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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ONE LAST TIME

JAX

“ W e’re gonna miss kick-off,” Mackenzie vibrates with nervous energy as I scroll through the menu of streaming services to find the one that is carrying tonight’s game.

“Mackenzie,” I calmly click into the streaming service before turning to my daughter, “we’re an hour away from kick-off, I promise you we’re not going to miss it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” I leave the menu on screen knowing that it’s going to eventually time out, but also knowing that Mackenzie is finding some comfort in knowing that we won’t miss kick-off. Alice has been in and out of the room most of the afternoon as she cleans her room and reorganizes her space. When she gets a burst of energy to start cleaning, it’s best to stay out of her way and let her do the thing, but she’s just stopped in front of the Christmas tree, hands on her hips and head tilted in contemplation.

“Dad? Were these boxes always here?”

“Nope,” I grin. I slipped those under the tree this morning before they woke up. “I think you and your sister need to check those out.”

Mackenzie and Alice eagerly grab the boxes from under the tree and sit on the floor with them.

“From Emma?” Alice reads the tag and turns to me with wide eyes before ripping into the wrapping paper. Mackenzie is a little more methodical with her unwrapping, but soon they’re both lifting the lids off of identical boxes.

Emma brought these gifts with her on the day she left, and insisted that I give them to the girls on game day. I don't even know what’s inside, but I’m not prepared for the girls to lift matching US Soccer jerseys out of their boxes. Alice holds hers up and turns it around to reveal A. Hutchinson and the number 3, Emma’s number, emblazoned on the back. Mackenzie’s has the same number, but with M. Hutchinson across the top. They immediately throw the kits over top of their tee shirts, and have me snap a picture to send to Emma.

Just a few seconds after the message shows it’s been delivered, my phone rings with an incoming video call and my heart lurches with anticipation as I fumble to swipe and answer her call.

“I can’t talk long,” she says, and I take note of the locker behind her, her own kit hanging there, “But I wanted to see my girls.”

My girls, she said.

Her girls.

Our girls? I don’t want to let myself think about it, not yet. But I hope, someday, for that to be the case.

Passing the phone to Mackenzie, I take on the role of silent observer as both girls position themselves in the frame so Emma can see them. She wishes them a Merry Christmas and reminds them that she’ll be home soon. It’s hard to miss the light in my daughters’ eyes as they talk to Emma, their joy radiating in the room. They thank her for their jerseys before passing the phone back to me, and I walk down the hall for a little bit of privacy.

“You just made their day.”

“Seeing you three made my day.” Emma’s smile has faded a bit, shadows under her eyes betraying the cheerful mask she wore just a few minutes ago, brows pinched together in a wince. “I’m looking forward to the final whistle.”

“I’m looking forward to watching you play,” this elicits a smile, a real smile that reaches her eyes. “And having you here with us again soon.”

“Soon.” Her eyes flick to something across the room and off screen. “But, for now I have to go. I love you, Jax.”

“I love you, Emma.”

With a bowl of popcorn between them, mugs of hot chocolate, and a promise that they can stay up to watch the whole first half, the girls settle into the couch together as I click into the match. I’ve turned off all the lights in the house, except for those on the Christmas tree; we sit together in the cozy glow and watch as the camera pans the starting lineups. To my surprise, Emma is standing between Lorena MacArthur, and the line of officials.

“She’s the captain!” Mackenzie squeals beside me, nearly bouncing off of the couch.

“She sure is,” I whisper, a surge of pride pressing against my chest. The camera zeros in on Emma’s face and any casual viewer might not notice the anxiety etched into her face. Her smile is tight but she looks good out there, all long limbs and strong lines. Her hair is in her usual game day braid, a headband keeps flyaways in place. The captain’s armband looks good on her, but she’s said before how much pressure it adds, the weight of the expectations that come with that little bit of fabric.

With a quick touch of the ball, Emma kicks off the game and they get off to a good start. I watch her as she follows the action of the game, continuously running from one end to the other, always following the action. Emma gets the ball at her feet and streaks toward the goal, looking for an opening…

“SHOOT!” the girls shout in unison, someone throwing a handful of popcorn in the air.

Emma takes the shot and the ball sails into the back of the net. My girls are on their feet, celebrating and cheering her on as her team does the same on the field. A smile spreads across her face as she embraces her teammates and then gets right back into the action of the game.

After a strong start, Emma slows down as the clock ticks up toward forty five minutes. After the first half, the game is tied, and Mackenzie launches a campaign for her and Alice to stay up well past their bedtimes to watch the rest of the match. I was planning to let them, but the look of triumph on her face when she thinks she’s changed my mind brings a small bit of joy tonight, but even better is sitting between the girls on the couch for the second half, Alice and Mackenzie both curled up beside me as the second half kicks off.

Emma gets the ball and streaks toward the goal, finding an opening just as a defender gets close to her and swipes the ball from her and races toward the opposite goal. I see the defeat on Emma’s face, that was the first solid chance she’s had since the start of the game, and I know Emma, I know that individual goals aren’t what’s important to her, but I also know that right now she’s probably beating herself up about a missed opportunity for the team.

I can see it on her face.

And then the sub board goes up.

Emma’s number glows red.

Her teammates clap her off the field and she claps for the fans filling the stands before pulling off the armband and jogging toward the goal. Emma wraps her arms around the young goalkeeper in a squeezing embrace before slipping the band on her arm and gripping Lorena by the shoulders, sharing a private conversation before Emma finally exits the playing field.

The last thing Emma wanted was to be made a spectacle, trotted out for a retirement tour, one last hurrah to sell tickets, and that’s not what this feels like tonight. Tonight feels like a proper farewell for an excellent player. A footballer who gets to go out on her own terms, with the praise that she deserves after a great career.

The girls have long since fallen asleep on the couch, so I gently wake them and walk them down the hall to be tucked into bed. With Emma out of the game, there’s not much more to watch, but after kissing the girls goodnight, I sink back into the couch and finish off the popcorn while the clock continues to tick toward ninety minutes. After a handful of stoppage minutes, the whistle blows, and I’m about to turn the television off when they cut to the analysts, but Emma’s name is the first mentioned.

“Is this the beginning of the end for Emma Mitchell?” One of the analysts asks as they transition into the postgame interviews. “She looked good, but didn’t have the same speed and conviction on the ball that we’re used to.”

“What game were you watching?” I ask aloud as I look for the remote to turn this off. But I stop in my tracks when her face fills my screen. Julie Morgan asks all the standard questions, all the questions you’d expect to be asked of a returning athlete.

“My knee feels fine,” she says, forcing a smile. Fine for Emma means that her knee has been bothering her all day, and she just hasn’t said anything. Fine for Emma means that when she gets back to her hotel tonight she’ll need to elevate and treat her knee. But Julie, and the audience watching, don’t know that. What they know is that she’s ‘fine’. “It felt good to get out there again. There’s nothing like playing in front of a crowd like this, and I loved playing with old friends and former teammates again.”

“And so the question on everyone’s minds, Emma: What’s next?”

Emma’s eyes lock on the camera, almost as if, somehow, she’s looking right at me, and a wide smile spreads across her beautiful face. The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her all night and my heart leaps in my chest.

There she is.

That’s my girl.