Game Changers Read online

  Advance Praise for

  Game Changers

  “Women, soccer, romance, and the reality of living with major setbacks all coalesce in this new romance. Game Changers is a raw and real look at life, love, and how to survive it all in an engaging story that runs the gamut of emotions. If you love women and enjoy women’s soccer, do yourself a favor and dive into Jane Cuthbertson’s debut romance. You won’t regret it.”

  ~Judy M. Kerr, author of the debut mystery novel Black Friday

  “Game Changers is a sweet and sensual debut novel from a talented new author. The romance carries the rare quality of being both wonderfully aspirational and intimately relatable. Cuthbertson’s skill in balancing serious subjects with a lightness of heart leaves readers feeling hopeful, not only for the main characters but for themselves as well. Rachel and Jaye are each strong, sensitively drawn characters in their own right, but when pulled together, they make for the kind of match so many readers long to find, both in their books and in their own lives.”

  ~Rachel Spangler, award-winning author of 14 romance novels

  “Game Changers kept me on the edge of my seat as I wondered how the characters would manage to resolve the complications they faced. Jaye and Rachel are root-worthy in the best possible way, and their story is unforgettable. Highly recommended.”

  ~Patty Schramm, award-winning editor and author of the Romance in the Yukon Series

  Game

  Changers

  Jane Cuthbertson

  Launch Point Press

  Portland, Oregon

  A LAUNCH POINT PRESS TRADE PAPERBACK ORIGINAL

  Game Changers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Internet references contained in this work are current at the time of publication, but Launch Point Press cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained in any respect.

  Copyright © 2019 by JANE CUTHBERTSON

  All other rights reserved. Launch Point Press supports copyright which enables creativity, free speech, and fairness. Thank you for buying the authorized version of this book and for following copyright laws by not using or reproducing any part of this book in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Launch Point Press, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. Your cooperation and respect supports authors and allows Launch Point Press to continue to publish the books you want to read.

  ISBN: 978-1-63304-210-0

  E-Book: 978-1-63304-212-4

  FIRST EDITION

  Editing: Judy Kerr, Luca Hart

  Cover: Lorelei

  Published by:

  Launch Point Press

  Portland, Oregon

  www.LaunchPointPress.com

  For Jill, who kept me here

  Chapter One

  Wow.

  Am I really seeing this?

  I park my car and turn off the engine so I don’t plow into something, like the Subaru Outback with Kansas plates that is the only other car here. Then I take a moment to admire the most unexpected sight before me. It’s a woman, oh my, a woman of considerable attractiveness: nice athletic build encased in blue jeans and polo shirt, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She throws a quick glance toward my car, and I see she has open, even features and (I think) blue eyes.

  What is she doing in a rural cemetery in sparsely populated West Texas in February?

  What I’m doing in a rural cemetery in sparsely populated West Texas in February is a much easier question to answer. I grew up here, down the road a bit in Snyder, and my grandparents are buried in this little graveyard in Dunn, a hamlet so small that “wide spot in the road” is too grandiose a description. I live in Colorado now, thank goodness, but on my rare trips back to Texas I always try to come here to pay my respects.

  This particular rare trip has had some complications. I’m in Snyder for my favorite aunt and uncle’s sixtieth wedding anniversary, which the family is celebrating with a Mass, big party, and family reunion. The anniversary coincides with the Kathleen Nickerson Soccer Camp, which is a big deal as Nickerson is one of the best women soccer players in the world, and maybe the best goalkeeper ever. Girls and boys from all over West Texas have signed up to participate, and they have filled all the local hotels, so there’s no room for me at the Hampton Inn this weekend.

  I am bunking instead with my cousin Maggie. I love Maggie, but between her two kids, husband, and three or four dogs, their house is never, ever quiet. I suffer for this, as I’m definitely the withdrawn, reclusive type who values my solitude above all else.

  This morning I awoke with the onset of depression, from which I have suffered all my adult life. Today’s version is like a low-grade fever nagging at me from the back of my head, insidiously affecting my every move until I just want to pack up my luggage, leave Snyder, and disappear from civilization for a month.

  I couldn’t do that, though. I’m a mature adult, so when thoughts of the cemetery cut through the static of noise and melancholy, I jumped all over the idea, grabbed my keys, and drove off to this temporary distraction.

  And now the temporary distraction has a temporary distraction. At first I’m a little annoyed I don’t have the cemetery to myself. In my infrequent visits over the years I have never encountered another soul here, living or otherwise. Then I realize I’ve been given an opportunity. I’m alone in the middle of nowhere with a frickin’ gorgeous woman whom I’ll never see again after today. It’s the perfect social situation for me. Why not enjoy it?

  I get out of the car and shut the door. Opportunity has not just knocked, it’s thrown a brick through the window, as Gorgeous Blonde is standing right in front of my grandparents’ graves.

  Chess Johnston and his wife, Rachel, died long before I was born. In fact, they died so long ago that my father, their son, barely remembered them. He loved them as much as any orphaned child could, though, made sure they had a fine granite marker as their tombstone, and named his only daughter Rachel in honor of his mother.

  My father was an only child, too. I have tons of family, but it’s all on my mother’s side. So why is this woman here?

  Only one way to find out. I pause for a second, then walk quietly toward her, watching the view get better and better as I draw near. The day is blustery, but even though it’s February, the weather is pleasantly warm, and the woman’s short-sleeve polo shirt shows off well-defined arms and shoulders. The jeans aren’t skin-tight, but whatever this woman does to keep in shape seriously develops her upper legs. And her behind. This athletic build is Olympic quality.

  She’s seriously the type I’d go for, if I weren’t a solitary recluse who suffers from chronic depression and awesomely awful luck in the romance department. The writer in me (and the writer in me has published three lesbian romance novels so far, with a fourth nearly finished) starts vetting her for inclusion as a character in a future work, notes how fantastic she look in her clothes—and bets she would look equally fantastic out of them.

  I take another moment to admire this gift from the universe as my irritation fades, and the low-grade depression retreats to a dark corner. She is intently typing into an iPad. I’m not sure she’s noticed me draw near. I decide to fix that.

  “Long lost relatives?” I ask.

  Bad move. Gorgeous Blonde is so startled the iPad goes flying out of her hands. Fortunately for all concerned, the tablet flies right at me, and though I’m kind of a klutz athletically, I manage to catch it before it hits the ground.

 
; Proud of myself for coming through in this small moment, I present the saved technology back to its owner. “Sorry. I thought you heard me coming.”

  She takes the tablet back with a little uncertainty. We’re about the same height, and as my brown eyes meet her—ah ha—gray ones, and get acquainted, I see she’s a lot younger than I am, late twenties probably. After a moment she smiles. The gorgeous factor multiplies by ten.

  Wow.

  “Chess Johnston was my great-great-great grandfather’s nephew,” she says. “His father and my great-great-great were on different sides of the Civil War and stopped talking to each other when the South seceded. I’ve been trying to trace this part of the family for a long time.”

  I take this in. OMG, as they say nowadays. We’re actually related. I can’t believe it.

  “So you’re one of those genealogy people?” In addition to being a fabulously fit paragon of womanhood.

  Again, a nod and a gush of information. “My mother got me interested in family history. I’ve done lots of online research, but I travel a lot, too, so when I get to a place I know relatives have been, I always try to find them.” She pauses. “Or their graves. I’ve traced both sides of my family back almost three hundred years.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say sincerely.

  “Do you do genealogy?”

  I have the sense I’d make her day if I say yes, but my inherent honesty wins out. I shake my head. “No. I grew up down the road, in Snyder, but I have family buried here, and whenever I’m in the area I pay my respects.”

  “So who are your long-lost relatives?”

  My eagerness to chat up this woman now butts right up against my need for privacy. I take a moment to weigh the potential consequences, then choose the truth. I mean, I’m never going to see her again. Right?

  “Hi, cousin,” I say wryly.

  Those gray eyes go wide. “What??”

  I can’t help it, I have to laugh. “Chess and Rachel Johnston are my grandparents.”

  

  This is, I realize suddenly, a “meet cute.” I’d learned the term at last year’s Golden Crown Literary convention, and though as a writer I’d used “meet cutes” before, I never knew they actually had a name.

  “Meet cute” in romance novels occurs in a scene where the two protagonists first encounter each other, usually a situation of some awkwardness or oddity; for example, they are riding bikes on a secluded forest trail and crash into each other. Or they find out they are working the same job in Antarctica.

  Or they are at a graveyard, talking in the middle of nowhere.

  If this were a book, the wind would turn to rain, Gorgeous Blonde and I would take cover in one of our cars, exchange names and numbers, meet up later for dinner and long conversation, and quickly realize we’re somehow meant to be.

  But this isn’t a book. And it never rains in West Texas.

  My goddess-knows-how-distant cousin shifts her glance to the marker, then at me, as if she’s not quite believing the “grandparents” revelation. I know she’s checking out the dates.

  Chess Johnston Rachel E. Johnston

  December 3, 1876 ~ July 10, 1922 May 11, 1895 ~ September 14, 1927

  “My grandfather Chess was forty-five when his son was born,” I explain. “That son, William, was forty when I was born. I’m fifty-two. We stretched the generations to the limit.”

  “Amazing. We are cousins!”

  “Of some sort.”

  Gorgeous Blonde Thinking is every bit as alluring as Gorgeous Blonde Smiling. “Third cousins,” she says after a second. “Twice removed.”

  I’ll take her word for it. “So, do you actually have business around here?”

  “A soccer camp in Snyder. My best friend runs them in the off-season, and I always help.” At last one of us thinks to do introductions. “I’m Jaye Stokes,” she says, offering her hand.

  As we shake, I do a mental double take. I recall this morning’s joking words to my cousin Maggie about Kathleen Nickerson, the tall, dark, handsome-but-moody Women’s National Team goalkeeper, Olympic Gold Medalist, infamous bearer of Nickerson’s Hair, being by far the biggest celebrity ever to visit Snyder.

  “Kathleen Nickerson is your best friend?” And once upon a time my most secret ultimate object of lust, a secret I think prudent to keep.

  Stokes’ face lights up with delight. “You’re a soccer fan!”

  Little does she know. “I keep up with the Women’s National Team. And the National Women’s Soccer League, a little bit.” Stokes’ name, in fact, is familiar. I realize we’re still gently shaking hands, and I loosen my grip. “You play for FC Kansas City.” As does Nickerson.

  “Yes. The Blues.” She lets my hand go, but I see she’s pleased I recognize her name. Her smile fades a bit as she adds, “But not the National Team.”

  This bothers her, I can tell. I’m struck with the desire to fix it somehow. Why? I must be overdosing on the beauty in my presence. Sheesh.

  “Never say never,” I say quietly.

  I’m rewarded with a return of the smile. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  I didn’t. I nod my head toward the gravestone. “Rachel Johnston.”

  “Seriously? Is that why you come out here?”

  I had never thought so, but, well—“Maybe.” Food for my thoughts, later.

  I hear the distinct sound of an iPhone alert tone. Stokes jumps and reaches into her pocket to reveal the culprit.

  “Oops!” she says after checking the display. “I didn’t know it was so late. I’m supposed to be meeting Nickory in Snyder.”

  Disappointment scrimmages with relief that I’m about to get the graveyard to myself. Relief wins by a nose and a breath of inner confusion.

  “It’s only twenty minutes away,” I say.

  Stokes punches in a text, then puts the phone away. “It was cool to meet you. Are you coming to the camp?”

  I laugh and avoid a straight answer. “I don’t live here anymore. I’m visiting for a family thing.”

  Those eyes light up again. “More cousins?”

  “Yes, but on my mother’s side. No one you’re related to.” As we turn back toward the cars, my imagination creates an instant vision of me inviting Jaye Stokes to the anniversary party and the fun I’d have showing up with a beautiful woman at my side—then I shut it down abruptly. She’s related to me, not my mother’s family, and I’m not worth getting to know better.

  “In fact,” I continue talking, if only to clear my head of the fantasy, “I’m the last of the Johnston line out here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod. “I’m the only child of an only child. I don’t remember anyone talking about Chess having brothers or sisters. Rachel, yes, but not Chess.”

  Stokes stops and consults the iPad. “He had a brother and a sister. But both died young. I remember now. That’s why I wanted to find him.”

  “Fills in a branch of the family tree?”

  She grins. “It will if you give me your dad’s information. Is he still alive?”

  “No. He died in 1989.” Twenty-two years ago now. “And there’s no grave. He and my mother both chose cremation.”

  We reach the cars as I give Jaye Stokes both my parents’ birth dates and death dates. She gets my birthday, too, to help complete a little piece of her genealogical mosaic. Then she hands me her phone, offering me a perfect opportunity to see her again.

  “Can I get your number and email?”

  I take the phone, hesitate, then hand it back. “Please don’t take offense,” I say gently, “but I’m a very private person.”

  “Even with family?”

  “Sometimes especially with family. I have, like, fifty million cousins on my mother’s side.”

  “I promise to respect your privacy and never sell or distribute your information for commercial purposes.”

  The tone is solemn, but I see the sparkle in her eyes, and it
makes me laugh, conflicting directly with my now thoroughly cowed depression. A hint of it must show up as something, though, because she flashes me another beautiful but slightly sad smile and gives up.

  She reaches out to shake my hand again. “If you ever come to Kansas City, try to get to a Blues’ game.”

  “I will.”

  She gets in the Subaru, takes a moment to tap one last something into her iPad, then starts the car and drives off. I watch it disappear down the road, then slowly meander back to my grandparents’ resting place, thinking about smiling gray eyes, thinking maybe I made a mistake when I didn’t give up my number.

  But I am a solitary woman, after all. Even if I do go to a KC soccer game, I’m sure I will never speak again to Jaye Stokes, third cousin twice removed.

  

  Fyrequeene’s Blog: February 25

  “On Being Single”

  I am a solitary woman. I always have been, though I did not intend or foresee it. Events this week (a visit to my hometown, a little too much time with my married cousins) have compelled me to this attempt to convey why being solitary doesn’t bother me. In a world that insists on everyone being partnered up or looking to be partnered up, I choose a different path. There are reasons for it, both nature and nurture reasons.

  Nature: I was an only child. Nurture: My parents, while good people, were not exactly geared for children. I know they loved me, but it was a love best expressed by distance. I got used to distance, thought it was the way everyone did everything.

  Nature: I am an introvert. I am not big on crowds, I am not big on parties. Give me a quiet lakeshore or empty beach and the peace and stillness energizes my soul like nothing else ever has. Nurture: While not shy, I never quite fit in with the kids at school or the adults I later worked with. My awkward social skills made for some excruciating faux pas while growing up, and I now do my best to avoid people situations as much as I can.