'Tis the Off-Season: Book 6.5 of Girls of Summer Read online

  ’TIS THE OFF-SEASON: Book Six and a Half of Girls of Summer

  by Kate Christie

  Copyright 2022 by Kate Christie. Second Growth Books, Seattle, WA.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual organizations, persons (living or dead), events, or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  About the Author

  Patreon Supporters

  Chapter One

  “Meet you back here?” Emma said over the top of the parked car.

  “You got it,” Jamie said, and blew her a kiss.

  Emma pretended to catch the kiss and clutch it to her heart, and Jamie cracked up, shaking her head as she locked the Mazda with her key fob. Then she zipped up her puffer hoodie and looked both ways before crossing Laneda Avenue, Manzanita’s main street that sloped steadily toward the ocean.

  By now, they’d developed a routine whenever they came to their vacation house on the Oregon Coast. While Emma went to shop for the necessities—milk, eggs, bread, avocado, and kale—Jamie popped into their favorite Mexican restaurant to pick up the order they’d called in as soon as they hit the coast. From Portland, the drive took a little over an hour and a half, assuming they managed to avoid city traffic and inclement weather. Tonight, the roads through the Coast Range had been a little slippery, but the Mazda’s AWD had gotten them over the icy spots with ease.

  There were a couple of road options once they neared the coast, but they’d discovered that the less mountainous route—driving west to meet Highway 101 just north of Cannon Beach—was slightly faster than the inland route. It was also more populated and, as a bonus, offered glimpses of sea stacks and steadily rolling wave sets. This afternoon, with the sun setting over the wintry Pacific, the views had been even more picturesque. As they’d rounded the last curve before descending into the Nehalem area, they’d pulled over to watch the sun slowly drop below a line of dark gray clouds hovering above the distant horizon, orange and pink light reflecting across the churning ocean and casting a powerful glow skyward.

  Even after nearly a year, Jamie sometimes still couldn’t believe that she and Emma owned a house on the Oregon Coast. Together.

  It was still earlyish—not quite five in the evening—but driving into Manzanita always seemed to activate a Pavlovian response in Jamie. All of a sudden, she was ravenously hungry. Not that that was anything new. She could always eat. Emma operated better on low blood sugar, so she usually handled the grocery store run. That, and she was significantly pickier about what she put in her body. With another few weeks to go before January Camp kicked off the 2017 soccer season, Jamie intended to enjoy her current lack of routine. At least, as much as she ever let herself.

  Her career depended on her body, so she never truly “let go” at the holidays the way non-professional athletes did. That lesson had been brought home again this past week in Berkeley, where she and Emma had gone to celebrate Christmas with the Maxwells. Jamie’s parents weren’t quite ready to retire yet, but they were definitely leaning that way. Jamie and her older sister Meg hadn’t been able to help worrying amongst themselves that this might be the last holiday season in their childhood home. It was also the first Berkeley Christmas for Jasmine (AKA Jazzy), Meg and Todd’s six-month-old daughter. Throughout the week, Jamie had tried to focus on her niece’s joyful exuberance rather than her parents’ steady aging.

  Across the street from Emma’s preferred grocery store, Manzanita’s Left Coast Siesta restaurant occupied a cedar shake house with a covered patio and plentiful flower boxes. In late December, the boxes were empty and the outdoor seating nowhere in sight, but the patio was decorated with string lights and the usual welcoming signs. Jamie ducked inside, unsurprised to find the place nearly empty. It was still early for the dinner rush, and besides, the Wednesday night between Christmas and New Year’s was likely to be slower than most. The interior looked the same as ever, a cheerful living room with Mexican tile tables, string lights, and hundreds of bottles of tabasco sauce lining a ledge that ran a few inches below the ceiling.

  “Can I help you?” the young woman behind the front counter said. With her nose ring, University of Washington sweatshirt, and rainbow beanie, she looked like a college student home for the holidays.

  “Yeah,” Jamie said, slipping her wallet from her jacket pocket. “I’m here to pick up an order for Emma.”

  They used Emma’s name because it was more ubiquitous, but in this case, it didn’t help. The woman’s eyes sharpened on her face, and Jamie knew the instant she was recognized. “Emma? Wait, are you…?”

  Jamie smiled and nodded. Most people who frequented Manzanita seemed more into art and crystals than professional sports, but it had only been a year since the US women’s national team had won the 2015 World Cup and become household names. By now, the town had sussed out that there was a pair of soccer stars living among the vacation population, even if their house’s purchase agreement and deed bore the name of a trust. The utilities were paid the same way, and Jamie and Emma went through a management agency in Cannon Beach that utilized background checks and NDAs whenever they needed caretaking or other work done on the house. After Emma’s stalking problems, better safe than sorry.

  “Oh! Okay. Um, I’ll check on your order.” The woman offered a quick smile and then scurried into the kitchen, where Jamie heard excited whispers.

  For the most part, Manzanita residents were pretty chill. They didn’t ask for photos, and so far, Jamie and Emma’s social media managers hadn’t alerted them to any invasion of privacy issues from their vacation getaways. The summer tourists were probably a different story, but between the NWSL season and the Summer Olympics in Brazil, there hadn’t been much opportunity to visit the coast during Oregon’s more temperate months.

  Jamie winced as she always did at the memory of the Olympics. The tournament in Brazil was like a sensitive tooth that sometimes flared up, painful but fleeting. The national team hadn’t won a gold medal. In fact, they hadn’t medaled at all. Instead, they’d been eliminated by Sweden in a penalty shoot-out in the quarterfinals. Not only was it the first time the USWNT hadn’t medaled in the Olympics, but it was also the only time in team history they’d failed to make the semifinals in a major international tournament.

  Doh…

  The woman returned with their to-go order, her face flushed, eyes wide. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Jamie slipped her debit card into the card reader and waited for it to process.

  “Do you guys need anything else? Like, napkins, or extra salsa, or anything? Drinks?”

  “No, thanks. We’re good.”

  “Okay. Cool.” The woman hesitated, and then she said in a rush, “I think the national team is amazing. Thank you for your service.”

  Jamie glanced up, trying to bite back a smile and—probably—failing miserably. The worker’s face turned even redder, and she held a hand to her mouth in apparent horror.

  “Um, you’re welcome?” The card reader signaled that the transaction was complete, so Jamie slid her debit card into her wallet and reached for the bag of burritos. “It’s definitely an honor representing our country, even if we sometimes fall short like this summer.”

  The woman let her hand drop. “I’m sure you’ll do better next tim
e. Back-to-back World Cup titles, maybe?”

  “That’s the dream, isn’t it?” She waved a little and headed for the door. “Thanks for your support, and happy holidays.”

  “Happy holidays to you guys, too!”

  Outside, Jamie glanced up and down the quiet street before returning to her car. Something about meeting even a semi-famous person made plenty of people lose their minds temporarily. Jamie knew the feeling. During her first call-up to the national team, she’d barely remembered her own name. More recently, when she’d met her favorite Pitch Perfect star at the ESPYs, it had taken a second encounter at the after-party—and a decent amount of alcohol—to loosen up enough to converse like a normal human being. She tried to hold space for others experiencing similar tongue-tied moments, but while she was used to discombobulated fans making awkward comments, being thanked for her “service” was a new one.

  In the year and a half since the World Cup win, she’d had teenagers say, “You’re so pretty!” before gasping and running away; grown adult people offer comments like, “Nice eyeballs;” and then there was the memorable time a fan asked for a photo and proceeded to fart rather loudly just as Jamie leaned in for a selfie. Jamie had been known to be a bit gassy at times herself, so she hadn’t minded the faux pas as much as the fan had seemed to. She’d just breathed through her mouth and smiled into the camera. Everyone farted, after all.

  Emma wasn’t back yet, and it was too dark to see the ocean in the distance, so Jamie sat in the driver’s seat scrolling through her phone in an attempt to distract herself from the amazing smell of their burritos. Despite an excellent start to the year—Emma had been traded to the Thorns, which had dominated the NWSL on their way to winning the Shield—the last half of 2016 had been a dumpster fire, starting with the tragic Pulse shooting and ending with Donald Trump’s impossible win on Election Day. In the last few weeks, Jamie had taken to avoiding Facebook and Twitter more than she already did. Instagram was generally safe, though. Now, with Emma nowhere in sight, Jamie checked her friends’ Insta feeds, wondering if Maddie and Angie were having a good time in Palm Springs. They’d decided to fly into Southern California this week in order to gradually acclimate to the sun and warmth before January Camp, but there were no new pics on Angie’s private account since she’d posted a family photo from Christmas in New Jersey. This year, Angie’s parents had actually invited Maddie to stay with them at the holiday. In the guest bedroom instead of Angie’s, admittedly, but it was a start.

  Britt was supposed to be in Scotland with Allie for another few days, but she hadn’t added any new photos, either. Ellie rarely posted, so Jamie wasn’t surprised to see that her latest photo was from a run she’d taken at her parents’ house the day before Christmas in Sewickley, a suburb of Pittsburgh known for its athletes in residence. In addition to several current Penguins, retired NHL star Mario Lemieux lived a few blocks from Ellie’s childhood home.

  The only new photos were from Jenny Latham, who was vacationing in Hawaii, of all places—trying to overcome the memory of her torn ACL the previous year, which had left her in sub-optimal shape at the Olympics—and Lisa, who was “nesting” with her musician husband. Their first child was due in June, though that hadn’t stopped Lisa from working out with her NWSL team late into the fall. Even Gabe and Rebecca, who were back together after taking a break during the Olympics, hadn’t posted anything new on their feeds. Huh. That was weird. Maybe they were all just really busy.

  Her phone trilled, and she checked her notifications. Speak of the devil: “Tell me you didn’t forget it,” Angie’s text read.

  “I didn’t forget it,” Jamie typed back. Or, she hoped not, anyway.

  “Is the plan still New Year’s Eve?”

  “Yep. Assuming the weather holds.”

  “Good luck!!!! Let me know how it goes?”

  “Of course. How’s Palm Springs?”

  There was a long pause before Angie finally replied: “Hot. Sunny. The usual.”

  “Noice.”

  “Noice. Say hi to Emma.”

  “I will. Same for Maddie.”

  “Ciao, Jamnesty International!”

  Jamie sent back a middle finger emoji she had downloaded just for this purpose and hit send.

  The conversation over, she scrolled through her recent contacts until one leapt out at her: Meg. She hit the video call icon and waited impatiently until, at last, her sister appeared, only her profile visible.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot it?” Jamie’s older sister said in an eerie echo of Angie’s text.

  “Of course not,” Jamie scoffed. Although, she should probably check her bag before she acted all superior. Good thing they would be at the house soon. “Where’s my perfect, amazing niece?”

  “She just had a blow-out,” Meg said. “Want me to show you the remnants?”

  “Oh, please god, no.” Jamie had borne witness to one such disaster on Christmas Eve, and she would be thrilled to never experience a repeat.

  Meg finally looked at her. “In that case, go enjoy your romantic vacation with your rich girlfriend. I hate you.”

  “Love you too!” Jamie managed to say before the call disconnected.

  A moment later, the Mazda’s hatch opened, and Emma added a couple of reusable shopping bags to the rear cargo area.

  “Angie and Meg say hi,” Jamie said when Emma slid in beside her.

  Emma appeared to freeze for a full second before shutting the door and reaching for her seat belt. “Cool.”

  Okay, that was weird, too. Or maybe Jamie was just really hungry.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long for dinner. Their house was less than ten minutes from downtown. A U-turn angled the car back up the hill toward the 101, and another turn took them north of town toward Neahkahnie, the mountain that loomed over Manzanita, its crescent beach, and Nehalem Bay. Their house had been built in the meadows that occupied the northern flank of the mountain, halfway between the 101 and the beach below. Out of the tsunami inundation zone, of course; that had been one of Emma’s requirements that Jamie had fully supported.

  Soon, Jamie was guiding the Mazda off the 101 and onto a smaller road that passed through a stand of young trees before emerging into the meadows. The lights of the spacious houses were bright around them as Jamie drove the loop toward their cul-de-sac. Their house was dark, but the security lights came on as she pulled into the driveway, waiting for Emma to click the garage remote. Their bikes were still inside, Jamie noted as the door slowly opened, along with the electric golf cart and the small assortment of tools and outdoor furniture they’d stored inside on their last trip in mid-November, shortly after a pair of national team friendlies. The US had played Romania twice in California for the final two matches of 2016 in what Jamie, Britt, and Angie jokingly referred to as the Non-Victory Tour. Losing in the Olympics to Sweden had been a downer, but at least they were getting a break from what had begun to feel like year-round soccer. In the six weeks since beating Romania handily, Jamie had trained with Ellie and Emma at Ellie’s training gym, but otherwise, she hadn’t set foot on a soccer field.

  Honestly, she could get used to this more relaxed pace of life—after she won an Olympic medal. At this point, it didn’t even have to be gold.

  “Want me to grab the groceries?” she asked as they stepped out of the car.

  “No,” Emma said. “I’ve got them. Why don’t you take our bags in?”

  Fine with her. She had something she needed to check on, anyway, preferably while Emma was otherwise occupied.

  One duffel over each shoulder, Jamie followed Emma into the mudroom off the garage. Although “mudroom” didn’t do the space justice. It was half the size of her Portland apartment and contained their washer-dryer set along with more built-in storage than any two people could ever use. The same went for the rest of the house. Set on three-quarters of an acre, the property boasted four bedrooms, three and a half baths, and more than three thousand square feet of living space. Ri
ght now, they had two guest bedrooms, while the third served as an uber-fancy exercise room complete with an awesome view of the ocean a quarter of a mile below.

  “It’s a good investment,” Emma had told Jamie when they first toured the property the previous year. “Besides, someday it won’t be just us spending time here.”

  “Are you planning to move your mom in?” Jamie had teased. “Because I think Pam might have something to say about that.”

  “Not my mom,” Emma had said, smacking her arm. “Our kids. I’m talking about our future children.”

  Someday, if they were lucky, there would be two to three other human beings unloading their gear from the car, shuffling into the cold house, and preparing to demolish Left Coast Siesta burritos with them.

  While Emma made a beeline for the kitchen, Jamie stopped in the open plan living room to switch on lights and turn up the thermostat. The heat pump quietly kicked on, reliable as ever, but it would take a while to heat the voluminous space. They left the temperature set on low when they weren’t here to conserve energy, which was all well and good until you showed up on a late December’s afternoon. Jamie crossed to the tall fieldstone fireplace and turned on the gas fire. Emma had insisted they install a unit large enough to heat this section of the house, and Jamie loved her even more for this stroke of brilliance.

  Backtracking toward the mudroom, Jamie made her way down a short hall to the master suite and deposited their bags on the cedar chest at the foot of the king-sized bed that took up one wall. On the opposite wall, a bank of windows revealed the same territorial views of beach and ocean that the living room offered. The sun had set almost an hour earlier, but there was still a line of dark pink hovering above the gray-black ocean at the furthest reach of the horizon, and Jamie paused for a moment, listening to the low, steady rumble of the sea.

  They were home.

  Before Emma could come looking for her, she opened the main pocket of her duffel and reached inside, digging through socks, underwear, and work-out clothes until her fingers made contact with the small object she’d been seeking. Whew. She really hadn’t forgotten to pack it. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, and then, quickly, she tucked the object in the back corner of one of her drawers on the low chest under the window. They shared domestic duties, but Emma disliked folding laundry, so Jamie usually volunteered to take care of it. That meant Emma should have no occasion to dig into Jamie’s dresser drawer unless she was being nosy. And if that were the case, then she deserved to have the surprise ruined, in Jamie’s opinion.