She dreams she’s at the Park again.
It’s so real it’s maybe not a dream. The place is so familiar that her subconscious does a pretty good job of recreating it: the grass, the stands, the people, the atmosphere that she’s so rarely experienced at any other women's soccer venue. There’s Sinc down the center, there’s Kling lurking for a perfectly timed give-and-take. There are the Riveters. It’s home.
But Sinc doesn’t pass to her. Tobin’s wide open, Kling is sprinting somewhere off her left shoulder, the play is there and the defenders are nowhere and it’s as close to a sure thing as you get in soccer. But the pass doesn’t come. Sinc doesn't even look at her. Her eyes slide right over Tobin and the ball goes straight past her into Kling’s path.
Tobin feels herself stumble just a tiny bit, like her feet are confused. No one else will notice, probably, she’s always been good at looking like she’s in control even when she isn’t, and nobody does - but it’s because no one is looking at her. She stares up at the crowd, the flags as bright as ever, the cheering as loud, and no one meets her eye. She might as well be invisible.
But I’m here, she thinks wildly. And then, she thinks, she says it out loud. But I’mstill here!
She panics then, taking off up the sideline, desperate to work out what’s wrong - but suddenly the people in the stands start to white out entirely, and the chanting compresses to a buzz, then static, then a single high note screaming in her ears. The Park is gone. She’s alone.
‘Tobin.’
It takes a second to work out that this sound is real.
‘Tobin.’
When she does, the bright white around her just tears in half like a sheet of paper, and she’s falling - and then she’s caught.
‘Oh, Tobs. It’s okay. It’s only a dream.’
Tobin clutches at Christen and can’t think of anything except how badly she wants not to cry about this. It’s just a dream. Tobin Heath sleeps like the dead and doesn’t hang onto stress and counts her blessings. She does not wallow in things that can’t be helped. She doesn’t do self-pity.
But then Christen hugs her hard, arms coming up to wrap around Tobin with such conviction, and Tobin bursts into tears so suddenly it almost surprises her.
It’s a cliche, but she’s not angry; she’s just disappointed. She made her peace a long time ago with the logical reasons why she had to go unprotected, why it might not even be a bad thing, in the long run, and why it means fundamentally that her chances of playing with Christen for the rest of her career are as high as they can possibly be. But it hurts. Now that it’s actually happened, it’s so hard not to feel unwanted. She’s thirty-two years old and a seasoned professional and an adult and she knows that clubs are businesses, not families. It had just felt, more and more with every year, that this was different. That she was different.
It takes a long time to explain this to Christen. Christen knows, of course. More often than not she understands exactly how Tobin is feeling before Tobin says it, but sometimes it just feels important to say it anyway. So she tries, stumbling over the explanation and relying on Christen to put the pieces together.
‘I just thought - they’d fight for me. I thought I meant more to them than that. I never thought I’d feel like they didn’t want me.’
‘I know.’
Tobin realises too late that she’d been relying on Christen to spell out the bright side. The tears prick at the back of her eyes again, the pressure in her head building, and she feels that panic starting to claw at her throat.
Christen notices, and squeezes her hand. ‘No - what I mean to say is, you’re right that the club isn't a family. But the thing is, the team is a family. You’re so loved in Portland, Tobin. That won't change. The city isn’t going to forget you, or the fans think any less of you, or be any less grateful for the years you gave them. I’m so mad for you that you don’t get to say goodbye properly, and I’m almost as mad for the Riveters because we know they would have lost their collective minds trying to give you the send-off you deserve. But it’s not really goodbye. No one will ever tell the story of the Thorns, or soccer in Portland, or the growth of this league without mentioning your name.’ Christen wipes the tears from Tobin’s cheeks and brings her warm palm to settle on the back of Tobin’s neck. ‘You’ve done what you always wanted to do. You haven’t lost your legacy. It’s too important for that.’
Tobin leans into the soft press of Christen’s hand, their foreheads coming together. ‘It’s not fair. On me or you. Or any of us.’
‘No, it’s not. And right now, it really sucks. I’m angry that this is how it works, and the game is still at a point where the league needs to be micro-managed and players treated like chess pieces. But it won’t always be like that, and when it isn’t, we'll be a part of why that change happened.’
Christen’s right, and in daylight, Tobin will see that. They’ve both always been good at looking at the big picture, the next generation, the silver lining. And this isn’t just any silver lining. This is a commitment that their days of being apart are over.
Tobin still wishes with all her heart that it could have been in Portland. But her heart, itself, isn’t in Portland.
Her heart is here.
Tobin kisses Christen, in their bed, in Manchester, where they’d come not because they wanted to play but because they wanted to play together.
‘I’d go anywhere with you.’