Slipped out of bed
as my love slept
so silently.
On my way out,
right then and there,
I took a knife
and cut my hair.
Christen knows, rationally, that there is absolutely nothing to be gained from googling soccer fields near me at 2am.
It’s been like this ever since that final ball of the Olympics; the one that emphatically, heartbreakingly, did not end up in the back of the net. Christen knows that objectively, a game isn’t lost the moment you lose it, but all the moments you didn’t win. Everyone on that pitch will remember times they missed a ball or scuffed a pass, didn’t mark their player, tried to be too clever or weren’t clever enough, split-second decisions which could have turned into goals but didn’t. Every single one of those plays had to go wrong for her to wind up standing at that penalty spot with the opportunity to deliver the final blow, just the last of many moments they didn’t win. Football is an endless spider diagram of ‘what ifs’. A million parallel universes. Schrodinger’s sport.
But on another objective level, an even simpler one, it is her fault. If she’d scored, they would have won. She knows that. And she could have scored. She should have scored.
During the daytime, it’s easier to push that matter-of-fact little voice in her head into the background. She’s secretly glad of the break before they have to play again, but she’s still busy, occupied, distracted with other things. There are places to go and people to see, podcasts to catch up on, recipes to try. There’s Tobin, who has been unfailingly patient and kind and loving; letting her cry, making her laugh, refusing to dwell on her own disappointment because she knows it would hurt Christen to see it.
Christen wants so badly just to sink into all that love, and be as grateful for it as she knows she should be, but somehow she’s managed to ruin that for herself too.
In spiteful moments, which horrify her afterwards, she thinks that Tobin has two gold medals already and maybe just is less disappointed.
Worse, being with Tobin now is a constant reminder of how utterly, unstoppably happy they had been before. Those previous twelve months had been the most gilded of Christen’s life, all her dreams coming true one after the other: she’d won the World Cup and got the girl and made the roster, and they were going to win the Olympics. It had been so wonderful that it hurts to look back on it now. How secure she’d felt. How complacent she’d been. It’s a dull ache at the back of her head, closing up her throat, but it’s not just sadness; there’s a bitter twist to it which she eventually recognizes as guilt.
Because things had been perfect, and she had ruined them.
Because she hadn’t scored.
I should have scored.
Why didn’t I score?
Those are the thoughts that run through Christen’s head at 2am, until it all reduces down to the dreadful, dominating fear that has always lain behind all of her anxieties: that it had all been a mistake. She had never been good enough, she was never meant to have any of this; the gold medal, the World Cup, Tobin, none of it.
And so, at 2am, she just needs to check that she can still play. She just needs to make sure that she can still put a ball down on the spot, and kick it, and it will end up in the back of the net.
She just needs to know.
The nearest soccer field is only a couple blocks away, so she takes a couple of balls and slips out before Tobin wakes up. It’s a miracle she’s still asleep, really, given Christen’s tossing and turning and the light from her phone. Christen usually envies - resents? - her girlfriend’s ability to sleep through anything, but this time she’s grateful. She’s not sure she could explain this.
Upper left corner, right foot. Upper right, right foot. Collect. Lower left, right foot. Lower right, right foot. Collect. Upper left, left foot, Upper right, left -
‘Chris?’
She’s so focused she doesn’t notice Tobin approaching until she hears the soft voice behind her. Tobin looks half-asleep still, blinking behind her glasses, bundled up in joggers and hoodie and the same sneakers she toed off and didn’t put away just a few hours ago. But she’s here.
‘How did you know where I was?’
Tobin shrugs one-shouldered, smothering a yawn. ‘I just knew. I thought you might have forgotten to bring water.’
‘Thanks.’
Tobin silently passes over the bottle and rubs Christen’s shoulder as she drinks, like they're standing in a huddle. After a minute, she flicks up the loose ball and juggles it a couple of times from foot to foot, as unconscious as breathing. ‘What do you need, Chris?’
Christen appreciates how she’s trying to keep it casual, even though she’s clearly worried - with reason, because disappearing in the middle of the night to practice penalties on a deserted pitch is not normal behavior. ‘I don’t suppose you brought snacks too?’
‘So demanding.’ Tobin smacks her lightly on the arm and taps the ball back. ‘Did you wanna play some more? If I go in goal I’ll definitely break my glasses, but I could defend?’
Christen is about to nod, smile, maybe see if she can slip the ball through Tobin’s legs by way of reply, but then she remembers the previous times they’ve done this: silly 1v1s, nothing at stake, just trying to outsmart each other because they could and it was fun. This could be like that, if she wanted. She does want.
She’s just not sure she can play for fun right now.
‘Or I can collect the balls,’ adds Tobin quickly, when she doesn’t reply. ‘Or I can just sit. Until you’re done. No rush.’
‘Can I just - I was just gonna take a few more shots? If that’s okay?’
‘Course.’
‘You don’t mind?’
Tobin flings herself down on the grass a few feet away, with her usual easy smile. If she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. ‘Chris. It’s really fine. Wake me up when you’re done?’
‘Very funny.’
Christen gets back into her pattern - upper right, left foot - and takes another nineteen shots, each corner in turn, alternate feet. Nothing fancy. Tobin doesn’t fall asleep, not that Christen would have put it past her, but she is quiet, picking absently at the grass as she watches. Christen starts to show off a little bit for her, even though she knows Tobin wouldn’t judge if she missed every single shot. It’s something she catches herself doing even when Tobin isn’t there, because they’ve spent so much time apart that she spends whole days collecting things to tell Tobin, and treasures the act of sharing them at night, speakerphones and sleepy voices: hey, babe, you should have seen the goal I scored in practice today.
I should have scored.
Why didn’t I score?
She fishes the balls out of the net for the last time and walks them over slowly to where Tobin is waiting. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Do you think about me when we’re not together? Or, when we are together, but like. Doing other stuff?’
Tobin raises herself up on her elbows. She sounds half-baffled, half-teasing. ‘Chris...’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Right. Sorry, I just - I think about you all the time. Like, all the time. I thought you knew that.’ Tobin gets to her feet stiffly, hands in her pockets. ‘I hear songs that remind me of you, and I see books I think you’ll like. And sandwich fillings. I think about you every single time I see a dog. When I have conversations with really annoying people I think of the way I’d nudge you whenever they said something dumb. When we’re in different groups in practice I try to remember all the funny things that happen so I can tell you afterwards, and you pretend to laugh even if you really just want me to go away so you can shower. Um - sometimes I pass people in the street who I think use your shampoo. I don’t know if that’s a weird thing to notice.’ She pauses, hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to ask but can’t stop herself. ‘Does that mean you don’t think about me except when we’re together? Like, it’s okay if you don’t - I know my brain is kind of overactive sometimes -’
Christen wants to laugh and kiss her and tell her she’s an idiot, but it’s like there’s a brake on her smile. ‘No, I do. I mean, I know we were together just now, but I was thinking about you while I was practising. About how we store up all that stuff to tell each other when we’re apart.’ Tobin still looks doubtful, and Christen does kiss her then, just a peck to reassure her. ‘See? I think about you even when I’m thinking about other things.’
Tobin wrinkles her nose. ‘That sounds complicated. Lucky you went to Stanford.’
Christen swipes at her and pretends to be outraged, and Tobin grins, and it feels like it’s all going to be fine; but then Christen realizes what she should have said.
I think about you when I’m meant to be thinking about other things.
Tobin watches her for a second, bottom lip tucked behind her teeth, then holds out a hand to take one of the balls. ‘C’mon, Stanford. I love you. Let’s go home.’
‘I love you too.’
And she does. Desperately.
So why does it suddenly worry her so much?
---
As I got dressed,
soon I felt
as though I could see
through every cloud.
Right then and there
I saw my life
as through a lens.
The second time, Christen doesn’t lie awake thinking about the penalty; she dreams about it instead. She hadn’t thought anything could be worse than living that day, but this always comes close, because Dream-Christen knows exactly what’s going to happen, and can’t change it. Dream-Christen walks out into that stadium like she’s going to her own execution, and it’s so loud, claustrophobic with bright colours and bright lights and millions and millions of disappointed faces -
She wakes abruptly enough that Tobin actually stirs, looking around confused before she fumbles for her glasses. ‘Chris?’
‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’
‘What -’
‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Hey, I don’t - you can wake me any time. You know that, right?’ Tobin runs a warm hand down Christen’s back, kisses her shoulder. ‘Chris. What do you need?’
Christen doesn’t reply, but she gets out of bed and gets dressed with shaky fingers, and Tobin follows suit without asking where they’re going.
They walk to the pitch in silence. Tobin is giving her even more space than before, refusing to push her, and Christen kind of appreciates it but also kind of wishes Tobin would just say something, anything. It’s so tiring hearing nothing but her own thoughts, just whirling round and round her head: what if what if what if what if -
‘Tobin.’
‘Yeah?’
‘D’you ever wonder if -’
She can’t complete the thought, because hell, which possibility should they talk about first.
Tobin lets it go while they get set up, which just means that Tobin takes her shoes off and they start a basic, mindless one-touch. They get into a good rhythm, and that’s all for a minute or five or maybe even ten, but eventually Tobin does push, tentatively. ‘What’s on your mind, Chris?’
‘Nothing.’ That’s not remotely convincing, and they both know it. ‘It’s just. The penalty.’
Christen sees Tobin’s shoulders tense, before she sighs, preparing to bring out the usual reassurances. ‘You know it wasn’t -’
‘- my fault, yeah, I know. But I just wish - if I’d just concentrated a little more - if I’d just been more present -’
‘Chris, we lived and breathed the Olympics for months. We were as prepared as we could possibly have been.’
She’s right, of course. She is. But -
‘I should have been giving it 100%. It should have had all my focus, and it didn’t.’
Tobin traps the ball with her foot, hands in her pockets, and doesn’t give it back. She is suddenly very still. ‘Does this have anything to do with what we talked about last time?’
‘Last time...?’
‘Last time we were here.’ Christen doesn’t reply. There’s an edge to Tobin’s voice when she goes on; half-tense, half-pleading. ‘We talked about how we think about each other when we’re apart. You said you think about me even when you’re thinking about other things. Is it about that?’
Christen shrugs; wants it to mean I don’t know instead of I can’t say it.
‘Chris.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, because Tobin’s shoulders have hunched even more than usual and her eyes are blank, and Christen just needs her not to look like that. ‘Forget I said anything.’
‘I can’t, because if it is about that, it sounds a lot like you blame our relationship for losing the Olympics.’
In daylight, Christen would know how not to say this; she would know how much potential it has to hurt. She would know that it’s not true, not really. But standing there, in the dark and the quiet, hemmed in by the two floodlights they’d managed to turn on, it feels enough like a dream that she says it anyway. ‘I’m not blaming our relationship.’
Tobin makes a little noise of disbelief, rolls the ball side to side and back again. ‘Not quite the passionate denial I was hoping for, Chris.’
‘I just - I need you to know that nothing is your fault, okay? I love you, and I love our relationship, but I maybe didn’t manage it properly. That’s all. If there was ever a time when I should have been prioritizing soccer - thinking about myself as a player first and everything else second - but I was so happy.’ Christen’s voice breaks as she remembers the golden, untouchable feeling of those months when everything had gone right. ‘I was so, so happy and, like, I was never not thinking about you. I worked hard during practice, but there was always a little bit of me that was wondering what you were up to on the other side of the field, or wondering if you’d seen the goal I’d just scored. And if I’d just concentrated, and if I hadn’t thought about you and I’d just focused on the game instead, I might have been in the headspace I needed. The headspace we needed. We needed to be all in, and… I think maybe I wasn’t.’
Tobin just stares at her, eyes no longer blank but utterly horrified. Then she sends the ball flying with a single hard, mechanical kick and steps right up into Christen’s face. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Tobin -’
‘No. Stop right there. You know I trust you, Chris, with everything I am, and that means trusting you to know yourself as well as you know me. You’re allowed to have your thoughts and you’re allowed to feel however you want to feel about things, but that doesn’t mean I can’t call you out when you’re wrong.’
Christen puts up her hands like she can pause time, or ideally rewind it, so she can start this again. Stop things unravelling. ‘Just - hold up. I think you’re making this more than it is. All I meant was, if we’d been more purposeful about it, if we’d realized how important it was not to be distracted - I only needed to be just a tiny bit more focused, just a tiny bit sharper, and we would have -’
‘Won?’ Tobin laughs, hollowly. It doesn’t sound like her. ‘You don’t know that, Chris. That’s the whole point. Sure, maybe if we weren’t together you would have scored the most super penalty kick the world’s ever seen and we would have won. Or maybe we would have lost in the group stage because we were both utterly fucking miserable without each other.’
‘You’re missing the point,’ says Christen, desperately, even though she’s having trouble remembering her own logic. Everything is slipping away from her, sand through an hourglass. ‘I’m not saying the options were being together and apart. We just should have been more aware of the risks. More mindful.’
‘What risks?’
‘I’ve explained -’
‘We’re not robots, Christen. No one thinks about soccer 100% of the time.’
‘No, but we have a professional responsibility to minimize distractions.’
‘Is that what I am? A distraction?’ Tobin is shaking her head again and again, almost compulsively, like she can’t believe this is really happening. ‘You know, I wouldn’t change a single thing about how we prepared for this tournament. And sure, you know how I feel about soccer, you know I can’t get enough, but I loved every minute because I was doing it with you. I couldn’t wait for every single training session because it meant I got to play, but also because I got to see you run, and try to feed you the perfect assist, and admire how smart you are on the ball. You’re so fucking beautiful on the field, Chris, and every time we train and every time we play I think about how lucky I am that I get to watch.’ Her voice catches on the middle of the sentence, but she doesn’t look away. ‘Now look me in the eye and tell me that’s why we lost.’
‘Of course it isn’t!’
‘Then why the fuck would you hold yourself to a different standard?’
‘Because I missed.’
It’s only when Tobin startles back a step that Christen realizes she must have yelled.
They stand there frozen for a minute. Christen can feel tears building at the back of her eyes, hot and headachy, and she’s pretty sure that if she tries to speak she’ll burst into tears instead. Maybe that would have been better, if she’d just stayed safe in bed, and cried, and felt Tobin curl around her -
Tobin breaks the silence eventually. She doesn’t sound angry any more; her voice is quiet, steady, and it’s much worse. ‘It’s my fault you had to take that penalty, and I hate it. Every time you’re upset I feel, just, so mad at myself, that we ever let it get that far, that you were ever in that position. But it’s my fault because I’m your teammate. Not because you’re my girlfriend and I love you, even though apparently you wish you didn’t love me.’
‘I never said that. I would never say that.’
‘Okay. Sounds like it would’ve been more convenient for you, though.’
Christen feels like she’s been punched in the face.
Tobin gazes at her for a few seconds, chewing her lip, then nods towards the gates. ‘I’ll be out front.’
‘Tobin -’
‘I’m not gonna leave you here by yourself but if I stay I am going to cry, and I don’t want to do that here.’ Her voice is still frighteningly, unnaturally calm. ‘So you carry on, and come get me when you finish up and we can go home and -’
She stops.
Christen prompts her, panicked. ‘And?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t know what comes next.’
Then she turns around and walks away.
---
And though I wept
for what I'd shed
so violently
I had no doubt.
They don’t talk for nearly three days.
Tobin gets up early - the first bad sign - and goes straight out for a run, coming back with two coffees in hand and heading wordlessly for the shower once she’s set them down. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her jaw is set, and she goes out again immediately with her hair still damp. It’s the same the next day, and the day after that: Christen sleepwalking through her routine, Tobin refusing to stay in one place long enough to have a conversation.
When Christen wakes in the middle of the night and Tobin is gone, her heart thumps so hard that she’s honestly not sure whether it’ll start up again.
As the initial stab of fear subsides, she realizes that Tobin isn’t gone gone; the apartment is quiet, but her stuff is still here, so she hasn’t left, not properly. She’ll come back.
But Christen knows she can’t wait that long.
She scrambles for her sweats and stubs her toe as she pulls them on, instinctively getting dressed in the dark because electric light would make everything a little bit too real. She takes the first sports bra and t-shirt she lays hands on, ties her sneakers with hurried knots that will definitely come undone before she’s left the building, grabs her backpack and slings in a bottle of water and some granola bars, because snacks always help.
Like she’s packing for a fucking picnic, not like she’s about to ambush her girlfriend who thinks she doesn’t love her.
She jogs to the pitch, and she can see from way down the street that Tobin is doing her circus-seal impression, where she balances on the ball in a crouch with her head resting on her folded arms. She might have been there thirty seconds or five minutes, and she looks so unexpectedly zen that Christen almost turns around instead of disturbing her. She settles for deliberately making her footsteps loud, so as not to startle Tobin into falling; and, maybe, give her the option to walk away.
She doesn’t walk away, exactly, but she doesn’t engage either; just hops up and heads towards the goal.
‘Tobs, please talk to me.’
Tobin lines up the ball, calm, methodical, and whips it into the upper right 90. It’s an absolutely ruthless strike that makes Christen’s heart sink - that kind of ball is usually fuelled by frustration, or revenge - but Tobin’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m scared that if we talk, you’ll break up with me.’
‘What?’ Christen dumps her backpack and almost trips over that damn shoelace in her haste to get closer, fix this. ‘Tobin, I was never - I thought you were going to break up with me.’
‘You did?’
‘You were -’ Christen is blindsided, suddenly, confused, because Tobin sounds genuinely amazed. ‘You thought I didn’t love you.’
‘Oh, that. Well -’ Tobin shrugs, almost stubborn. ‘Unfortunately I’m still crazy about you, so I was gonna let you take care of that one.’
Christen wants to hug her so badly and only just manages to stop herself. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I never, never wanted to make you feel like that.’
‘I don’t want you to be sorry.’
‘I should be, though.’
‘No, I mean - I don’t want you to be sorry for saying those things. For hurting my feelings, or whatever.’ Tobin’s jaw clenches, like when she’s just gone over on her ankle and needs to get up; braced to do something she knows will hurt. ‘I just want you to say you didn’t mean them.’
Christen steps closer. Tobin is hugging her sides, arms crossed protectively across her chest, so Christen reaches out and puts her hands on top of Tobin’s, just lightly, as gentle as she knows how. Tobin doesn’t stop her. ‘I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I was upset, and overthinking, and I just - I had all the evidence and I interpreted it wrong.’
‘Christen, it’s the middle of the night. Don’t make me join the dots.’
‘I know it wasn’t just up to me to win that game, and I wasn’t the one who lost it. I mean, I still have a hard time accepting it, but I’ll get there. But even if it was all down to me, I was an idiot for thinking that missing that penalty had anything to do with you. You don’t distract me, you elevate me. I was happy and relaxed and it meant I played the best I could possibly have done. And even if I hadn’t, it’s more important that I was happy.’
Tobin makes a frustrated noise, but there’s a fond note to it as well. ‘Chris, all I want is to make you happy.’
‘That’s how I know that being with you only makes me better.’ Christen tightens her grip just a tiny bit, smoothing her thumbs over Tobin’s arms. ‘I love what we do, and I want to win as much and as often as we possibly can. But more than that, I want to live a happy life, and I don’t care if it includes Olympic gold medals as long as it includes you.’
Tobin breaks her hold, and Christen’s heart stops again until she feels Tobin’s hands slide to cup her jaw. And then they’re kissing, as easy as they always have: holding each other up in the middle of a field, tired and relieved and inescapably, decisively together.
‘I’m still mad at you,’ whispers Tobin after she breaks the kiss, but she’s pulling Christen into a hug even as she says it.
‘I know.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘I know.’
‘You are going to have the best life I can give you.’
Christen turns her head so she can kiss Tobin on the cheek, but she’s clumsy with happiness, and it lands somewhere on her ear. ‘I know.’
It’s late. It’s quiet. It’s dark. It’s safe. The field is their place, and nothing can touch them there.
But Christen doesn’t need to hide any more, so she takes Tobin’s hand.
‘Home?’
‘Home.’
Right then and there
I drew a line,
right then and there.
- ‘Right Then And There’, Luke Ritchie