Girls of Summer

by Kate Christie

  Schneider had freaking missed!

  “Yes!” Emma cried, brandishing a fist as the partisan crowd erupted.

  “Oh, thank you god,” Taylor O’Brien gasped, falling to her knees.

  Really, Emma thought, she should be thanking Phoebe. Wordlessly, she and Lisa went to pick up their younger teammate.

  “Head in the game, Taylor,” Lisa said, slapping her on the back.

  “Let’s make that miss count,” Emma added.

  Taylor nodded and wiped away more tears. But Emma was fairly certain they were tears of relief this time.

  Jamie grinned at Emma as she jogged backwards up the field. “We totally got this!”

  “Don’t jinx it,” Emma said, but she was smiling too. How could she not?

  Phoebe didn’t smile, though. She just nodded vehemently as if to say the miss was exactly what she’d expected. Given Schneider’s shaky body language before the shot, it very well might have been.

  The game continued. Oddly, instead of letting down, the Germans’ confidence seemed to surge after the missed PK. But Emma couldn’t help feeling that the German side only had this one last desperate push to offer. If the US could weather it, Germany would likely exhaust themselves. She said as much to Lisa during a brief stoppage when one of Germany’s defenders took Jenny out near midfield.

  “Totally,” Lisa agreed. “We only need one goal. Or if we do go to penalties, my money is on Phoebe.”

  Emma’s money was pretty much always on Phoebe. Not only was the US keeper excellent at mind games—an often overlooked component on PKs—but she was also widely considered the best goalkeeper in the world.

  We got this, Emma thought as she moved up the field for the US free kick.

  As it turned out, they did. Less than ten minutes after Germany’s missed penalty, Jenny earned a PK of her own when a German defender took her down hard on a slashing run into the box. Ellie calmly stepped up to take the penalty. Emma hung back with Lisa while the rest of the team jockeyed for position around the box in case of a rebound. On the US bench, the players and coaches stood in a line, arms around each other’s waists—just as Germany had done ten minutes earlier.

  The referee created the delay this time, taking extra time to lecture the players pushing and shoving each other around the penalty box, but Emma noticed that Ellie didn’t look nervous like Schneider had. She kept her body relaxed, her gaze focused on the ball. When at last the referee blew her whistle, Ellie paused for a long moment before moving forward and striking the ball like a rocket into the right corner. The keeper dove left, and the ball surged into the back of the net unimpeded.

  “Fuck yeah!” Ellie shouted, and sprinted toward the sideline where she slid forward on her knees, pumping her fists.

  Emma and Lisa grinned at each other and rushed forward, joining their teammates in a pile in the corner. Ellie had done it. She hadn’t cracked under the pressure but, instead, had dealt Germany a blow that would be difficult to recover from. And oh, by the way, she had just tied Marisol’s World Cup scoring record.

  “Way to go, Elle,” Emma said, hugging her friend tightly as soon as the crowd had cleared.

  “Thanks, Em,” Ellie replied, her eyes shining. “Let’s fucking do this!”

  Holy crap, Emma thought a moment later, hugging Jamie to her side briefly as they jogged back to their end of the field together. They were really going to win the World Cup.

  #

  Emma stood outside Jamie and Gabe’s room, her hand raised but unmoving. It was nearly an hour past curfew, and they were probably already asleep. But Emma hadn’t been able to sleep, so here she was, breaking team rules only days before the World Cup final. Was she crazy or merely stupid? Hard to tell, really.

  Intellectually, she knew that Jamie was probably fine. Jamie had played the entire match and had even assisted on Angie’s insurance goal in the 83rd minute after Jo subbed Angie in for Jenny. Back at the hotel, Jamie had seemed perfectly fine throughout their post-game celebratory meal with friends and family, and had assured Emma more than once that her head barely hurt. And yet, here Emma was, shivering in her sleep leggings and her dad’s UNC Soccer sweatshirt, afraid to knock on the door because what if Jamie had been lying and now she was unconscious, maybe even—

  Before the thought could coalesce, Emma rapped softly on the door. She waited, but there was no sound from inside, so with a glance up and down the corridor, she knocked again a little louder. This time she heard a thud and a muttered curse followed by familiar voices speaking words she couldn’t quite make out. At last, footsteps approached the door, and after a moment it swung open to reveal a sleepy Jamie, her boxers and T-shirt wrinkled, her hair mussed.

  “Emma?” she said, blinking in the light from the hallway.

  “Can I come in?” Emma asked, and stepped inside without waiting for an answer.

  Jamie turned on the light in the bathroom before turning back to her, face half-lit and half in shadows. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

  “No.” She started to reach for Jamie, but let her hand drop. “I was just worried about you. How’s your head?”

  From the depths of the room she heard Gabe sigh, long and loud, and mutter something about the World Cup and priorities.

  “I told you, I’m completely fine,” Jamie said, her eyes narrowing.

  Emma twisted her hands together. “I know you said that, but I was thinking maybe I could stay. You know, just to keep an eye on you? I don’t think the coaches would mind.”

  “Did they actually say that?”

  “Well, no.” She had considered asking, but her dad used to say it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. Though, come to think of it, that wasn’t such a reassuring approach in a surgeon.

  Jamie grabbed Emma’s restless hands and held them in place. “Emma. Come on. What’s really going on?”

  “I told you, I was worried about you, okay?”

  In the dim light, she could make out Jamie’s pursed lips. “Yeah, but I’ve told you a bunch of times that you don’t have to worry. Dr. Brandt told you, too. I’m totally fine.”

  “That’s what that actress from The Parent Trap told everyone, and look what happened to her!” The words were out before she could think about them.

  “The Parent Trap?” Jamie repeated, frowning.

  Emma sighed. “Yes. She was snowboarding, and she fell and hit her head, and even though they tried to convince her to go to the hospital, she insisted she was fine. Except she wasn’t fine, and two hours later she was dead.” The words came out in a rush, which was surprising given that she hadn’t realized how much of that story she’d committed to memory. It had happened shortly after she’d graduated from college, and she remembered being struck particularly by the image of the actress’s teenage sons at her funeral. One moment they were on a ski trip with their mom, and the next she was literally dying, and there had been nothing she—they could do about it.

  “Hey,” Jamie said, pulling her into a hug. “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet. I promise, Em.”

  “You can’t promise that,” Emma whispered, hiding her face in Jamie’s warm neck. Her skin smelled like a combination of the detergent the team’s equipment manager used, the hotel’s bar soap, and something that was pure Jamie. Emma clung tighter, her eyes closed against the tears that never seemed far away lately.

  “No, you’re right,” Jamie agreed, her lips in Emma’s hair. “But I can promise you I’m not in imminent danger of dying from a head injury tonight. Can you accept that?”

  No. Emma sighed, her shoulders dropping. “Yes. I think so. I mean, I’ll try.”

  “Seriously, you guys, just go to bed,” Gabe muttered. “It’s too late for this.”

  Emma pulled away and said, “Sorry, Gabe. You’re right. I should go.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, that’s not what I meant. Just no funny business, all right? Jesus.”

  Wait. Gabe was saying she should stay, despite the very clear rule
s that most definitely said otherwise? She stared up at Jamie, whose eyebrows rose in matching surprise.

  “You’re obviously not going to be able to sleep in your own room,” Gabe explained, sounding more practical than irritated this time, “and we really can’t afford a weak link in the Department of Defense on Sunday. So get your asses in bed, both of you, and go to sleep.”

  Jamie smiled at Emma and squeezed her hand. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  A few minutes later, the bathroom light was off and Emma was burrowing into Jamie’s already warm bed, pressing her cold feet against Jamie’s bare legs and laughing quietly when she tried to squirm away.

  “You okay?” Jamie whispered after they had settled down beside each other.

  “No,” Emma whispered back, and pressed her face into Jamie’s shoulder. “But I will be.”

  “Love you,” Jamie said, kissing her forehead.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you guys too,” Gabe said, and they all laughed. But quietly so as not to draw attention to their curfew-busting room.

  Emma closed her eyes and listened to Jamie’s heartbeat, strong and steady and constant. Jamie was fine, she told herself. Maybe if she repeated the mantra enough, it would calm her racing mind. What was it Jamie liked to say? Oh, right: Fake it ’til you make it.

  It was worth a try, anyway.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jamie stared out the hotel conference room window at the crowd chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” The fans had been amassing outside the team hotel since that morning, playing music, beating drums, and singing popular soccer anthems. It almost seemed as if they were more excited for the final against Japan than the team, Angie had joked. In a way, Jamie thought that might be true. The fans didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone, nor did they have to think about sponsorships or the business end of the game. No matter the outcome, these people could go home and resume their normal lives. But if the players didn’t come away with gold…

  They weren’t going to lose, Jamie told herself, squaring her shoulders. They were going to beat Japan and attain the highest pinnacle of their sport. Today. This afternoon. In just a few hours, in fact.

  “You okay?” Emma asked, leaning in to bump her shoulder.

  “Totally,” Jamie said. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the restroom down the hall, she locked herself in a stall and leaned over the gleaming white toilet bowl, its medicinal perfume only making it harder to fight against the heaves. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she silently cursed as the exterior door opened. Then she heard Britt’s voice.

  “It’s okay if you get sick. Lacey has a shake for that, too.”

  Jamie snorted in laughter and almost lost control of the contents of her stomach. Normally a salmon burger and salad was the perfect meal before a game, but then she’d never played in a World Cup final, had she? Oh, god. THE WORLD CUP FINAL.

  “Can I come in?” Britt asked.

  Jamie thought about asking to be alone, but then she reached back and flicked open the lock. “Sorry,” she said, wondering if she looked as green as she felt. Judging from her friend’s furrowed brow, that would be yes.

  “Don’t be. Did you throw up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Want to try some tai chi? The hall is super wide, and I’m getting better. Bet I could kick your ass.”

  Which was so typical of someone on this team, Jamie thought, tossing her head in slight irritation. Also typical was her own need to show Britt up, even though motion was probably the last thing she needed at this juncture.

  Surprisingly, it worked. After a few minutes of focusing on her breath and trying to move through her favorite relaxation routine as smoothly and deliberately as possible, Britt only barely staying upright beside her, the nausea subsided along with the nervous sweat and, she hoped, the green tinge to her skin.

  “Okay, I’m good,” she told Britt as she finished an intricate pattern.

  “You sure?”

  “Totally. Thanks, man,” she added as they headed back to the conference room.

  “You’re welcome, bud,” Britt said, slapping her shoulder.

  Emma caught her eye from across the room and lifted an eyebrow. You okay?

  Jamie nodded slightly. I’m good.

  Emma nodded back and smiled at her, her eyes conveying the message that everything would be fine. And yeah, Jamie knew that in theory it would be. No matter what happened today, she would be with Emma and Britt and Angie and the rest of their teammates, who had coalesced over the past month and a half into the greatest group of friends she could ever imagine having. That wouldn’t change, whether or not they won.

  But that was exactly why they would win, she thought a little while later as they walked the gauntlet of cheering fans from the hotel to the team bus, its “ONE NATION ONE TEAM” banner blending into the colors of the gathered crowd. They would defeat Japan because they cared about each other individually and collectively, and because they wanted this win more than anything else they’d ever wanted—individually or collectively. Emma and Ellie had both said that this team felt more cohesive than any other World Cup squad they’d been part of. That camaraderie would help them rise above today, Jamie was sure of it.

  She nodded at various fans as she approached the bus, checking automatically for suspicious activity. But the faces that gazed back at her were uniform in their enthusiasm, and it was difficult not to get swept into their emotions. She steeled herself, breathing deeply to keep from being overwhelmed. It was just another a game, just another match in a long string of matches before sell-out crowds in summertime Canada.

  Her nightmares from the night before sorely undermined that notion. In one, Jamie had shown up to BC Place without her shin guards. In another, she’d been missing her cleats and her uniform. And in the last one she could remember, she had been on the field without any shorts on; whenever she tried to run, her feet seemed stuck to the turf, too heavy to move. For a soccer player, this was like the classic college nightmare where you find out on the day of the final that you were enrolled in a class you’d never attended. Jamie still had those dreams sometimes, too.

  At least she didn’t have to actually worry about not having her cleats or her uniform, she thought as she filed onto the bus behind Emma and followed her to their usual seats. Tad, the equipment manager, and his staff took care of transporting everything they could possibly need—and more—to the game ahead of their arrival. That way the players could focus on getting ready to play.

  They had flown into Vancouver on Wednesday fresh from beating Germany in the semis. The World Cup mascot, Shuéme, a great white owl, had greeted them on the tarmac, and the players had posed for photos with her before heading to their hotel in downtown Vancouver. They’d arrived just in time to watch Japan defeat England in the other semifinal. Or, rather, to watch England self-destruct. Honestly, that match had been painful to watch. But Emma and the other veterans on the team had fist-bumped prolifically at the outcome. At last, the stage was set for redemption.

  After a day of rest and recovery, they’d spent Friday and Saturday training and talking to the media ahead of the big event. Today, Sunday, was only their fourth full day in Vancouver. Talk about a whirlwind. A surreal whirlwind—Jamie kept having to tell herself that yes, she was really here, and not as a spectator. She, Jamie Maxwell, was starting in a World Cup final. This was literally the culmination of everything she’d been working for since attending her first and only World Cup final sixteen years earlier.

  Now they just had to win.

  The bus on the way to the game wasn’t as noisy as usual, probably because Lacey had given them strict instructions to practice Mary Kate’s visualization exercises. Even though the hotel was less than a mile from BC Place, the roads were jammed with traffic, and certain streets were closed altogether so that fans could parade down them to the stadium. Jamie glimpsed the crowds as the bus traversed downtown Vancouver, cars honking at them
and pedestrians pointing and waving animatedly as the US Soccer bus crawled past.

  Lindsay Martens and Tamara Keys, a backup defender and one of the younger players on the squad, waved back. There was little chance either of them would see playing time today, and for a moment, Jamie was almost envious of them. Then she shook her head to clear the traitorous thought. Of course she wanted to play. That didn’t mean she wasn’t legitimately terrified to make a mistake like the one the English centerback had made against Japan, scoring an own goal in stoppage time and singlehandedly destroying England’s chance to advance.

  But no, she told herself, rubbing her eyes fiercely, there was no room for negative thoughts right now. Only positive self-talk. She should be visualizing herself making fabulous plays, not career-ending errors.

  Beside her, Emma was quiet, eyes closed and headphones clamped over her ears. Jamie couldn’t begin to know what was going through Emma’s mind. She’d spent nearly the entirety of her twenties on this team, traveling the world in pursuit of a World Cup title. In 2007, they’d bombed out in the semis, and more than one pundit had suggested the USA’s glory days might be behind them. Four years later, they’d lost in the final, and the world had proclaimed that Japan had been destined to win. Emma had told her once that people used to ask her which loss was worse, but there was no way to choose. They were each terrible in their own right. This World Cup might be her last chance to attain her ultimate soccer goal. Not that Jamie thought Emma would be too old to play in the next World Cup, but there was no guarantee that any of them would be on the team four years down the road. Injury, illness, coaching changes, and federation politics all meant that nothing was guaranteed. Nothing except this moment right now.

  From across the aisle, Angie caught Jamie’s eye and smiled. Her fantastic, point-blank goal against Germany in the waning minutes of the semis had launched her into the public eye—and, what was more, had earned her the start today. She was eating up the scrutiny, flaunting her tomboy style on FOX Sports and ESPN and amusing various hosts with her usual jokes and general ebullience. Surprisingly, her family hadn’t seemed overly displeased with the attention she’d drawn, so that was good. Angie deserved this moment. She’d had to fight not only everyone in their age group to get to this time and place, but her own family’s expectations as well.