'Tis the Off-Season: Book 6.5 of Girls of Summer Page 2

  Her stomach growled, and Jamie took the hint. Time to eat already.

  Emma was leaning into the refrigerator when she reached the kitchen. Quietly, Jamie stole up behind her.

  “I know you’re there,” Emma said just before Jamie sprung.

  She sprung anyway, tugging Emma toward her and enveloping her in a giant bear hug.

  “Hey,” Emma said, laughing as she hugged Jamie back. “What’s all this?”

  “I just love being here with you.”

  “Aww,” Emma said, and leaned up to kiss her on the nose. “I love being here with you, too, James.”

  They brought the take-out bag to the dining table, where they devoured their burritos while watching the pale white crests of ocean waves rolling in below. The house had been built in three wings, and this section, the central great room, was light and airy with cathedral ceilings and pine accents. The living room, dining area, and den faced southwest to the ocean, as did the southeast wing, which contained the master suite and a guest bedroom. The northwest wing contained the training room and another guest room that, like the kitchen, looked out over the driveway and their distant neighbor’s yard. Emma had grown up in a house at least as big as this one; Jamie knew this because she had visited her there in high school the week after Emma’s dad died. But for Jamie, who had grown up in a California bungalow half this size, such space felt almost unbelievably luxurious.

  Not that she was complaining. Besides, most of the money for this house came from Emma’s father’s life insurance. And Emma, she was certain, would have been more than happy to trade the square footage and ocean views for her father’s presence.

  It was still early when they finished dinner, which meant their other arrival routine would be doable: a walk to the beach. According to the tide chart they kept in their kitchen junk drawer, the next low tide was less than an hour away. That would make Emma happy, Jamie knew. As a Washington native, Emma had a healthy respect—fear, really—of the ocean, especially in the winter. Sneaker waves that knocked people down and even occasionally swept them out to sea on otherwise calm days weren’t uncommon in the Pacific Northwest.

  “Never turn your back on the ocean,” Emma, whose father had drilled her and her brother on ocean safety, liked to say.

  Jamie, who had grown up with the more subdued beaches of Northern California, would just nod.

  “Ready?” Jamie asked, rubbing her gloved hands together. The temperature was in the low 40s, which meant she’d bundled herself into a down jacket, fleece-lined wool hat, and fleece-lined gloves. She might have a high metabolism, but the Oregon Coast was windy as heck.

  Emma, who was similarly attired, nodded. “Ready.”

  Hand in hand, they strolled past their neighbor’s yard along a public access trail that connected their loop to the street below their property. While they couldn’t drive to the beach from their neighborhood without backtracking to the 101, walking was easier, as was golf-carting. Jamie liked to tease Emma for acting like a blue-haired Boomer, but she had to admit that the golf cart was fun to drive and good for the environment. Always a bonus when you could convince yourself that you were doing something to combat the looming tidal wave of climate change.

  Huh. Maybe tidal wave wasn’t such a good thing to be thinking about during a stroll along the Pacific Ocean. In the winter. After dark.

  The smell of sea salt grew stronger as they neared the shore, and soon they were trudging through sand over a small rise and onto the actual beach. At low tide—minus 0.25 feet, to be exact—the sand seemed to stretch miles toward the horizon, but Jamie knew there was probably less than a hundred meters exposed to the night air. She tugged on Emma’s hand, and wordlessly they headed out along the hard-packed sand toward the distant waves. The sound of the ocean was relentless now, rhythmic and powerful, and she felt the usual thrill of fear mingled with wonder at the sight before her. The cliffs of Neahkahnie rose imposing and dark at the north end of the beach, and she pictured the view from the highway pull-off above during daylight hours: the beige crescent moon of sand extending miles southward, Nehalem Bay and Nehalem River meeting the sea at the base of the smaller foothills of the Coast Range. She had fallen in love with this place the first time Emma brought her here, and she couldn’t wait to share it one day with their kids.

  She thought of the small box hidden in her dresser drawer and shivered. She was hoping this trip would mark the continuation of her and Emma’s journey toward that future family. It would, wouldn’t it?

  “Are you cold?” Emma asked, releasing her hand and sliding a steady arm around her shoulder instead.

  “A little,” Jamie said, and leaned into her girlfriend’s warmth.

  Three days to New Year’s. And then, who knew what would happen?

  Chapter Two

  Emma lowered herself into the hot tub, sighing as her muscles slowly relaxed. She loved coming out here first thing in the morning while the sun was rising over the mountain and Jamie was still snoring away in their king-sized bed. She especially needed the calming soak today, their first morning in Manzanita. The drive down was almost always delayed by traffic, and with the added tension of winter driving, her back was tighter than usual.

  It wasn’t only the drive the day before making her tenser than normal, though. Despite not playing a match since mid-November, it had been a hectic month and a half, chock full of ad campaigns, Players Association meetings, and media appearances. The existing memo of understanding (MOU) from 2013 that had passed for a collective bargaining agreement for the last World Cup-Olympic Games cycle was due to expire on the thirty-first of December, and they still didn’t have a new agreement in place. Emma didn’t see how they were possibly going to work with the federation, either, given the way 2016 had gone.

  In February, in response to the aggressive letter Garrett Anderson, the new director of the US women’s players union, had sent six weeks earlier, US Soccer had sued the USWNT Players Association in federal court. Their claim: that the existing MOU was, in fact, a valid collective bargaining agreement (CBA), despite Garrett’s arguments to the contrary. The worst part of the filing, though, was that the documents the federation provided to the court revealed the personal email and home addresses of many of the players—including Emma and Jenny, who had stalker and harassment issues on file with US Soccer. The federation claimed that the inclusion of private information was an accident, but relations were so strained that the team members didn’t believe that for a second.

  The following month, still angry over the release of their private information in a public filing, the USWNT player leadership group (Ellie, Maddie, Emma, Phoebe, and Jenny) filed an Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) complaint against US Soccer. Garrett had decided to make the focus narrow for a better chance at winning, so the complaint claimed that the men’s team received better accommodations even though the two teams’ income was equal. The federation, meanwhile, insisted that any disparity in pay was based on differences in pay structure between the men’s and women’s team, differences that the members of the Players Association had signed off on in their old CBA. Conveniently, US Soccer leadership failed to mention that the women had asked to change that same pay structure during multiple prior CBA negotiations.

  Members of the Players Association leadership group had gone on a media blitz before the Olympics, trying to get public sentiment on their side. That way, Garrett said, if the equal pay court case failed, there was still a case to be made in the court of public opinion. From a practical sense, fans sometimes had more clout than federal judges. With help from legendary ’99er Amy Rupert, Ellie had written an essay for the New York Times about the fight for equal pay, and Emma, Maddie, and Jenny had appeared on The Daily Show to talk about the federation’s history of inequality. Unsurprisingly, US Soccer did not react well to this public airing of dirty laundry. In June, they sent a letter to the EEOC asking for the USWNT complaint to be dismissed. A few days later, a US district court judge
ruled that under the terms of their current MOU, the members of the Players Association could not go on strike before the Olympics, even if they wanted to.

  The Olympics had been a debacle, of course, and afterwards, the leadership group had continued their media push to get out the message for equal pay, culminating with Ellie, Maddie, Jenny, and Emma appearing together on 60 Minutes. But nothing worked. The federation was hostile behind closed doors while pretending to put on a positive public face, and the team still didn’t have a viable contract for the next cycle. Garrett’s in-your-face tactics weren’t working, so earlier this month, the Players Association had voted to terminate him as their counsel and do more of the necessary work themselves. Restructuring meant bringing more younger players into the leadership group, clarifying what as a team they wanted from the federation, and collaborating on negotiations rather than giving one or two people the power to speak for the group. The MOU was still about to expire, but after a roller coaster year, they finally felt better prepared to return to the bargaining table.

  The holidays hadn’t helped Emma’s stress levels, either. Thanksgiving had been more problematic for Emma, since her mother had invited her and her brother to Minnesota not only for Turkey Day but for a family wedding. Her family wedding, to be precise. It had been a low-key affair in a pavilion at Minnehaha Park where, apparently, Pam and Roger had spent many a college afternoon together, but as maid of honor, Emma hadn’t been able to relax and enjoy her mother’s wedding. Her mom had assured her that she and Roger would be happy no matter how the ceremony and the small reception afterward turned out, but if that was the case, then she shouldn’t have asked Emma to take point at the last possible minute. Still, the event seemed to go well, and her mom had seemed pleased with the flowers and music Emma had managed to arrange. Jamie even joked that maybe Emma should consider a future career in event planning. Which, honestly, wasn’t a bad idea.

  After a couple of weeks back in Portland, Emma and Jamie had headed north to Vancouver to visit Jamie’s sister, brother-in-law, and their new baby, Jasmine, who Jamie claimed was now her favorite Maxwell family member. No offense to the other Maxwells, of course. Jamie insisted that Jazzy was the most perfect human being she had ever met, the Obamas included.

  Ah, the Obamas. If only they could stay in the White House forever. Instead, a known mobster and racist grifter would be taking over the presidency in a few short weeks. Another reason Emma’s neck muscles felt like they were permanently seizing.

  Anyway, Emma couldn’t quite agree with Jamie’s bold pronouncement about her niece and the soon-to-be-former president, but she did enjoy the week they spent looking after Jazzy while Meg and Todd were grading exams and wrapping up their semester. Babies forced you to leave both your id and ego at the door, which Emma had always felt was a gift. Talk about Zen—when you were responsible for the physical well-being of an infant incapable of the most rudimentary communication, you had no choice but to be present in the moment.

  Christmas in Berkeley with the Maxwells and the Thompsons, Becca’s family, had felt relaxing to Emma after her mother’s whirlwind Thanksgiving wedding. With Jazzy and Becca’s twins in the house, the holidays had been even more fun. Jamie, however, had stated more than once that seeing her sister and Becca in their parents’ houses with their babies was almost too wild to believe, especially given that Meg and Becca hadn’t been the most responsible of teenagers.

  When her sister and Becca protested, Jamie had reminded them that they were the ones who taught her how to smoke weed—when she was barely fourteen.

  “Bullshit,” Becca had said, mid-diaper change of a twin. “You’re confusing us with your old stoner buddy, Blair.”

  Emma had looked askance at the older generation, who were seated in the Maxwells’ living room only a matter of feet away. She was close with her mom, but she couldn’t imagine having a conversation with her about past illegal drug activity. Jamie’s parents had looked amused, though, as had the Thompsons.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Jamie’s dad had said, eyes twinkling.

  When Becca and Meg looked askance this time, the Thompsons and senior Maxwells had laughed amongst themselves.

  “We lived in Berkeley in the ’70s and ’80s,” Becca’s mother had said. “I’m pretty sure you all can do the math.”

  Now, Emma closed her eyes and leaned back in the hot tub, lifting her face to the gentle mist falling from the fog-encrusted mountain at her back. She could do the math; she just preferred not to right now.

  The door to the house creaked, and she glanced up to see Jamie approaching, clad in her one-piece bathing suit and soccer flip-flops. Her hair was tousled, her eyes sleepy, and if not for the tattoos and impressive muscles, Emma might have mistaken her for her teenage self. More than a decade later, Jamie was still adorable first thing in the morning.

  “Good morning,” Jamie said. And then she did one of Emma’s very favorite things: She stretched her arms up over her head, eyes closed to the morning mist, and released a small, sweet squeak.

  “Good morning,” Emma said. “Come on in. The water is perfect.”

  Jamie lowered herself into the hot tub, the top edge of which was level with the deck surface for extra privacy. The bushes at the side of the yard helped conceal their activities, too. Emma hadn’t even realized there was a deck at this corner of the house, let alone a hot tub, until the agent had pointed out the patio door built into the master bathroom.

  “Ooh,” Jamie said, her gravelly voice and throaty moan setting Emma’s libido on high alert. “This is so awesome. You were totally right about having the management company maintain it.”

  Jamie had suggested they use the jetted tub in the master bath since they were here so infrequently, but Emma had insisted that maintaining the hot tub was better for the environment than refilling the indoor bath over and over again. This argument had swayed Jamie, which was good. Emma was counting on having the hot tub available this weekend. Her New Year’s plan didn’t exactly depend on it, but things would run more smoothly with the tub up and running.

  Emma grimaced slightly at the thought of her New Year’s Eve plan. She only had a few days to wait, but it might as well have been weeks the way her nerves were cavorting. Why had she thought a buffer period would be good?

  Jamie misread her expression: “Oh, come on, I tell you you’re right sometimes.”

  Emma aligned her features into a friendlier look. “You absolutely do. It was just that talking about the management company triggered a reminder of my next meeting with the Players Association.”

  “When is that again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But not Saturday, right?” Jamie asked.

  “No. I don’t have anything on New Year’s Eve.” It was only a small lie. Besides, what Jamie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Neither do I,” Jamie said, with a slight edge Emma couldn’t quite identify.

  She squinted at her girlfriend. “Good.”

  Jamie smiled innocently back. “Great.” Then she moved into Emma’s space, her hands braced against the side of the tub, her minty breath ghosting over Emma’s lips. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Emma said, and slipped her arms around Jamie’s neck. She held off the kiss as long as she could, but they both knew where this was headed.

  She loved their vacation house. She truly did.

  #

  The countdown was on until the last day of the year, but despite Emma’s fears to the contrary, their vacation time sped by. After hot tubbing, they refueled and went for a run along the beach, laughing about the lingering post-orgasmic weakness in their legs. Back at home, they worked out in their exercise room before getting cleaned up and heading into town for lunch. Jamie wanted to try the Big Wave Café, but Emma wasn’t in the mood for seafood (or tsunami humor) so they decided to go to an all-day breakfast spot on Laneda, instead.

  Brunch was delicious as ever, and the restaurant was small enough that on
ly one father-daughter pair approached them for a selfie. As usual, Emma asked the fan not to upload the photo to social media because “We’re on vacation and would rather keep our whereabouts private.” The middle-aged man agreed readily enough. Like so many other things, Emma supposed they would have to wait and see.

  After brunch, Jamie dragged her down Laneda to her favorite spot in Manzanita—“I mean, other than Left Coast Siesta, and the beach, and our house, and…”—Cloud & Leaf, the local independent bookstore. Emma loved her Kindle because it allowed her to take dozens of books along on a trip like this summer’s multi-week jaunt to Brazil. Before e-books, she had to pick two or three novels to take on soccer trips and hope that (1) she liked them, and (2) she was in the mood to read them. But e-books were lightweight and plentiful, and the best part was she could download them directly from her library. And yet… And yet, there was something almost magical about actual, real-life books. The texture of the covers, the weight of the pages, the smell of the paper—she loved it all almost as much as Jamie seemed to.

  With the clouds overhead threatening to spit more rain, she was only too willing to step out of the wind and into Cloud & Leaf’s welcoming interior with its collection of hand-woven rugs and its rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  “Can I help you find something?” asked the older woman behind the counter.

  “No, we’re just browsing,” Emma said, returning the woman’s smile.