feel your dad here with you. Because he wouldn’t miss this World Cup for anything. Even I, a science-believing secular humanist, know that much.”
The tears refused to be blinked away this time. Eyes still hidden behind her sunglasses, Emma leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder. “You really think so?”
“I do,” her mom said, stroking her hair. “I really do.”
Maybe that was why she’d been missing her dad more during this World Cup than any other—because his spirit or his energy or his soul, even, was somewhere nearby, watching over her. It was a nice thought, even if she couldn’t quite convince herself it was true. She’d long suspected that it would be easier to believe in a god, in heaven, in an afterlife, like Emily and Rebecca and the other members of the God Squad. To simply have faith. But like her parents, she had been blessed with an unwavering belief that most of life’s mysteries could be explained by science, even if human beings didn’t always get their hypotheses correct. The beauty was there in every drop of water, in every molecule of air, in every cell that made up a human body or an insect’s carapace or a bird’s wing—not because a book written long ago said so, but just because it was.
She was still pondering the mysteries of the universe when a group of park-goers dressed in varying derivations of the American flag stopped a few feet away, elbowing each other eagerly. Emma swiped surreptitiously at her lingering tears and lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder to smile at the Americans who had come to Canada presumably to watch her and her teammates play soccer.
“Are you Emma?” a girl with braces and skinny legs asked, her voice shy.
“I am,” she said, and squeezed her mom’s arm before rising to meet her fans.
The three kids in the group, wearing Jenny’s and Lisa’s numbers, crowded around Emma to tell her how AMAZING the defense had been so far and how they KNEW FOR SURE that she and her teammates would win THE WHOLE THING.
“Well, thanks,” Emma said, smiling down at them. “You play, don’t you? I can tell.”
The girls blushed and grinned and told her all about their AYSO teams back in Michigan, where they were still in elementary school. Emma listened and offered a bit of her usual advice: “Keep working hard even when no one is watching, and you’ll do great. But most of all, have fun because soccer is the best game in the world.”
“And you and Lisa are the best defenders in the world,” the oldest girl declared, braces glinting in the sun. “Even that jerk Tony Aiello says so.”
Tony Aiello was a former US men’s national team player who now worked as a FOX Sports commentator—a fact that wasn’t universally appreciated by the American soccer community.
A woman who looked like an older, less awkward version of the girl, complete with a matching Afro and faint freckles, stepped forward quickly. “Alexis, baby, that’s enough.”
Emma caught the mother’s eye and smiled. “Let’s be honest. She’s not wrong, is she?”
As the group of adults laughed, the smallest girl grabbed her father’s hand and leaned into his side, wincing at the sudden noise. Emma started to smile down at her, but then a wave of longing swept over her. She could remember being that shy kid, clinging to her dad’s side whenever she had to navigate a new social situation. Even as an adult, even after all these years, she still sometimes noticed the empty space beside her where her father should have stood.
She managed to smile for the requisite selfies—there was a reason she never left a team hotel without brushing her hair and teeth—and then the family wished them luck and walked away, the girls’ voices squeaking in excitement at seeing “Blake from Seattle.”
Emma felt her mother’s eyes on her as they began to stroll in the opposite direction, back toward the team hotel.
“What?” she asked, quirking a brow.
“I think you might actually be more famous than Mia Hamm,” her mother announced.
Emma only smiled and walked on through the green, green park. The tears were threatening again, and she wasn’t sure she could trust her voice. Her mom squeezed her arm but didn’t press her. In the summer sunlight filtering through the trees, her eyes looked a little bright, too.
When Emma could manage it, she leaned into her mother’s side and said, “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Emma boo.”
Something unseen brushed against Emma’s other side. No doubt it was only the breeze, but that didn’t stop her from whispering, “Love you too, Dad.”
#
Emma sipped her coffee, leaning against her and Jamie’s usual table in the hotel restaurant. “You know,” she said as Jamie joined her with a steaming mug of green tea, “I have a good feeling about today.”
It was already Game Day, and in a matter of hours, the die would be cast. Either Germany would be going home tonight or the US would. Whoever won the match, it was bound to be awkward because, once again, they’d been assigned to the same hotel. Thanks, FIFA. Or, as Emma had mentally christened the world football federation, Freaking Incompetent Football Association.
Jamie stared at her. “Dude, don’t say things like that! You’ll jinx it.”
“Will I? Like, seriously, I just believe that we will—”
“Not another word, Blakeley. I’m serious.”
Ooh, her last name. Jamie really was serious. Emma sipped her coffee and gazed over the top of her mug. “Superstitious much?”
“Says the ‘psychic’ one,” Jamie said.
“Hey, lose the air quotes. You know I am.”
“Sure, Blake. Whatever you say.”
Even though she was only teasing Jamie, Emma really did have a good feeling about the coming match. Germany might technically be the better side, but that didn’t necessarily mean the European powerhouse would win. Sure, they had scored more goals than anyone else, but the American defense had allowed the fewest number of goals, so really, they should match up well—no matter what the naysayers in the sports press said.
Not that Emma had spent much time in Canada reading the sports press. She hadn’t been on social media much either, mostly because she’d freaked herself out by posting that photo of her and Jamie on top of the Empire State Building. According to the company she paid to manage her public accounts, the response had been overwhelmingly positive. Maybe after the World Cup ended, she would check for herself. Or maybe she’d let the management company keep on doing their thing. Honestly, it had been nice to only communicate online with people she knew and loved. If her stalker was still out there—and he probably was—at least she wasn’t giving him power over her life. Instead, she was staying focused on what mattered most: this team and their World Cup journey.
She could tell as the day went on and everyone went about their Game Day routines, from ice baths and hot tub soaks to massages and meditation circles—her teammates were brimming with the same confidence she could feel lifting her shoulders and giving her seemingly boundless energy. Which was good. Because if you didn’t believe you could do something, then you probably couldn’t.
“The corollary of that philosophy, athletes,” Jo said in their pre-game discussion in the locker room late that afternoon, “is that if you do believe you can do something, you more than likely can.”
“Boo-yah!” Phoebe said, but without a fist bump because the trainer was currently taping her wrists.
“Boo-yah,” Jo agreed, and the locker room broke out in laughter. “Seriously, though, the coaches and I have decided to scrap our previous line-ups and go with the one you’ve been pestering us about for ages.” She turned to the nearby whiteboard and arranged the ten white player pieces in—Emma grinned at Maddie—an actual 4-3-3.
As the players around her broke into excited chatter, Emma noticed Jo and Mel exchange a small smile. Was that why they’d held off on the formation until now? To give the players the extra motivati
on they would need to beat a resurgent Germany?
“All right, all right,” Jo said, holding up a hand. “Bear with me for a few more minutes. Then we’ll get out there and kick the ball around. The turf is cooling down, so let’s let it do that, yeah?”
Emma nodded and settled back into place on the bench in front of her assigned cubby. They had been lucky to play mostly in the evening, which gave the turf a chance to release the heat it accumulated over the course of a day. During one Round of 16 match in Vancouver, the turf’s temperature had come in at above 120 degrees. Midday games in Edmonton had taken place in even hotter conditions, and Emma had heard that several players had posted images on social media of their burned feet. She would be happy to delay in the coolness of the locker room for as long as the coaches deemed wise.
“As you know, ” Jo went on, moving the player magnets around the board as she spoke, “the 4-3-3 was designed for offensive production, but when we don’t have possession it’ll need to look more like a 4-4-1-1, with Jenny and Ellie remaining central and VB and Gabe dropping back to help out Jamie and Maddie as needed. The back four is playing well as is, so your shape doesn’t need to be tweaked. But as we discussed at our last video review session, I want everyone out there to look for Germany’s ability to explode out of their formation, particularly on the flanks. Got it?”
Players around the room nodded even as they worked through their pre-warm-up routines. Germany’s 4-2-3-1 formation had made them highly dangerous on offense, but previous offensive output meant very little. What mattered was what Germany did today. The Department of Defense, Emma was pretty sure, would have something to say about that.
“Really, anyone on Germany could score at any time,” Jo reminded them. “That means first and second touches are going to be key, as will your ability to transition quickly from defense to offense and send numbers up the field.”
She turned away from the whiteboard to regard the players gathered before her. “We’ve been here before, athletes. It’s no accident that this team has made it to the semifinals of the World Cup seven times in a row. But Germany is no stranger to this stage of the game, either. What it comes down to is simple: Who wants it more? Who wants the spotlight, the pressure, the eyes of the world upon them? There are plenty of people who don’t think you can do it. In fact, I heard Tony on air earlier claiming he hadn’t seen any reason to think you could pull off this victory, and I doubt there’s anything I could say to sway him.”
Groans and nearly audible eye-rolls rang out across the locker room. Tony Aiello was only too happy to use his Fox-sponsored bully pulpit to weigh in on every aspect of the women’s program—and on any other team or soccer organization mentioned in his presence.
“But that’s okay,” Jo continued, “because the time for talking is over. Now it’s time to play. What do you think? Is he right? Are you going to let Germany dictate pace, pressure, possession?”
“No,” came the resounding reply.
“Are you going to let Germany send you home tonight?”
“No!” The cry echoed through the locker room.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you. I said, ARE YOU READY TO GO HOME?”
This time their response made the walls shake as all 23 members of the US Women’s National Team screamed, “NO!”
Jo surveyed them, a smile almost curling her lips. She nodded once. “That’s what I thought. So let’s go fucking do this.”
The cry in response was almost deafening, and Emma exchanged a grin with Maddie. They were ready. So. Fucking. Ready.
Chapter Fifteen
Fucking Canadians, Emma thought, glancing over her shoulder at Jamie who only widened her eyes in response. The Montreal stadium’s staff had started the American anthem mid-stream around “—early light…” Was it purposeful? Were they pissed about the long list of transgressions—wait, make that the long list of WINS—the US had notched against their home team, who had been knocked out of the tournament by England three days earlier?
Whatever. If it was a purposeful gaffe by the host nation to get inside their heads, it wouldn’t work. Seriously, was Canada new here? If anything, the slight would only make the Americans play with a bigger chip on their shoulders.
In the sideline huddle, Ellie spoke low and urgently. “Win or go home—that’s where we’re at, guys. Leave everything on the field. Let’s win this fucker! Oosa on three: one, two, three!”
“Oosa-oosa-oosa-ah!” the team chanted in perfect unison.
Emma strode onto the pitch, noting the blur that was Jamie streaking past her to the center of the field. They were going to win this, she thought confidently. But then she looked at Germany on the other side of the field and remembered that they were ranked ahead of the US; were currently leading the tournament in scoring; and had beaten the US 3-0 the last time they’d met in the World Cup semis. Admittedly that had been in 2003, and other than Ellie, none of the current US players had been on the squad then, but still.
Emma lifted her gaze and focused on the stands, another sell-out crowd at more than 50,000 tickets sold. Just like China in the previous match, Germany had a decent number of fans rooting for them. But their pockets of supporters couldn’t begin to compete with the sea of fans dressed in blue and white. Germany was wearing their red uniforms, and the American fans had come prepared, clearly. These people, with their faces painted and wardrobes dotted with eagles and flags, with their smiling children and their proud signs and waving flags, these fans were the reason the American team even existed. They were the reason Emma could stand on this pitch in her US national team jersey, her name and number emblazoned across her back marking her as a member of an elite club. These fans were the reason the US team was given a slightly better margin of victory in the odds—because their energy, their love and light, would carry the team through.
She thought of the three little girls she’d met in the park a few days earlier, and her shoulders straightened. They were going to win this or die tryi—well, not that, she hoped. But they would damn well give everything they had to beat Germany.
Leave it all on the field. Give it your all. WIN.
Her eyes met Jamie’s as she neared the top of the penalty area where the rest of the defense was gathering for their pre-game cheer, and she nodded once. Jamie nodded back. We got this.
The Germans had lost the coin toss, which, of course, Emma found promising. Ellie had selected the end of the field that Phoebe had requested, closest to the German cheering section. The jeers of their opponents, Phoebe always said, fueled her even more than the cheers of their supporters. Plus this way she would have their fans at her back for the second half, when the stakes of the game usually became more clear. Nothing like a clock winding down to kick you into gear.
Emma and her fellow defenders gathered together and stuck out their arms, hands stacked one on top of another in the same order as usual. Phoebe nodded around the small circle and said, “One, two, three, hold the line!” Then they were pushing off each other, tight and coiled, game faces ready.
Just another game, Emma told herself, jumping in place and trying not to notice how much she had to pee as the head referee, a woman from Russia, waited for the signal from the sideline that the television broadcast was set. And then, before Emma expected it, the starting whistle blew and the game was off.
Germany had come ready to play, it was immediately clear. Borrowing a page from the US team’s playbook, they threw high pressure at the American side right from the whistle. Two minutes in, that pressure got some help by a bad call near the American defensive end. Emma knew this ref, though. She was competent and collected, exactly what was needed in a World Cup semifinal, and would likely be fair. Quickly, Emma let go of her irritation over the missed call and focused on defending in their end.
Turned out there was a lot to defend in the first few minutes as Germany drove the US back, closer and closer to its own penalty area. On the outside, Ryan got beaten by one of the German
strikers, and Emma had to step up from her loose double team to knock the ball away. It caromed off the striker’s shin guards and earned the US a goal kick, but that had been too close to a German corner for Emma’s liking. Only a minute and a half later, another German striker tried to turn the corner into the box, forcing Taylor to knock the ball away.
Crap, Emma thought, looking to Phoebe for direction. Germany had just earned their first corner kick only two and a half minutes into the game. That was not good. Not good at all.
Not good became even worse a moment later when Lotte Schneider, Germany’s center midfielder and a familiar face from Emma’s WPS days, delivered a perfect lofted ball to a wide open Mila Friedrich. Germany’s star striker rose up, flicked her head, and delivered a solid strike toward the net. Phoebe scrambled to cover the space in time, but she barely had one hand up when the ball arced just over the crossbar. Whew. Germany had very nearly scored, and the game hadn’t even been underway for five minutes. That would have been a rough blow to recover from.
As Phoebe passed Emma the ball and she and Lisa started the attack out of the backfield, Emma heard her college coach’s head in the back of her mind, as she often did: “Don’t panic. Weather the storm. Possess the ball and build your own attack.”
And yet, it was hard not to panic 15 seconds later when Taylor launched an ill-advised long ball that Germany neatly corralled and used to launch a quick counter. Ryan unaccountably dove in as a German midfielder dribbled at her—the US defender’s second error in nearly as many minutes—and suddenly Emma was racing backwards again, trying to delay the all-out attack. Before she could reach her, Ryan’s player sent the ball into the center, where Lisa stepped in to clear it away.
Girls of Summer Page 20
