Book Five of Girls of Summer Read online

  Jamie’s mother put in, “My older daughter and her husband actually have news as well. But I think they’ll want to tell you themselves, Jamie.”

  “Mom! You can’t just dangle something like that,” Jamie said.

  Her mother’s eyebrows rose. “Apparently I can.”

  Emma shared a look with Jamie. What the hell? But they didn’t have long to bristle. Emma was facing the door to the coffee shop, so she was the first to notice Meg, clad in a bright pink windbreaker, her hair streaked with matching color. Jamie took one look at Emma’s face and spun in her chair, already half-rising.

  In seconds, Meg was at her side, enveloping her in a hug. “Hey, kiddo!”

  “Hey, shorty!” Jamie responded, laughing down at her older sister.

  Meg’s husband Todd approached the table at a more sedate pace, offering Emma and the Maxwells hugs and Emma’s mom a handshake. But Emma’s mother pulled him in.

  “I’m the odd Minnesotan out,” she told him. “I don’t shy away from hugs.”

  Jamie was practically buzzing with impatience. “So?” she said as soon as the greetings had been concluded.

  “So I think I could do with some coffee,” Meg said, glancing at her husband. “What about you?”

  “Meg!” Jamie all but shouted. “What’s your news? Oh my god—are you pregnant?”

  The entire group stilled. Emma looked between Todd and Meg. Was that even a possibility? Of course, they were straight, so baby-making was always a possibility. But Jamie hadn’t mentioned they were trying, had she? Emma had been a bit focused on the World Cup lately, so it was possible she had tuned out during an important conversation…

  “No, you dork,” Meg said, smacking her younger sister’s arm. “We got jobs. At the same university. We landed a spousal hire.”

  “A spousal hire—that’s amazing!” Jamie said, seemingly just as amped as she’d been at the idea of becoming an aunt. “Where?”

  “University of British Columbia, in Vancouver.”

  “Vancouver?” Jamie repeated. Then she laughed and hauled her sister and brother-in-law into a joint hug. “Nice! We won’t be that far away from each other.”

  “Driving distance. Every move, we get closer and closer,” Meg said, her tone affectionate as she mussed Jamie’s hair. “No more Europe, capiche?”

  Jamie only shrugged noncommittally and offered Emma a secretive smile. Let’s retire to Europe, Emma remembered saying during their London vacation the previous year. Before they left soccer permanently, before they settled down with a house and a family—it could happen. Probably it wouldn’t, but it was a nice daydream nonetheless.

  “Tim and I are feeling exceedingly lucky,” Pam, Jamie’s mother, told Emma’s mom. “At least for now, all of our kids will be on the West Coast.” She gestured toward the younger generation, the movement including Emma.

  Emma blinked. Did she mean…? Was she actually…? As Pam smiled kindly at her, Emma gulped at the sudden tightness in her throat. Well, crap. How was she supposed to stay mad at the woman now?

  Jamie slipped her arm around Emma’s shoulder and gave her a brief squeeze before they settled back into their seats. Her bright-eyed smile told Emma she was suddenly struggling with the same question.

  Mothers. Geez.

  “That leaves only Ty and Bridget back east,” Emma’s mom commented.

  Jamie filled her sister in on Emma’s brother’s wedding news, and for a few minutes the conversation revolved around wedding food and which was better: iPod playlists or real live DJs.

  Um, playlists, obviously.

  “Speaking of,” Meg drawled, elbowing Jamie from her position at the corner of the table, “when are we going to hear wedding bells from the two of you?”

  Emma nearly spit out her coffee. Jamie did choke on a mouthful of tea.

  “Ha ha, just kidding!” Meg gleefully clapped Jamie on the back. “Better grab some extra napkins, Todd.”

  While Meg’s husband ordered their coffees—and procured additional napkins—the conversation returned to US Soccer’s machinations to get all of the mothers to San Jose at roughly the same time.

  “It’s a pretty good event, as far as PR events go,” Emma allowed.

  Jamie, who still hadn’t made eye contact with her since Meg’s teasing, nodded.

  “Plus it gave Todd and me an excuse to surprise you guys,” Meg put in. “Best surprise ever territory, am I right?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jamie said, her blush finally starting to recede. “Emma showing up in London last year sort of has that covered.”

  “I don’t know, Jamie,” Emma said. “Your surprise visit at Christmas is a strong contender.”

  “That was totally my idea,” Meg insisted.

  Jamie gave her a scornful glance. “The great Christmas caper? Please.”

  Before the sisters could start bickering in earnest, Emma said, “Actually, a caper is a sub-genre of mystery fiction where the crime takes place in full view of the reader, so it’s not so much of a surprise as it is—”

  Jamie groaned. “Oh my god, you’re such a nerd.”

  “Whatever. I like to read,” Emma defended herself.

  “I know,” Jamie said, giving her a soft look that—given they were in public—Emma knew was meant to substitute for a kiss. “You’re my little book nerd.”

  Their mothers looked on, smiling, while Meg coughed out, “Whipped.”

  And seriously, it was shocking how much Jamie’s music professor sister could sometimes resemble Angie Wang.

  #

  The game against Ireland provided a welcome break from the enforced family time, Emma thought the following morning as she warmed up for the match. More than a few of her teammates seemed more pumped than usual as they prepared to take the field against a team they had beaten 10 times in 10 previous tries. In fact, Ireland had only ever scored a single goal against the US—a full decade earlier—which meant they weren’t a real test. Not that Mexico or South Korea should present a significant challenge in the coming weeks, either. That wasn’t the goal of the send-off series. These last few games on home territory were supposed to build the team’s confidence and give the American fans an opportunity to cheer on their team in an almost guaranteed victory.

  It was a perfect soccer day. The sun was out, the breeze was cool, and the stands were packed with 18,000 fans—an official sell-out—clad in red, white, and blue. Emma caught sight of more than a few banners and posters bearing her face, which wasn’t her favorite, but whatever. If it got their supporters psyched for the World Cup, so be it.

  Walking out onto the field holding hands with their mothers at the beginning of the game was a little cheesy, too, but Emma smiled and kept her head high as they emerged from the tunnel, the crowd cheering them on. She was leery of public spectacle and so, she knew, was her mom, but this tribute to the women who had made all of their careers as professional athletes possible—driving them to practices and games, feeding them well so they had fuel and focus, kissing their bruises and soothing their hurt feelings when they failed to rise to their own or others’ expectations—was actually really nice.

  Emma hugged her mom when the announcer called their names, and after she’d waved at the fans, her mom leaned in to murmur, “I knew you would earn your spot back.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Emma said, arm around her mother’s shoulders.

  “Thank you,” her mom replied, and squeezed her waist.

  Definitely one of the better marketing stunts the federation had sprung on them, that was for sure.

  And yet, the team was off from the moment the game began. Gone was the energy and connection of the match against New Zealand the previous month. Almost everyone had been playing with their club teams throughout April, and it showed. Individual players performed well and the defense was solid, but once again, just like at the Algarve, the chemistry on attack was lacking. Every once in a while there would be a surge of creativity, but then a pass would fail to find i
ts mark or no one would fill the open space, and the attack would fizzle. Again.

  And then, after forty frustrating minutes, something incredible happened. Jamie lofted a corner kick into Ireland’s box, and Maddie struck the ball low and hard to the far corner of the goal. The post player cleared it off the goal line—directly into Ellie’s path. She tucked it neatly past the Irish keeper, and all hell broke loose.

  Ellie had just tied Mia Hamm’s international scoring record.

  The crowd erupted immediately, and Emma and Jamie and the rest of their teammates swarmed Ellie. The US captain smiled and slapped hands and tossed the ball to Mel on the sidelines to keep safe, but then she waved everyone back into position, clearly prioritizing the team’s World Cup preparation over her own individual glory. That was one of the reasons Emma—and everyone else with half a heart—loved her.

  The energy in the stadium had done a 180, and the shift was reflected on the field. Suddenly, the US players seemed to be everywhere, communicating clearly, sprinting to get open off the ball, and winning practically every 50-50 ball they challenged for. Emma wasn’t even surprised when, during injury time, Gabe dribbled deep into Ireland’s defensive end and crossed a perfectly weighted ball to Ellie on the 12. She wasn’t surprised, and yet she was stunned when Ellie rose into the air and snapped her head forward in one of her signature headers, burying the ball in the back of the net and becoming, just like that, the leading scorer in the world. Mia Hamm, a household name in soccer-savvy families, had scored 158 international goals, more than any other person in history—until now. Now Rachel Ellison held the title at 159.

  As the stands erupted again and the non-starters streamed off the bench, Emma sprinted halfway up the field and launched herself into Ellie’s arms.

  “You did it!” she shouted as Ellie whirled her around. “You fucking did it!”

  Then Jamie was there hugging them both, and so were the subs from the bench, and Emma couldn’t help thinking how perfect this one moment in time was.

  Ellie let the celebration last a little longer, and then the ref was blowing the whistle for half time and congratulating Ellie on their way off the field. The coaches followed suit, as did various federation employees lurking around the bench, and of course their teammates again. As they headed for the tunnel to the locker room, Emma noticed Ellie scanning the stands until she saw Jodie and her mom waving at her from behind the American bench. Ellie waved back, her smile huge, and Emma remembered what she’d said one night the previous winter in a hotel room in Brazil: My dad said of all his children, I would always be his biggest disappointment.

  “In your face, Mr. Ellison,” Emma muttered as she ducked into the tunnel.

  “What?” Maddie asked over the sound of cleats crunching over concrete.

  “Nothing.”

  Emma pushed the gloomy memory away. Today was a day for celebration, not for dwelling on stupid people and things that couldn’t be changed. Good thing international scoring records didn’t fall into that category.

  In the home team locker room, Jo led a resounding cheer for Ellie, who ducked her head and redid the pre-wrap she used to keep her hair off her face. For an international soccer star, she wasn’t a fan of the limelight.

  “I believe you broke the record,” Angie chanted, and soon the entire locker room was repeating the cheer, until finally Ellie stood up and took a bow.

  “Speech, speech!” Gabe cried, and soon that cheer was taken up, too.

  “Fine,” Ellie said, sounding exasperated but smiling beatifically at them. “You were all here to see soccer history made. You’re welcome.”

  Her friends and teammates whistled and booed, and then it was time for the coaches to chat about how, despite the momentous nature of the day, the team wasn’t exactly where it needed to be. Two goals didn’t feel like nearly enough given the lack of chemistry between the midfield and front line. Other than Ellie’s five minute burst of scoring, the attack had faltered frequently in the first half.

  Same old, same old, Emma thought. But at least their set pieces were on point, as Angie would say, thanks in no small part to the addition of a certain midfielder to the permanent roster.

  The third and final goal of the match came in the fifty-fourth minute off of one of Jamie’s perfectly placed corner kicks. Just as they’d practiced all week, Taylor O’Brien received the ball at the near post and volleyed it past Ireland’s diving keeper. Taylor, the soccer pundits were saying, was going to have a break-out World Cup. Those were things the US team could usually rely on: set pieces saving their butts, and someone new stepping up at an important moment in the cycle.

  That the Americans beat Ireland was a sign they weren’t completely off track. That Emma refrained from breaking the jaw of the woman who had crushed Jamie’s ankle two years earlier was, she thought as they signed autographs afterward, another excellent outcome on the day.

  For once, the crowd waiting for Ryan and Jamie nearly exceeded the reception Jenny and Ellie regularly received. The small stadium had sold out a few days earlier partially because Jamie, a hometown girl, Britt, an Arizonan who had played with Jamie at Stanford, and Ryan, a California girl who had played her college ball at Cal, had dozens of friends, former coaches, and one-time teammates in the stands to cheer them on.

  Shoshanna, Jamie’s old therapist, was there too, waving excitedly at them from halfway up the stands, impossible to miss with her orange, oversized San Francisco Giants foam hand.

  “I didn’t know she was a baseball fan,” Emma said to Jamie out of the corner of her mouth as they waved back.

  “Neither did I,” Jamie admitted, smiling broadly at the woman she credited with saving her life—in a super non-melodramatic way.

  Speaking of high school, Jamie’s older sister’s best friend Becca and her wife Rhea had sat with Jamie’s family behind the US bench, each of them wearing one of their twin daughters in a baby carrier. They were gone by the time the game ended, but Meg assured Jamie and Emma they hadn’t seen the last of the duo. Becca, Rhea, and the senior Thompsons would be joining Jamie’s family for dinner later.

  Jo had released the players from team requirements for the rest of the day, which Emma would have been more excited about if her mother hadn’t already left the stadium to catch her flight back to Minnesota. Jamie’s parents had invited them out to dinner at one of their favorite Berkeley establishments, and while Emma normally would have loved the idea, she wasn’t sure it was the best way to spend one of the 28 nights—28 NIGHTS—they had left before their first World Cup match. Not with Jamie barely keeping her anger at her mother in check.

  But it wasn’t like they had any choice. Family was family.

  “You ready?” Jamie asked a little while later as they emerged from the locker room freshly showered and dressed in street clothes.

  “The question is, are you?” Emma replied, squashing the urge to take Jamie’s hand in hers. Technically, they were still on team time, though not for much longer.

  “Yo, Jamba Juice!” Angie called from behind them. “Wait for us.”

  Angie and Maddie were joining them too, along with their mothers, Mary and Mary Pat, respectively—their very Catholic, blatantly homophobic mothers who would have probably preferred never to meet. Fortunately, in addition to Jamie’s family and friends, Britt would be there too, along with her laidback, slightly hippyish social worker mom. The plan was for Leah, Britt’s mom, to distract Angie’s mother if necessary, since they went way back to youth national team days. Leah had actually offered to stage an intervention with her old friend, but Britt had assured her it wouldn’t be necessary. Meanwhile, Angie had only squinted into the distance at the offer, her mouth slightly askew, causing Britt to amend that it wouldn’t be necessary tonight, at least.

  In a way, Emma thought as they made their way to the restaurant, she couldn’t wait for the World Cup to suck them up because then they would be in their federation-enforced bubble, with carefully restricted media access and li
mited family time. Too bad the send-off series didn’t qualify for the bubble. Because honestly? Emma wasn’t sure anyone in the Berkeley city limits was ready for this particular dinner party.

  Chapter Six

  It was a little surreal, to be honest.

  Jamie gazed around the large table on the patio at Jupiter, the brew pub where she’d been coming to celebrate victory—and rail at defeat—for most of her life, from her AYSO days in elementary school to her club and high school teams. She’d even brought her college teammates here, which meant that this was not Britt’s first time sitting around the outdoor fire pit in the historic building in downtown Berkeley.

  Britt glanced up and caught her eye, and they shared a smile. Jamie had a feeling her oldest friend was thinking the same thing she was: Holy SHIT. We’re actually at Jupiter after playing for the national team! A year and a half earlier, they’d been in London prepping for Champions League and hoping their dreams of making the USWNT weren’t permanently squelched. Now look at them. Britt may not have started today’s match, but she had come in at the sixtieth minute. Probably her playing time had more to do with Phoebe’s sore shoulder and Avery’s sprained ankle than Britt’s connection to the region. But Jamie was pretty sure her friend would take every minute, even if she hadn’t had to defend a single shot.

  Dinner had gone well, too, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise. What had they expected, that the Marys Pat would stand up and denounce their daughters’ relationship in the middle of a crowded restaurant on Mother’s Day? Well, actually… Both women had sent more than a few dark looks at Angie and Maddie huddled together laughing or exchanging sweet smiles like the newly in love girlfriends they were. If anything, it might have done some good for the two to see Jamie’s parents being supportive of her and Emma. Similarly, Britt’s mom had gone out of her way to comment positively on Britt’s relationship with her girlfriend, Allie, in an attempt to lead by example. Maybe the Marys Pat would see that the world didn’t end and the family didn’t have to break apart just because a child turned out to be less than straight.