Emma glanced around the restaurant. It had been a while since she’d been here—the previous year’s January camp, maybe? Now that they were back, she wasn’t sure why they’d stayed away so long.
When she was first on the team, rarely had a residency camp passed without a visit to Manhattan Beach Post, a former post office turned social house. At five on a Friday night, they hadn’t had to wait long to be seated. Initially they were shown to a table near the front windows that was big enough to accommodate the lot of them: Emma, Maddie, Ellie, Gabe, Ryan, and Jenny. But before they could settle in, Ellie had pulled the host aside, and the next thing Emma knew they were being led to one of the larger group tables farther inside.
“I didn’t want to be so close to the windows,” Ellie had said by way of explanation. “It’s getting chilly.” Then she’d looked down at her phone and typed what Emma had assumed was a text.
Five minutes later, Tina Baker and Steph Miller had filed into the restaurant, followed by Jodie and an older couple dressed in brightly colored clothes and speaking in unmistakable Midwestern accents. The two USWNT mainstays had been hanging around the National Training Center for the past few days, but Jodie’s parents were a new addition. Emma always forgot that sophisticated, fashionista Jodie was from Wisconsin. When exactly had her parents arrived? And what were all of these seemingly random and yet not random at all people doing here, anyway?
Emma had quickly texted Jamie: “Something’s up. You guys should get here ASAP.”
Despite Ellie’s strong encouragement to come along, Jamie had stayed back at the team hotel to finish watching Pitch Perfect with her U-23 buddies. They had tickets to the sequel, Pitch Perfect 2, later that night, and Jamie and the others wanted the first installment to be fresh in their minds.
“On our way,” Jamie had replied with a running woman emoji.
Now Emma took a sip of her fancy cocktail and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with Maddie, who appeared to have sent a similar text to her girlfriend. Maddie shrugged subtly and went back to her conversation with Ryan about the newly released USWNT World Cup kit. Nike had invited Maddie, Jenny, and Ellie to attend the official unveiling, where they had modeled the new environmentally friendly uniforms—each kit had been made from a dozen recycled plastic bottles—and answered questions from the sports press.
The following night, Jenny and Ellie had appeared on American Idol, where they’d presented Ryan Seacrest with his own custom jersey and put in a plug for supporting the World Cup. It was just the start of the pre-World Cup marketing frenzy, which Emma was so not looking forward to. She didn’t mind public speaking, but talking politically expediently about herself and her teammates? Not her strong suit.
“I heard you said at the unveiling that players who look good perform better,” Ryan said, smirking at Maddie. “Did you come up with that, or were you just toeing the party line?”
“What do you think?” Maddie answered, and rolled her eyes at Emma.
Maddie and Ryan might have each other’s backs on the field, but they had never gotten along all that well off of it. Maddie claimed it was because Ryan was bitter that UNC had ruined Cal’s chances of winning the College Cup too many times to count, while Ryan said Maddie simply didn’t have a sense of humor. Emma had never forgotten—and neither had Maddie, obviously—Ryan’s crack her first year on the team about how bisexuals should freaking make up their minds already. Emma didn’t think Ryan really believed that, but the damage had been done. Maybe if Emma’s mother had said that same thing to her on repeat for the past decade, she would hold the monumental grudge Maddie had carried all these years, too.
Then again, maybe they simply didn’t like each other, and Ryan’s crappy joke had only made their natural enmity worse. There was always that.
Fortunately, Emma didn’t have to get involved in their enduring feud because at that moment, Jamie and Angie waltzed in. Even though it had only been an hour since they’d seen each other, Emma felt her mood lift instantly. Although, admittedly, her cocktail on an empty stomach already had her feeling fairly good. Jamie scanned the restaurant until her gaze fell on Emma, her face lighting up. What a life, to be dorks in love. And, you know, elite athletes with Nike contracts and the opportunity to win a World Cup.
Angie quickly claimed the spot beside Maddie while Jamie slid an extra chair in beside Emma’s.
“Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Hey.” Emma smiled back and took another sip of her drink, trying not to feel too giddy at Jamie’s appearance. It was dinner out, but technically they were on team time. Actually, they would be on team time basically from now until the World Cup final on July 5. Assuming they made the final, which Emma was definitely assuming.
Jamie drummed her fingers on the table and eyed Emma’s glass. “What are you drinking?”
“A Dementor’s Kiss.”
Jamie’s laugh took the form of a short huff. “A what?”
“It’s an Old Fashioned made with Fidencio mezcal, Amaro Nonino, cocoa, and chili powder,” Emma explained. They didn’t have practice the following day, so she—and everyone else at the table—was taking advantage.
Jamie stared at her. “I don’t recognize half of those ingredients, and the other half sound disgusting together.”
“They’re not,” Emma protested, laughing. “Here, want to try a sip?”
“Um.” She hesitated briefly. “Okay, why not.”
Emma slid the glass over. When their hands connected, Emma told herself that she was a grown-ass woman with a successful career and her own condo to boot, but her mini lecture to self didn’t stop her breath from catching as Jamie’s fingers brushed against hers. She watched Jamie lift the glass to her mouth, eyes closing as she first inhaled the drink’s scent and then tested the taste by drawing a tiny bit of alcohol into her mouth, swallowing it, and then licking her lips afterward. Daaaamn. Jamie made sipping whiskey look sexy as hell.
Then again, Jamie looked good even without the Old Fashioned. Her hair and make-up were on point, just like it had been on Mother’s Day weekend. But this time around, her outfit was more sophisticated than the jeans and crewneck sweatshirt she’d worn to coffee with their moms. Lightweight gray pants hugged her thighs and calves, while her sky-blue collared shirt matched her eyes almost perfectly. The sleeves were rolled above her elbows, revealing a chunky watch that emphasized her forearm muscles. Emma couldn’t help but stare at the fine hair on her arms, bleached golden by the California sun. She wanted to run her hands up those arms, wanted to trace Jamie’s tattoos with her fingertips…
Okay, then. With difficulty, Emma tore her gaze away from her girlfriend. Apparently her drink was more aptly named than she had realized.
Their server brought more menus, and soon the new arrivals were debating their drink orders. Jamie decided on a virgin Golden Hind, a passion fruit mojito topped with a maraschino cherry. Angie’s drink was similarly adorned—though definitely not virginal—and as soon as their cocktails were delivered to the table, the two were racing to see who could tie her cherry stem faster with her tongue.
Emma couldn’t help glancing at Maddie. Her similarly enamored friend bit back a smile and waggled her eyebrows, and Emma shook her head. Honestly, these two. Did they know how hard they made it to stick to team time rules?
After they’d ordered a dozen or so tapas-style dishes for the table, Jamie leaned closer. “I like your dress.”
Taking advantage of the warm Southern California weather, Emma had brought along her favorite dress, a subtle paisley print maxi in muted greens and blues with a V-neck in front and dual straps that crossed in the back. Not only was it comfortable, but it made her shoulders and back look good.
“You can borrow it anytime,” she said, and flipped her loose hair over the opposite shoulder.
“I might just take you up on that.”
“Really?”
“Why not? I’ve been known to do drag before.”
Across the table, Gabe’s eyes widened. “Did you just say you’ve done drag?”
Jamie hesitated, glancing at Emma before answering. “I might have dressed up once or twice in college.”
“Me, too. Drag king champs, baby!” Angie said, holding her hand over Maddie and Emma’s heads for Jamie to slap.
As Jamie’s palm collided with Angie’s, Emma conjured an image of her girlfriend in a tailored shirt and dress pants, a tie knotted loosely at her throat. Were there photos somewhere? She hoped so. She would have to remember to ask Jamie later.
The first tapas dishes to arrive were plates of giant potato wedges also known as Fee Fi Fo Fum Fries, followed by several orders of green beans, bacon cheddar buttermilk biscuits, and grilled naan. Lastly, cheese plates from Italy and Vermont arrived with pomegranate cous cous, cured meat, and truffle honey-laced chicken—Maddie’s favorite. Conversation briefly paused around the table as they all dug in, the ensuing quiet punctured mainly by requests for plates to be passed and the happy moans Maddie insisted on (over)sharing.
When Angie began feeding Maddie cheese and pastrami, her fingers lingering on her girlfriend’s lips, Gabe made a slightly disgusted sound.
“Whatever,” Maddie said. “I was there when you and Ellie were doing your thing, remember?” She had the decency to keep her voice down, though, so that Ellie and Jodie and, more importantly, Jodie’s parents, all currently engaged in conversation with Steph and Tina at the opposite end of the table, wouldn’t hear the reference to Ellie’s Sapphic past.
Gabe blushed, as well she should. The team had all but caught the two with their hands down each other’s shorts in a hallway outside a locker room in Texas a few hours before a match. The self-appointed nerd squad—Emma, Ryan, Avery, and Kristie, a now retired goalkeeper—had taken considerable delight in puns on the word “friendly” for months afterward.
Actually, maybe the team time policy was a good idea, after all.
“I do not know of what you speak,” Gabe said primly, pushing her hair away from her face.
Emma joined in the group laughter, but as Gabe’s gaze settled on her, she immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Really, Blake?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Should the pot actually be calling the kettle black?”
Emma could feel Jamie’s eyes on her. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” Just as Emma was sure she’d dodged the bullet, Gabe fake-coughed, two words carrying clearly through the sound: “Tori Parker.”
Beside her, Emma felt Jamie tense. Freaking Gabe. She couldn’t bear being the brunt of the joke, could she? Emma wasn’t usually much for rubber-necking, but she couldn’t help glancing at Jamie, noting the slight crease in her brow as her mouth settled into a thin line.
“Yeah, but haven’t most of us hooked up with a teammate at some point or another?” Angie asked. “Like you, Max. You’re not exactly Miss Innocent yourself, are you?”
Jamie’s head shot up and the look she sent Angie was a thousand times more intense than the glare she’d leveled at Emma on the deck of the St. Louis team hotel. So that was what Jamie’s mother’s Death Glare looked like. Good to know.
“Come on, Max,” Angie said, apparently comfortable with taking her life in her hands, “you know you and Brooke were adorable.”
“Brooke Cantwell?” Gabe asked. “You hooked up with Brooke Cantwell?”
“In Chile at the Under-20 World Cup,” Angie confirmed. “They were quite the couple for a while, Maxwell and Cantwell. Although, really, Brooke’s last name should have been Can Well if you ask me.”
Everyone groaned and Jamie whipped a cheese cube at her former youth pool teammate. “No one asked you, jackass.”
“Rude,” Angie said, and popped the cheese in her mouth.
Emma vaguely recalled Brooke Cantwell, a petite blonde striker with a wide smile and a surprisingly powerful shot. She and Jamie would have been adorable together, Emma had to admit. What had ever happened to Brooke? Emma couldn’t remember. So many people had rotated through the national team program in the past decade that it was impossible to keep track of where they all ended up.
At that moment, Ellie tapped her glass. Emma glanced up in time to see Jodie nod reassuringly at the team captain, who took a deep breath before looking around the crowded table. Maybe they’d finally set a date and the longest engagement in the history of humankind—including Emma’s brother’s—would at last come to a close.
Maddie apparently thought so as well: “Finally,” she murmured to Emma while offering a practiced smile to the group at large.
“So,” Ellie said, her voice tight with an emotion Emma couldn’t quite identify, “we have some news.” She reached for Jodie’s hand and held it on top of the table. “Jodie and I got married earlier today.”
Beside her, Jamie choked on air. Emma knew the feeling as she gaped at her longtime teammate and friend.
“You what?” Angie asked, voicing the question that was clearly on everyone’s mind.
“Don’t worry, there’ll still be a big party at some point after the World Cup,” Ellie said, smiling at Jodie who nodded vigorously, “but we realized we’re probably not going to be back in Oregon anytime soon, and Jodie’s parents had this trip planned for a while. Since I have a place in Tahoe, I’m considered a California resident, so here we are.”
Something about the reasoning—and the super googily eyes Ellie was giving Jodie—made Emma pause.
“Do you think they’re pregnant?” Maddie whispered.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Emma whispered back.
Almost on cue, Jodie’s hand dropped to her belly and stayed there as Ellie leaned in to kiss her cheek. Emma had known they were thinking of trying, but now? The baby would be born between the World Cup and the Olympics, which meant Ellie would be the parent of a newborn at the Olympics next year. Of course, given that Jodie was apparently the one carrying the baby, Ellie wouldn’t have a huge physical hill to climb back up before Rio. One good thing about being involved with a woman was that you always had a spare womb in the family. That, and you never had to worry about accidentally getting pregnant.
Thank god.
Voices around the table chattered excitedly, asking the same questions currently circling Emma’s mind: Where? The county court house. When? That afternoon. Who had been their witnesses? Jodie’s parents plus Steph and Tina. Why now?
As Ellie hesitated, Gabe’s voice cut across the background restaurant noise. “Rachel Ellison, you better not be pregnant!”
Her words hung over the party while Ellie glanced at her fiancée—wife—with a look that clearly said, I’m sorry I invited my ex. Jodie gazed back at her with an expression that seemed to simultaneously communicate both I told you so and What can you do? Lesbians. Meanwhile, Jodie’s parents looked on with half-horrified, half-fascinated gazes. Midwesterners weren’t accustomed to lesbian ex-girlfriend displays, it seemed.
“In fact, Gabriel, I’m not currently with child,” Ellie said, her voice stern and eyes chilly. “But thanks for asking. Any other questions?”
Emma didn’t doubt that there were, given who was seated around the table, but for the moment everyone contented themselves with hugs, laughter, and vociferous congratulations.
“No wonder you’re here without the rest of your trio,” Emma said to Steph as she waited for her turn to hug the happy brides. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
“It was pretty sudden,” Steph said, smiling.
And why was that, again? The timing still didn’t make sense unless…
“Jodie is totally preggers,” Emma heard Angie say to Jamie as they returned to their seats a few minutes later.
Apparently Emma wasn’t the only one who’d come up with that particular conspiracy theory. Again, at least it wasn’t Ellie. Because Emma really couldn’t imagine the coaching staff’s reaction if their captain and leading scorer, the woman who had just set the new international scoring record, revealed that she might not be able to play in the World Cup. Or, possibly, the 2016 Olympics.
“Gay marriage is legal in Oregon, though, right?” Gabe asked as conversation at their end of the table resumed. “They could have done this up there at any point?”
“Totally,” Jamie answered. “Since last year.”
Angie shook her head. “It’s so irritating trying to remember where it’s legal and where it isn’t. What are we up to, thirty-something states now? Shocker that most of the ones where it’s still not allowed are in the Bible Belt.”
“Did you hear about Alabama?” Gabe asked. “They were so pissed when that federal judge said their gay marriage ban was unconstitutional.”
“That asshole Roy Moore actually ordered the counties not to issue licenses.” Angie exhaled noisily. “I can’t believe he’s a real judge.”
“That’s the Deep South for you,” Gabe said. “Only place in the country where no one blinks when a proselytizing pedophile is elected to the state’s highest court.”
Proselytizing pedophile, Emma repeated inside her head as she sipped her drink. Yay, alliteration.
“Hopefully same-sex marriage will be legal everywhere soon,” Jamie put in.
“Are you talking about the Supreme Court case?” Gabe asked.
“Totally. I think there’s a good chance SCOTUS will rule in our favor.”
Angie snorted. “Dream on, James. Twenty bucks says they punt again, just like they did with Windsor.”
The Supreme Court had announced in January that it would hear a case that revolved around a central question in the ongoing gay marriage debate: whether or not individual states had the constitutional right to ban same-sex marriage for their residents. The court had heard two and a half hours of oral arguments in April, and claimed they planned to issue a ruling before the term ended in late June. In mid-May, though, all that had been heard was arguing back and forth on both sides about whether SCOTUS would issue a sweeping decision for the entire country or offer a limited ruling that applied only to the four states named in the complaint.
Emma rested her hand on Jamie’s back. “I’m with Jamie,” she announced. She’d been surprised two years earlier when Justice Kennedy—a practicing Catholic—had written the majority opinion on US vs. Windsor, which had struck down the federal Defense of Marriage Act, the smarmy legislation Emma’s mother had always said would be more accurately titled the Defense against Gay Marriage Act. Why America needed defending against an institution based on love had never been suitably articulated, in the Blakeley family’s opinion.
“Um, yeah, Em,” Gabe said. “I think we all know that by now.”
Emma rolled her eyes and looked for something to throw at the midfielder, but as she reached for the nearest dish—a Fee Fi Fo Fum Fry plate, as it happened—Jamie grabbed her hand.
“Don’t even think about it, Blake.”
Emma responded by holding out a single fry in her palm as a peace offering. She’d nearly forgotten that Jamie regarded fries as food of the gods. As Jamie received the lone fry reverently, their friends laughed, and so did they, smiling into each other’s eyes.
What a good night, Emma thought. She and Jamie were out at an excellent restaurant with their closest friends from the team, two of whom had just gotten married and may or may not be expecting their first child. Not only that but in a couple of hours, they would be meeting the rest of the team at Pitch Perfect 2, which was sure to provide at least some queer subtext for those so inclined even if it didn’t offer an actual Bechloe kiss. Jamie insisted the kiss between Beca and Chloe was all but guaranteed, but while Emma could appreciate her girlfriend’s optimism when it came to the fate of same-sex marriage in America, the chances of two stars of a Hollywood franchise engaging in a same-sex kiss on screen seemed much less likely.
All in all, though, tonight was a welcome break from the hurry up and wait malaise of their final pre-World Cup camp. They’d spent the week since San Jose training, working out, and training some more all while trying not to read the press. Emma had watched more game film of their upcoming opponents than she could ever remember doing. There had also been massive amounts of team bonding over the past few weeks, which was why this rare afternoon off—a round of soccer tennis after lunch didn’t really count as a training session—was so appreciated. Jamie and Angie and their U-23 buddies had no idea what was about to happen to them. It wasn’t like Emma or Maddie could warn them, either. The World Cup was something you had to experience for yourself.
“Anyone up for a stroll on the boardwalk?” Jodie asked as they split the bill among so many parties that Emma felt sorry for their server.
Jamie and Angie both checked their phones and then nodded in cautious acquiescence. They wanted to get to the theater near the 405 early to find good seats, but there was still plenty of time before the movie started. Emma exchanged a look with Maddie, and they snagged their girlfriends’ arms, tugging them out into the summer evening. The restaurant was only a few blocks from the Manhattan Beach Pier, and soon Emma and Jamie were strolling along the boardwalk with their friends, hips and shoulders brushing occasionally.
The scene was familiar—the smell of salt in the air, the grit of sand against pavement beneath their shoes, the shrill cry of seagulls and the rhythmic roll of the tide in the background as they walked. Somehow, it seemed as if she and Jamie were always drawn back to a sunlit California beach. As a diehard Pacific Northwesterner, Emma preferred the less crowded Oregon coast, especially Cannon Beach. Haystock Rock wasn’t that far from Portland. Maybe she should lure Jamie there after the World Cup, or maybe after the NWSL championship, or maybe after the post-World Cup victory (non-victory?) tour, or maybe after, after, AFTER…
Jamie nudged her and they shared a smile. Honestly, this was the most relaxed she’d seen Jamie since her big Mother’s Day talk with her mom. Emma couldn’t quite believe she’d slept through the whole thing, but on the return flight to LA, Jamie had distracted her from the perverse notion of human flight by filling her in on what had gone down over pound cake. While her relationship with her mother hadn’t been magically fixed in a single conversation, Jamie had seemed noticeably less angry when they’d said goodbye to her parents at the airport. To Emma, that seemed like a solid step in the right direction.
Jamie’s arm brushed Emma’s again, and she only barely resisted the urge to wend their arms together. Ahead of them, Maddie and Angie had no such qualms. They walked with their arms firmly entwined, bodies touching with every step as the group paced the crowded boardwalk, the reflection of sunlight off the breaking waves a shimmering band of light in the distance. This was why Wangvak and Madgeline had higher stats on Tumblr than Blakewell—because Maddie and Angie were more comfortable with public displays of affection. Not that Emma was keeping track of their shipping name stats. That was a competition she and Maddie left to their younger girlfriends.
They passed a volleyball game in action and then a giant log where a handful of people sat drinking from cans of beer, Bluetooth speakers blasting hip-hop. The scene reminded Emma of her trip to San Francisco in high school, when she and Jamie had gone for a run that took them to the beach at Golden Gate Park. They had sat on a log near the ocean, and Jamie had said something about the cliché “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Last year, right before they got together, Jamie had called that same cliché crap.
“Sometimes,” she’d told Emma over the phone one night shortly before Craig cut her, “there are things that take so much out of you that you need time on your own to recover.”
Jamie’s hand brushed hers now, their palms touching for a brief moment, and as a wave of familiar peace washed over her, Emma reflected that the things that made you stronger were more often the ones that didn’t involve trauma. People, relationships, moments in time that included love and trust and connection didn’t, in fact, leech your energy. Rather they replenished it, easing old hurts and allowing joy to grow in their place.
Or something like that, anyway, Emma thought, enjoying the comfort of Jamie’s companionship as they walked on side by side, accompanied by the murmur of their friends’ voices and the sound of the waves rushing the shore, the sun casting a river of light that stretched from the nearby beach to the far-off horizon.