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Manchester is cold, and Tobin doesn’t know why she’s surprised. They’d known, going in, how freezing it would get, how it rained for over a third of the year. Somehow it hadn’t seemed real then, though. They’d been so excited about a chance to play that they’d jumped at the opportunity, even when said opportunity was across an ocean and a good deal more frigid than strictly comfortable. At first, the cold had seemed refreshing- cleansing almost. A needed change in a year that had been stagnant for too long. Now it seemed bitter. Or maybe that was just her.
The first ankle injury- careless and frustrating, but not season ending- had been a blow. The knee injury had rocked her down to the bones. And now, staring down the barrel of a long rehab in the U.S (and, more importantly, 4,749 miles from Christen) that cut dangerously close to the Olympics, all Tobin wants is to go home.
Home was most definitely not this Manchester apartment Christen had left her in that morning, propped up on the couch in her knee brace, with the window open because ‘Really Tobin, I know this sucks but you need some fresh air at least’. Home was also not her parent's house in New Jersey, the one she had been straining against since she was a child watching Brandi Chastain rip off her jersey after winning the 1999 World Cup and thinking I want to be that. She’d thought, for a second, that home could be Portland. The city that had embraced her, made her all the promises, and then kicked her out again. Even six months on, thinking about it too much made her angry.
The key turns in the lock and Tobin looks up from the couch to see Christen coming home from practice, flushed, a few curls escaping her ponytail. The sight should make her happy. Christen’s energy exudes contentment, and she grins at Tobin, coming over and cupping the side of her face to kiss her temple. Instead, something primal curdles inside her.
“Hey Tobes,” Christen says, bright and unaware, perching on the opposite end of the couch. “How’ve you been?” There really is no good answer to that, at least not one that wouldn’t ruin Christen’s mood, so she gives a noncommittal grunt and leaves it at that.
Undeterred, Christen presses on. “C’mon babe. I know you haven’t been lying here all day”. As that is exactly what Tobin has been doing, she doesn’t think she’s exactly out of line when she scoffs and looks up at Christen, leveling her gaze incredulously.
“I don’t know Chris, what do you suggest I do with a busted-up ankle and knee? God. Sorry I’ve not exactly been out and about, I’m too busy thinking about how if this rehab doesn’t go exactly according to schedule I’m gonna miss the damn Olympics”.
Christen’s face shifts, infuriatingly, to concern instead of anger. Tobin hates how Christen knows her so well, knows not to continue the fight she’s trying to pick. Somehow it only makes Tobin’s mood worse. She swings her legs off the couch and starts pacing- or at least as close to pacing as one can get when one leg is all but immobilized. It’s probably pretty pathetic looking.
“Tobin-” Christen starts but is cut off.
“I know you’re trying to be an optimist about all this, but in case you haven’t noticed I’m the one who's injured. You still get to finish the season with Manchester. You’re a shoo-in for the Olympics. You’re in the peak of your career, not some washed-up player with a fucked leg who's probably never gonna make it back to the national team if she ever plays again at all. So.” To her horror, she can feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes and she turns away, only to be hit with a particularly vicious gust of wind from the open window. “And for the love of anything,” she snaps. “Close that damn window.”
Christen is silent for a long moment. Tobin doesn’t want to turn around and see the sympathy in her eyes so she stares resolutely at the wall and tries to stop the angry tears she already feels sliding down her face. She hears rustling behind her- Christen getting up from the couch- and listens as she moves across the room. The window shuts with a quiet shnck. Then Christen moves in front of her and approaches slowly, giving Tobin time to move away. It feels a lot as if she is a spooked cat Christen found on the side of the road, which she finds equal parts annoying and endearing. She doesn’t move away.
Christen’s hands find her cheeks, quietly brushing away the tears, and she leans her forehead against Tobin’s. It is, she realizes, the first time since her ankle injury that Tobin has felt warm and that just makes the tears come faster. Chris makes quiet comforting noises and when that doesn’t work, guides Tobin’s head onto her shoulder and wraps her arms around her back, letting her cry. Tobin’s hands find their way to Christen’s shirt, still damp from a mixture of sweat and the infernal Manchester drizzle, and hold on.
At some point, Christen moves her to the couch with a murmur of 'your leg' and Tobin’s fuzzy head clears a little bit. She’s the first one to let go, gently pushing Christen off and letting her head fall into her own hands while she steadies her breathing. When she looks up, Christen opens her mouth to say something, but Tobin beats her to it.
“What if I can’t play anymore?”
Christen gives her a watery smile, grabbing her hand and holding it tightly. “Darling. You know there are no absolutes here. I wish I could tell you it’ll heal perfectly and you’ll be back by June but I can’t and if I did you’d know I was lying. But. You are the absolute strongest person I know. Your resilience inspires me every day and I know if anyone can make this recovery it’ll be you. And if it goes wrong, I will always, always, be right here with you. You’re great at soccer Tobes, but that is not all you are. You are brave and loyal and kind and I love being your business partner and I love seeing you make art and I love doing life with you. So no, I can’t promise that you’ll 100% play again. But love, please try.”
By the end of Christen’s speech Tobin is in tears again, but these feel a lot more cathartic. She leans forward and kisses her, and it's salty and wet and definitely not one of their better kisses but it's something. And Christen is warm and feels like she could be home and Tobin knows she will always be there, anchoring her, even if Christen spends the next few months in this rainy city and Tobin is a continent away.
“Okay,” Tobin says, winding her arms around Christen's neck and resting her head in the juncture of neck and shoulder. “I’ll try.”
Five months later
Tobin sits, eyes closed, on the rocks along the Los Angeles coast, feeling the wind and spray against her face. A dog barks and she opens them, letting them adjust in the bright sunlight until she makes out Morena, running along the shoreline towards Christen. Chris’s hair is down, blowing wildly behind her as she throws another ball for the dog. Tobin feels a smile spreading across her face and opens Instagram, scrolling through pictures from the medal ceremony until she finds her favorite one, types a short caption, and presses send. Then she stands up and jogs down to rocks to where Christen is waiting.
@tobinheath just added to their story!
“when I didn’t think I could do it… you told me to try 🧡