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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LIKE RIDING A BIKE

EMMA

W hen I wake up in a hotel in New Jersey two days after Thanksgiving, I want nothing more than to luxuriate in my bed. I stretch languorously in bed before pulling the covers up over my head and burrowing even further into my pillow, but then my alarm so rudely goes off. After peeling myself out of bed and getting ready for the day, I eat a quick breakfast at the hotel and drive over to the training facility where I sit for a long, silent moment in my car.

The facility looms in front of me, dark and imposing. My phone pings, drawing my attention away from the coaching and training staff that make their way into the building. Opening my texts, I see a picture from Jax – he and the girls are decked out in red soccer gear from head to toe, smiling for the camera – captioned: WE BELIEVE IN YOU.

I snap a quick selfie, making sure that I’m not visibly teary-eyed when I do, and send it back with a simple thank you, and a heart. I take one last look at their picture before clicking off my phone and finally climbing out of my car and making my way inside the training facility. My footsteps echo down the brightly lit hallway as I pass physical therapy rooms, weight rooms, and finally make my way into the locker room. Pushing the door open I breathe in the familiar scent of leather and grass and detergent from the nearby laundry room.

Conversations pause when I walk in the door, lots of young eyes look my way, and then a familiar voice calls my name.

“Emma!” Lara Estep races across the room and throws her arms around me. “You’re here!”

Dropping my bags, I wrap my arms around Lara and hug her tight. She visited once after my surgery, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my old friend, and I can’t wait to take to the field with her again soon. After finding my locker, I sink into the chair in front of it and slip off my street shoes and change into my cleats. After last night’s team meeting, I know that I’m fighting for a starting spot in December and only have a few weeks to prove to my coaches, teammates, and myself that I deserve to be here.

Someone tosses a mesh practice vest in my lap, and I throw it on without complaint. This is my first practice in over a year and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, but I can’t let anyone in this room know that I am, so I put on the vest, I throw my hair in a quick ponytail, and then I tape my knee and ignore the eyes that watch me as I do. Everyone here knows my history, some were on the field with me when it happened, and more than a few I’m sure were watching it on television that night. Some of these girls are just kids, no older it seems than the girls that I coached through the end of their season.

Once I’m suited up, I test my knee for flexibility before following the girls out onto the field where our coaches are waiting for us. It’s cold, but not unbearably so, and the sun shines bright as we take our places on the field and start warming up. I stretch, I run, I jump…and I feel good. The cold air in my lungs, the sun on my skin, the familiar movements and drills recalled by muscle memory, it feels good to be on the field again and I realize I’ve missed this more than I thought.

We run passing drills and shooting drills, and halfway through practice a familiar pain pulses in my knee, but I do my best to block it out, push it away. I put my head down and I get right back to the drills. This is the first of just a few practices before the match in December, and if I can’t get through this I don’t know what hope I have of making it through the match.

WE BELIEVE IN YOU.

I’m glad someone does. Because I certainly don’t believe in myself at the moment. In fact, I’m questioning why I agreed to do this. Why I’d be willing to subject myself to the pain again, to the long days of training, and having to fight for a spot on the team. But that text from Jax and the girls is seared into my brain, so I’m choosing to borrow their belief in me, if only for today. Knowing that they are behind me, that Jax is supporting me, is all the motivation that I need to keep moving. So I keep moving. I keep running and passing and shooting until I collapse in the grass at the end of the morning session, grateful for cold water and the promise of lunch.

Lara reaches out a hand and pulls me to my feet, slipping an arm around my shoulders in what looks like a friendly gesture to anyone watching, but she’s helping me walk off the field under my own power. For the most part. But it hurts.

“Alright grandma,” Lara laughs as we stagger into the lunchroom together, “let’s get you into a comfy chair.”

“Shut up. You’re three months older than me,” I laugh, slugging her in the shoulder as she lowers me into a chair and offers to fix me a plate of food. “I can fix my own plate, thank you very much. ”

Pushing myself out of the chair, I take a slow lap around the room under the pretense of catching up with teammates, when really I’m using the time to stretch out my knee and keep my body moving; too much time in that chair and I won’t make it out for the second half of training. What I wouldn't give for one of Ben Hutchinson’s pastries and a cup of coffee right now as I walk through the lunch line and build myself a salad with mixed greens, roasted chicken for protein, and a mix of veggies and feta cheese that reminds me of the ‘greek thing’ Jax brought me for our body doubling lunch just a few weeks ago.

When I sit down, Lara is holding court at our table, telling a handful of the younger players about what she calls our glory days, but to me feels like a distant memory; she tells stories of our college days with an air of fairytale, and spares no detail as she tells them of our National Team triumph three years ago.

“I watched that tournament with my dad,” Lorena MacArthur, the young goalkeeper, reminisces from across the table, waving a french fry between me and Lara, “you two were an amazing duo on the field. What I wouldn't give to see you in action in person .”

Lara plays center forward and when I’ve got the ball at my feet, she’s the one I’m looking for. I’ve played midfield my entire career, as far back as high school soccer, and I’ve never had a center forward – or teammate, for that matter – that I trust more than I trust Lara. I’d love to play with her again. If I keep working, and fighting for a starting spot, that just might happen.

“That could be arranged,” coach Sasha Torres intones as she approaches the table. “I was going to wait to tell you this Mitchell – I want you on first team tomorrow. You too, Estep.”

“Thanks coach,” I tamp down my enthusiasm and resist the urge to throw my arms around my coach. When Coach walks away, Lara squeals with delight and pulls me into a bone crushing hug. It’s been a while since Lara and I have shared the field, but if today has been any indication it should be just like riding a bike.

When training ends for the day, I head back to my hotel room for the night. My first order of business is filling the little plastic bag in the ice bucket as full as I can, tying off the top and resting it on a hand towel draped over my knee. My next order of business is calling Jax; the phone barely rings before his voice filters into my ears and all the tension and anxiety drains right out of my body at the sound of his voice.

“Hey Beautiful. How’d it go today?”

“Everything hurts and I’m dying,” I laugh with a dramatic groan.

“Ice. Elevation. Comfort food. And those are Doctor’s orders,” I can hear his smile through the phone.

“Ice and elevation is taken care of,” I tell him as I tuck a pillow under my knee. “And comfort food is being ordered soon.”

“How’d it feel to be out there again?”

“I don’t quite know yet, to be honest. The true test will be tomorrow during the scrimmage. Coach has me on First Team tomorrow, which is promising, but also might be for show just so the infants on the team can see Lara and me in action.”

“Infants?” Jax laughs. “Because you’re so old, Grandma?”

“Alright, Old Man,” my laughter joins his, as I settle deeper into the pillows behind me. “A couple of these girls are fifteen years younger than me. One told me that she and her dad watched my last world cup appearance together. When she was in middle school.”

“So, you and Lara are back together again tomorrow. Are you ready?”

Mentally, I’m ready. Physically, I’m not sure how long I’ll make it through the first half. This will be my first time back on the field in a game setting – even if it is only a scrimmage – since my injury. There’s a little bit of anxiety in the back of my mind that I attribute to pre-game jitters, which is nothing new for me. But the pain in my knee? That’s new, or at least it’s the new normal.

“I’m ready.” There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m ready to get back on the pitch tomorrow. “Just like riding a bike. How hard can it be?”

“Emma,” the laughter in Jax’s voice is music to my ears, “I’ve got some children here who are about to turn feral and rip this phone out of my hands, can I pass you off for a minute?”

“Of course you can.”

“Miss Emma!” Alice and Mackenzie start talking over each other but the gist of the conversation comes through; they went Christmas shopping today and got to pick out gifts for each other.

“Where did you go?” I ask, swallowing back the unexpected lump of emotion in my throat.

“The bookstore,” Mackenzie is very matter of fact in her answer. “It’s our favorite place to shop.”

As I listen to the girls tell me about spending the day with their dad, I close my eyes and longing squeezes at my chest. I wish I could have gone with them. Wander the aisles of the bookstore with Jax’s warm hand enveloping mine, stealing a kiss between towering bookshelves, maybe even conspiring with the girls on a gift for their dad.

“Bye Miss Emma! We love you,” the girls chorus before passing the phone back to Jax and the tears that were threatening finally spill over.

“And in case you didn’t know it,” Jax’s voice is a low rumble through my phone. “ I love you.”

“Oh Jax, I love you too. I miss you three, but I’ll be home tomorrow and I’m still planning on stopping by if you’ll have me.”

“Yes, please do, but please be careful coming home, there’s a winter storm in the forecast.”

“I will, Jax. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

I haven’t ridden a bike in probably ten years. And ninety minutes on the field is nothing at all like riding a bike. In fact as we take the field for kickoff, forty-five minutes is looking more and more daunting. I’m going to be doing more continuous running today than I have in a very long time, and even with my knee taped and trustworthy medical staff standing by, my body vibrates with nervous energy that I try my best to put out of my mind.

Taking a few deep breaths, I stretch once, twice, three times.

The whistle blows.

And we’re off.

I stumble almost immediately but regain my footing as I race down the outside edge of the field toward the penalty box on my team’s attack and as the ball is passed to me, my goal is to get the ball to Lara and prevent a counterattack. I spy an opening, but the problem with teammates who are so young, who’ve watched Lara and I play, is that they know what’s coming. They know that if Lara has an opening I’ll pass it to her. They know that I’m more likely to pass than shoot.

Not today, kids.

Once I’m in the box and Lorena is in my sights, I find my opening and shoot for the far post. The ball sails over Lorena’s hands, right into the back corner of the net. It may be a scrimmage, but my team celebrates as if I just scored a game winning penalty. I’m mobbed, briefly, before we put the ball in play and get back to work as the clock ticks its way toward forty-five minutes.

I’m thankful it’s a scrimmage and Coach wants everyone to get playing time. I'm subbed out for the second half, yet I remain on the bench and cheer on the first team, watching as they attack and defend, observing how the younger players interact with each other on the field. I can’t help but think of Mackenzie as I watch them, thinking about being in the stands with Jax, cheering her on the same way Mom and Dad always did for me. As the clock ticks toward ninety minutes, soft snowflakes start to fall and my mind travels away from the pitch, three hours north on I-87 toward Saratoga Springs.