Sway

Ali’s twenty-eighth birthday celebration was postponed somewhat because she really wanted to watch the gals take on Colombia in their second match of the Olympics. Ashlyn had asked her if she was sure enough that Ali had rolled her eyes and said, “I’m not so bitter about not going that I’m gonna not support everyone,” and so Ashlyn cooked the popcorn and they curled up on the couch together and waited for the game to come on excitedly. Luckily for Ashlyn, Ali found the British broadcast of the match.

“I really should be making you watch the German commentary version,” Ali said as Ashlyn made herself comfortable, throwing an arm around Ali’s shoulders. “You need to really start learning the language if you plan on staying here.”

“That what you’re for,” Ashlyn said with a shrug. “Why learn the language when I have my very own personal translator.”

“And what happens when I’m here and you’re in Duisburg and you can’t figure your way around because you didn’t pay attention to my German lessons, hmm?”

She knew she really hadn’t been serious about learning German so far. Ali had bought her some books that had helped her when she’d first gotten to Germany, including a couple children’s books that were supposed to teach German kids to read and write. She’d even taken the time to teach Ashlyn some helpful words and phrases, but each session had turned into Ashlyn growing unfocused and, instead of trying to repeat the foreign sounds back, kissing Ali deeply and stripping off her shirt.

“You didn’t seem to be complaining,” Ashlyn replied, wiggling her eyebrows. “Besides, I know all the key phrases.”

“Yeah?” Ali challenged. “Say one thing in German.” She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at her. Ashlyn grinned widely.

“Ich liebe Brüsten,” she stated proudly. Ali shook her head and whacked her in the stomach.

The match against Colombia started out a bit choppy, but the US was getting some good chances and both Ashlyn and Ali knew that it was only a matter of time before they got a goal. They cheered and groaned as shots were taken that just went wide or were safely gathered by the Colombian keeper. Then, as the first half was starting to draw to a close, Alex Morgan set up a shot for Pinoe, and the ball hit the back of the net.

“Yes, Pin!” Ashlyn cheered, standing. They watched as she ran back, pumping her fist, then pulled a piece of paper from her sock and held it up in front of the camera.

“Shut up,” Ali said, stunned, as she read what it said. “Shut up. I cannot believe she did that.” Her hands were pressed against her mouth, open with surprise. As the tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, she started to fan her face to try and stem them before they started. Ashlyn watched her with a wide smile, filled with so much love for Ali as she saw the love all their teammates had for her too.

“Yeah,” Ashlyn said as she sat next to Ali again, pulling her into her lap. “I can’t believe Pinoe spelled your name wrong, too.”

As 2012 began to draw to a close, it looked like 2013 would mark a lot of changes for US Soccer as well as both Ashlyn and Ali’s lives. Firstly, Pia left the team and was replaced by Tom Sermanni. The US had won gold in London, but Pia was offered a job with her home country’s team and, though they were all upset to see her go, no one blamed her for wanting to coach Sweden. So Tom stepped up and, with him, came the call for an influx of new call-ups. He was obviously eager to test the young guns and new faces and some were happier about that than others.

Then, there were the rumblings starting again of a new women’s league in the US — this one called the NWSL. As part of the National Team player pool, both Ashlyn and Ali had been contacted by the suits at US Soccer about joining the NWSL, which was feeling like more of an obligation than a choice, really. US Soccer was saying that their salary would be taken care of by them instead of the league; that they would be allocated to one of the eight teams.

“Maybe something different would be good,” Ali said, biting her lip. “It might be beneficial to play in the US this year, anyway.”

For Ali, the end of the year meant her return to the soccer pitch. She played a little bit here and there for FFC Frankfurt, testing the waters and just ‘gaining her legs’. And she was looking good. Ashlyn could see clearly from across the field, stuck between the posts of the team opposite her girlfriend’s, trying to deal with the flurry of shots that were ripped at her.

For Ali, the start of 2013 would mean her victorious return to the National team. Fully healed, she was itching to get back to work at the highest level, hoping to reclaim her spot as a regular starter. Of course, playing in a league that was run by US Soccer would allow her to be more available for camps and avoid unnecessary international travel.

“There’s a team in D.C. even,” Ashlyn pointed out. “The Washington Spirit.”

“Are you thinking of making the move?”

“If you are,” Ashlyn replied. She didn't like to think that she was traipsing across the world and back for Ali Krieger. Wasn’t that a bit much? She had moved to play in Germany, but only because she was out of a job and that country happened to be convenient. Now, Ali was thinking about leaving and, though the competition in Germany was good, she didn’t think they had anything else there for her. After all, she still didn’t know the language. So maybe she was following Ali Krieger across oceans, but she was also doing it for herself.

“I will,” Ali said firmly after some thought. “I have to show Tom that I’m serious about making a comeback…And it’ll be nice to be able to see my dad whenever.” Looking at Ashlyn, she added, “What team would you want to play for? The Flash is making a comeback.”

“I was thinking,” Ashlyn said, “that I might want to try and stay with you?” Ali’s jaw dropped.

“Really?” she nearly squealed. “You’d go to D.C.?”

“I’ve lived there before,” Ashlyn said. “It wasn’t so bad.” She looked at Ali. “I think it might get even better if I could have a specific player as my roommate.” Ali grinned widely.

“That would be perfect,” she said. “I mean, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to, though. I could just as easily play in New York and — ”

Ashlyn shut her up with a hard kiss. “You should have a chance to play at home, Ali,” she said. “Everyone would kill for that chance. And I want to be there with you.” In lieu of an answer to that, Ali pulled Ashlyn back towards her and kissed her soundly, gripping tight to the hair at the nape of her neck.

Throughout her life, Ashlyn had always searched for control, something that she never had much access to. As a kid, her life was at the whimsy of the money that came in. If her parents had their jobs, if they could get another shift in, if they could get some more assistance or save a little more. In her soccer career, Ashlyn had so little control it was maddening at times. No matter how hard she worked, everything was up to the coach on the National Team. The leagues rose and fell without her bidding. She was forced to find a new league; US Soccer forced her back to the states.

So Ashlyn had searched for control in other areas of life. Her relationships. She cut out the ones she thought were unhealthy. She jumped around from girl to girl so that she could always end a relationship on her terms. She had always tried to control who could get close to her; who could hurt her. If she lost control of that, she had nothing. The pain would seep in, weighing her down. The dreams would start again and she would be back in the water, fighting to keep her head up, but ultimately drowning.

And then, Ali happened. Ali came into her life with her nose-crinkle smile and sweet, mumbling words and told her that she was loved, and Ashlyn believed her. They had their problems, and they were no small problems either, but Ashlyn knew, despite everything, that she was better for knowing Ali and, she hoped, Ali was better for knowing her. Faced with the prospect of finally being able to play on the same team as Ali, therefore living in the same place, Ashlyn couldn’t think of anything she’d like better.

“There’s a problem,” her agent said over the phone.

“What kind of problem?” Ashlyn replied with trepidation. As far as she knew, she had been doing well on and off the field. As it turned out, the problems (because there were more than one) really had nothing to do with what sort of performance she had been putting forth or what sort of person she was presenting to the public. It was just another set of issues that came up because nothing ever seemed to run smoothly around Ashlyn. It was another set of bad circumstances that were out of her control.

“Those whisperings about Duisburg’s financial situation are true,” her agent clarified. “We’re trying to work things out, but as of now they can’t really pay you.” Ashlyn’s heart dropped into her stomach. She was by no means making any sizable amount playing soccer — she wasn’t Alex or Abby or Hope — and she wasn’t getting anything from sponsorships either. She needed that money.

“I’ve been talking with them about your contract and they’re pretty pissed off about everything to do with you moving to the NWSL.”

“You think they’re not going to pay me because I’m breaking the contract?” Her agent made a noncommittal noise of agreement. “I’m basically being forced back by US Soccer,” Ashlyn growled with exasperation. That wasn’t the only reason she wanted to go to D.C., but it was a valid point.

“I know, I know. I’m sorting things out. You just might have to finish out the season with them before they let you come back here.” Ashlyn ran a hand over her face. She knew she would have to tell Ali after she hung up with her agent and she was not looking forward to that phone call.

“Okay,” Ashlyn said. “Just…Just get me to D.C. The money — ”

“I’ll make sure you leave Germany with your paycheck safely in your luggage,” her agent assured her. That wasn’t what Ashlyn was about to say, but she was calmed somewhat by how adamant he seemed about getting her her proper compensation.

She was tired. After everything that had happened that year end, she was absolutely exhausted by the switchings of coaches and buildings of leagues and the beginnings of the allocation process. It had hardly begun and she was already tired. All she wanted to do was play soccer and be with Ali. She was finally offered that chance, and it seemed as though the universe (or FCR 2001 Duisburg at least) was trying to thwart her every which way.

Ashlyn rolled into National Team camp that February with a clear chip on her shoulder, the product of confusing paperwork and contract negotiations. She was practically beating her head against the wall to try to get the suits behind Duisburg to cooperate with her and the rest of her teammates who were getting fucked over as well. She couldn’t keep her sour mood up for long, though, because a certain brunette whom she hadn’t seen for a couple weeks flew at her happily as they met in the hotel lobby.

“Hey Princess,” Ashlyn murmured in her ear as she hugged her tightly. Ali returned the embrace with enough spirit to rival even the most enthusiastic hugger. The tables had turned for them a little. Ashlyn was the one playing abroad while Ali trained with a new personal trainer in D.C., waiting for the American season to begin again.

“Hey, babe,” Ali murmured equally as quietly. She then pulled back to cup Ashlyn’s face between her hands and kissed her solidly.

Maybe it was the pulsing fire Ali was harboring, secondhand anger over Ashlyn’s fights with Duisburg, or maybe it was the some sort of ‘war widow’ syndrome. Maybe Ali was simply following through with what she had promised Ashlyn a year ago. Whatever it was, Ali was no longer very shy with displaying affection for her in front of her teammates.

Ashlyn raised an eyebrow at Ali as they pulled apart. She could just see the stares of their teammates and a couple trainers out of the corner of her eye. Someone wolf-whistled — maybe Kelley.

“Ali,” she started, but Ali cut her off.

“Fuck it,” she said, flicking a bit of hair over her shoulder with confidence. Ashlyn had never been so turned on. “It’s a new year and if I can’t happily be with you in front of our teammates — our family — then what’s the point?” Ashlyn grinned.

The reaction to their news was extremely anticlimactic — a chorus of, “We knew already” and “Took you long enough to say it”. Ali had frowned a bit at that, wondering where they’d slipped up, which only made Ashlyn laugh hysterically.

Syd asserted that she could sense the tension between them. Kelley, Buehler, A-Rod, and Alex said they could clearly tell what a lovers’ tiff looked like. Barnie assessed that it was quite clear to anyone who was paying attention. Stephanie pointed out that they flirted over social media all the time. Meanwhile, Tobin said that she’d had no idea.

All Carli had to say was, “Ali, you’re gay? I thought you had dated that one guy?” Ashlyn had taken over at that point, seeing how Ali was starting to throw her walls up again, growing obviously uncomfortable.

“She doesn’t have to be, Carli. Sexuality is more complicated than that,” Ashlyn said calmly as she wrapped an arm around Ali’s waist, letting her bury her head in the crook of Ashlyn’s neck. Carli only shrugged, completely uninterested with the ins and outs of attraction.

“Did you always know?” Ali asked that night as they sat together in the empty hallway. It was late at night — a bit past their curfew in camp — and neither of them wanted to kick out their roommates.

“Hmm?”

“That you liked girls — did you always know?” Ashlyn smiled a little, thinking back.

She had always had a strong sense of self, who she was and what she wanted to do. She had grown up following her brother around in everything he did — including running around shirtless until she was finally persuaded by her mother and grandmother that girls just didn’t do that. Shirt on, she still maintained her rough and tumble personality, getting into absolutely anything dirty, running off on wild adventures, playing sport after sport and coming home exhausted and covered in sweat, sand, and dirt.

She had always known what she liked to do, and she liked to think she always knew who she liked to do as well, even if she didn’t show it always. She’d been a staunch tomboy throughout her younger years and up till middle school she didn’t notice much of either gender. Then came locker rooms and the odd, thrilling feeling she started to get around some of her close friends. She remembered noticing their unpracticed mascara, freckles across cheeks, dainty smiles, the way their hair would fall down their backs. But also with locker rooms and the realization that she just really, really wanted to kiss girls, came the worry that she was looking too much, that someone could tell.

High school meant trying a bit harder to “be a girl” and she could remember one particular jean skirt that she just hated. She’d slogged through years of sundresses and prom dresses because that’s what she was expected to wear. She was outgoing and funny and by far the most talented athlete in school — across both the boys and girls — and so she was popular. Therefore, she had to dress the part. It was about not sticking out. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t think she could have it then.

“Yes,” Ashlyn said with certainty. Ali frowned a little. “I mean, I always knew, I think. I couldn’t help it, and I don’t have any attraction for boys like you do. But just because I knew doesn’t mean everything was easy and nothing was confusing.”

“Really?” Ali looked so little and lost like that. Ashlyn kissed her on the top of her head.

“Believe it or not, Ali,” she started — she looked down both ends of the hall exaggeratedly before pulling Ali closer to her like she was some super spy imparting a national secret — “I dated a boy once.” Ali gasped, her surprise 100% genuine.

“You’re kidding,” she said. Ashlyn shook her head. After she’d fully come out and had grown into herself some more, she never mentioned those days, but there were some girls on the team who she knew might still remember — HAO for one, Whitney, and maybe Tobin, if she had been paying attention at all. “But I thought you said you weren’t attracted to boys at all.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t meant that I didn’t try,” Ashlyn said. “I thought it might be easier if I was. I was just out of high school, still not really comfortable with coming out. I was worried that other girls wouldn’t be comfortable in the locker room or being my roommate or something stupid like that. Anyway, he was nice and pretty cute, but he was a bro.” She thought. “And the sex was horrible,” she added quietly, making a face. Beside her, Ali looked absolutely scandalized.

“I don’t want to know any more…but, also, I do,” she said. Ashlyn shrugged.

“He had a dick, I didn’t like it. We only did it a couple times, and then I decided I’d had enough of pretending and I thought, well, I shouldn’t keep hiding who I was. I knew I would never be happy otherwise.”

Really, besides that momentary lapse of judgement, that was the kind of person Ashlyn had always been — loudly and proudly and absolutely herself. That was how she lived and how she had always lived, from the time she was a child growing up on the poor part of the Space Coast.

There was a stretch of beach near her childhood home where the beach was relatively more secluded. It was a thin sort of beach, the kind where only a few feet of sand separated water and itchy, wiry grass. Ashlyn never much paid attention to what her parents said about staying near the house, but the little beach was near enough and shallow enough that they didn’t have to worry. “Ashlyn was born swimming,” her grandmother would often joke. And so they let her go.

Red tide had swept through the water that summer like a wildfire and killed all the fish that she and her brother would otherwise spend the mornings catching using their grandfather’s old poles and cold cut lunch meat for bait. Ashlyn stood bare foot with the silty sand squelching between her toes and the tall grass scratching at her calves and stared at the fish that were just laying there on the silty bank. Where water met land, another couple fish, eyes glassed over, bobbed sadly.

Ashlyn made a face, but started to wade closer, jumping from empty spot to empty spot as she picked her way through the dead fish like land mines. The sound of other little feet thumping through the grass made her stop and turn. It was only a neighbor kid — one she sometimes played manhunt with or rode skateboards with.

He squealed with surprise as he stepped on one of the dead fish and Ashlyn burst out laughing, watching as his face contorted. “Ugh,” he said with clear disgust as he jumped away from the squashed body. Picking up a stick, he poked at it and watched with fascination as it flopped over. “That’s gross!” he said. “They’re all dead!”

“It’s just fish,” Ashlyn said with a laugh. She was busy doing her own exploration, squatting so that her butt rested on her heels, just far enough away from the sand that her backside stayed clean.

The neighbor boy watched her with a sneer, his hand gripping the stick tightly. He watched as Ashlyn reached out a hand to gingerly poke at a fish, running just the pads of her fingers against the slick scales. The neighbor boy smiled to himself and picked his way over to Ashlyn until he was standing right next to her.

“Dare you to pick it up,” the boy said. Ashlyn looked up at him, unimpressed and reached out to wrap the fish in her hand, hefting its weight. It was more rigid than she’d thought it would be, and the smell of it all started to waft through the air stronger. It was a sharp smell, very distinctly of dead fish. She wrinkled her nose at it, but didn’t gag.

“Dare you to kiss it,” the boy continued in a whining, teasing voice. Bending over, he puckered his lips like a fish and made noises at her.

“That’s gross,” she said. The fish was dead and sandy and smelly and, though she was willing to do a lot, she knew that she did not want that fish near her mouth. “It’s got dirt on it.”

“So? You like dirt. You’re like a boy,” he observed. “You want to be a boy.”

That was about the most absurd thing Ashlyn had heard in her single-digit years. Of course she wasn’t a boy. She knew that quite clearly. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been wearing a shirt. Of course she didn’t want to be a boy. She liked getting dirty and she was most certainly a girl. She didn’t need to be a boy.

“No I don’t,” she protested, standing up. The neighbor boy was her age, but he was obviously taller than she was. She puffed out her chest to appear bigger. “I’m a girl,” she insisted. The boy’s eyes gleamed.

“Those are boy shorts,” he said, pointing at her basketball shorts. “If you’re a girl, you have to wear girl shorts.” Ashlyn glared at him.

“They’re just shorts,” she said. Really, there was nothing else to be said about that because she really was wearing a pair of Chris’s old shorts.

“Ashlyn wants to be a boy! Ashlyn wants to be a boy!” Ashlyn swung back her hand, fish still clenched in her fist and swung it back around across the boy’s face. The sound of wet, dead fish slapping his cheek hard was the most satisfying thing she’d heard in all her years. She grinned, holding back laughter, as she dropped the fish to the ground again, wiping her hands off on the sides of her pants.

The boy screamed like he’d been murdered, which only made Ashlyn want to laugh harder. He hightailed it back through the tall grass. Ashlyn didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day, but his mother came to knock on the door that night.

Ashlyn didn't make yet another roster. She exited the meeting room with her face set in steely disappointment, wishing that she wouldn’t have to face the other players in the camp. She knew there would be others who were cut for the Scotland games — both only 18-player rosters — but she couldn’t help the feeling of wanting to either be alone, or forget with people who wouldn’t know and, therefore, wouldn’t judge her plight. The sound of water rushed in her ears. She felt heavy pressure on her chest.

What was worse was that Ali had been named to the roster. It was her first chance to play for the US after a year’s absence and it was definitely something that they should be celebrating. Instead, Ashlyn was moping over herself and her predicament and the fact that she was twenty-seven and still didn’t have a single senior cap to her name.

“Baby, there’ll be other camps,” Ali assured her, running her fingers through Ashlyn’s hair. “Tom’s looking into so many new players that I’m sure he’ll look at you and give you a proper chance.”

“That’s just it,” Ashlyn muttered in return. “He’s looking at a lot of new players. I’m old news. I’ve been through the cycles and missed every roster there was.” She scoffed. “He’ll call in someone else.”

“Ashlyn Michelle Harris, look at me,” Ali commanded. Ashlyn immediately did as she was told. Her full name was insanely effective coming from Ali’s lips — nearly as bad as it was coming from her mother or grandmother. Ali took her face between her hands and looked at her seriously. “You cannot get down on yourself so hard every time something doesn’t work out. There will be other chances, but only if you show them that you are picking your head up, constantly moving forward, and working to become the best player you can possibly be.”

Ashlyn knew that Ali was right. She’d said this before to Ashlyn, but it was a difficult thing to keep in mind when her hopes and goals were constantly crushed. Ashlyn tried to duck her head, embarrassed at her own self-pity, but Ali wasn’t having any of it.

“You are so talented and so hard-working and I promise you,” Ali said emphatically, “that you will get that cap.”

“Thank you,” Ashlyn said with absolute sincerity. She leaned forward and captured Ali’s lips in hers, showing her just how appreciative she was of her words. When she pulled away, Ali was melting in her arms a little, brushing her chest against Ashlyn’s. Ashlyn brushed a bit of hair away from her forehead.

“I want to take you out tonight,” she said, “to celebrate. It’s not every day you make your grand return to playing for the National Team.”

After that camp, Ashlyn finally got things sorted out enough with FCR 2001 Duisburg that she would receive the paycheck she was due and she would be able to play for the Washington Spirit from the beginning of the season onwards. At the Algarve, she and Ali looked at apartment listings in D.C. on Ali’s laptop while their teammates made faces at them.

“I wish I could play on the same team as my significant other,” Alex whined.

“Just be gay, Baby Horse,” Ashlyn said with a wink. “It’d be a lot easier that way.”

They ended up narrowing things down to the Georgetown area, which Ali was in love with, Adams Morgan, and Foggy Bottom. Ashlyn was balking at the prices of each place they looked at, convinced that they were in the wrong city (surely these were NYC or LA prices). When she’d played for the Freedom, she’d stayed in an apartment in cheaper Maryland. Eventually, the two compromised and chose a place in Foggy Bottom, far cheaper than Georgetown but with a location that put them in the center of everything. They settled on the cheapest one-bedroom they could find, but after sending in their information to the building, indicating their interest, they beamed like proud homeowners.

At the Algarve, Ashlyn felt as though she was in her element. In training, she was focused. Healthy and back from her injuries of 2012, she was fit and ready. She was explosive in her drills, and it showed. The Algarve was also good to them because finally, finally the day arrived when Ashlyn was given her first cap — against none other than Sweden, a team that would surely be tough to beat.

She quietly accepted the news as Tom told her she’d be starting that game. It was surprising how calm she felt, how at ease. Everything had been building to that moment when she would take the pitch for the senior National Team, and all she felt was relief — that all her hard work had paid off, that she wasn’t completely laid waste by her long history of injuries, that she was finally making this crucial step in her career.

“Whitney,” she said as she opened the door to her best friend’s room. Whit was just packing away some recovery equipment. “Whitney, I’m gonna get my first cap,” she said.

Ashlyn knew she would keep Whitney’s letter with her long after the 90 minutes was up, long after her career was over. It was one of the nicest things she’d ever gotten from anyone, and it was a true testament to their friendship and the support Whitney had always had for Ashlyn. They had each other’s backs, in real life and in the game as well.

It wasn’t a shut-out, but it also wasn’t a loss. Either way, Ashlyn found that she didn’t care as she basked in the excitement of the day. The field looked somehow more beautiful than she’d expected. The game was somehow so much better. She wandered around the pitch long after everything was over, wishing that they could go back for another round. The cap hadn’t sated her; it had made her hungry for more.

“I was told that ‘my girl’ was still wandering around like a looney,” the familiar voice of Ali Krieger said, suddenly beside Ashlyn. She hadn’t noticed her walk up.

“I’m just…taking it all in,” Ashlyn replied, indicating the scene on the bench — supplies from both sides were still stacked around there as staff members started packing everything away.

“You played really well today,” Ali said. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Ashlyn whispered. She looked around, but by that time everyone had basically left the field already. She couldn’t see a camera or a fan in sight, so she wrapped an arm around Ali’s shoulders and squeezed her, pressing a glancing kiss, barely a whisper of a touch, to the top of her head.

“Alright, I think I’m ready to head back in,” she finally decided. And they walked back to the locker rooms together.