Best Lesbian Romance 2014 (2 page)

The day I win a game.
Though I knew Karen had used football as a simple comparison to make her point, my brain was saturated with her words. I wanted to play so badly. I wanted
her
so badly.

So when the night of the championship rolled around and the school was in a panic, it was evident to me what I had to do. Nearly paralyzed by the absurdity of my own idea, I forced my feet to shuffle over to the distressed man pacing back and forth on the sideline.

“Coach…” My shaking voice mimicked my trembling hands. “Coach!” Whether he was ignoring my calls or just plumb deep in thought, I couldn't tell.
“Daddy!”

The man whipped around. “What is it, darlin'? I'm tryin' to run a show here!”

With a hard gulp, I found my words. “Put me in.”

“What?”

“Put me in!” My offer now carried the tone of a demand.

He didn't smile but his grimace lost some of its potency and I knew under any less stressful circumstances he would have laughed.

“Ericson, get over here,” he shouted to the burly, stocky boy streaming Gatorade into his mouth before turning back to me. “Sweetie, I don't have time for this! I'm gonna pull Ericson from running back and have him make the catch.”

“Daddy, you know he can't make it. He's not fast enough. He doesn't even know the play that well!”

“I don't have a choice, honey.”

“Yes, you do.
Me.
I know it. I know that play better than any of those meatheads. You know I can, you've seen me run it a million times.”

To this day I have never seen such desperation in my father's eyes as I did that night while he stood there staring down at me,
silently weighing his longing for the win and his pre-programmed mentality that told him no girl would ever, could ever, be good enough to really play.

Ericson finally trotted over to my side, beads of sweat flying from his forehead. “Yeah, Coach?”

With a gathered brow, my father's regard hung on me a moment longer and then he turned to the boy. “Get your helmet. Then take your shoulder pads and jersey off and give them to Jane here.”

With confusion, the young man acquiesced.

“Two minutes, kid,” he ordered before spitting in the grass and walking off.

I donned the pads like they were pieces of armor and I was preparing for battle. After slipping the jersey, stained green and brown, over my head, I snatched the oversized helmet from its seat on the bench and made my descent onto the field.

The murmurs of the crowd swelled into a bellowing roar as they slowly recognized my smaller frame jogging toward the nest of bewildered players waiting for Coach's orders.

I whistled sharply and when I had the team's undivided attention I signed the code for the play and motioned for them to get into form. Not one boy commented or argued with my self-appointed authority. I'm sure that any other day of the week I would have been blown back by snide remarks and sexist jests, but the energy in the air that night was far too intense for jokes. I had often practiced with the boys during off seasons and my competence wasn't in question. For one evening our mutual desire put us on the same level. We were one team.

Squatting into our designated positions, we waited for the opposing team to follow suit. The fire building in my gut evaporated all my anxieties. This was it. This was the moment I had envisioned since childhood.
With a final glance over at Karen's concerned face across the field, I shut my eyes and knelt to touch the grass, securing my hunched stance. The stadium was silent apart from the banging sound of my heart floundering about underneath the pads and the nasal wheezing of my accelerated breath.

The call was made and within seconds my feet were a blur under my body as I bolted toward the goalpost. Dashing into the end zone, I twisted my torso back and checked the air. Sure enough, the ball was hurtling right for my head. Kicking hard off the ground, I leapt into the air, throwing my arms as wide as I possibly could. I grabbed the ball, cradling it into my chest as I fell to the dirt.

The referee's whistle couldn't be heard over the audience's cheers. Still grasping the ball for dear life, I stood and saw my teammates pouncing on one another, beating on their chests and howling with excitement. Then it hit me. We won. I had been so overwhelmed by the fact that I was playing in a real game I had forgotten all about the possible outcome.

When I felt arms swing around my neck, I thought they belonged to another player reveling in the victory, but then I saw Karen. Her ear-to-ear smile melted my racing heart. She was beyond elated.

Unable to contain her bliss, she screamed, “Baby, you did it! We won the championship and you did it.” She was literally jumping for joy.

I tossed my helmet on the ground, and in a moment of unadulterated euphoria, grabbed Karen by her waist and picked her up, allowing her to snake her tan, lean legs around my hips. Looking into each other's eyes, we both knew it wasn't really me. It was fate.

“The day I win a game, right?” My lips lightly brushed her cheek and my chest heaved from loss of breath. “I do believe
you owe me a wedding, ma'am.”

Karen discarded her rattling pom-poms and weaved her fingers through the cropped, damp, clustered hair sticking to my face. “Let's do it, baby. Jane Adams, let's leave and I will marry you tonight, tomorrow night or any night you want. I'm yours. I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.” With that, I kissed Karen hard on her lips, right smack-dab in the middle of the end zone. I didn't care that all of Belmont was watching. I didn't care if her daddy would shoot me or hell, if my own daddy would shoot me. If that night proved anything, it was that Karen and I were destined, written in the stars, and we both knew it. It was all we talked about on the flight to New York, graduation night.

THE THINGS YOU DON'T DO

Jane Fletcher

“Tell my daughter to get her sweet butt in here. I haven't paid for all this so she can sulk off on her own.”

“Yes sir.” Annie O'Donnell, the maid, bobbed a curtsy and scuttled away.

She spared a cursory glance for the room. The party was in full swing. Everyone in the district with pretensions to being considered high society had tried to wrangle an invite. The ballroom was crowded with bright young things. Admittedly not all were young, and some were most definitely not bright. “Things” was, though, a sufficiently generous category to include everyone there, with just a few regrettable exceptions.

The music from the jazz quartet overlaid the hubbub of two hundred voices. Scents from numerous bouquets, decorating the edges of the room, battled with that of expensive perfume, cigarette smoke and, increasingly, alcohol on the revelers' breaths. The light from three huge crystal chandeliers glittered off jewelry, necklaces, cufflinks and even a couple of tiaras. Above
the band hung a banner, embroidered with the words,
Happy 21st Birthday, Beth.

The men present were mostly dressed conventionally with crisp white shirts and tails. Annie had seen the table by the entrance piled high with top hats. The women wore a mixture of elegant evening gowns, small black dresses and even smaller tubes of bright material, in the latest fashion, cut so short the wearer's knees were on show. These dresses were mainly the preserve of younger women, accompanied by headbands (and the occasional feather) and strings of heavy beads. Black-clad waiters wove their way between the crowds, carrying trays heavily laden with pink champagne.

At that moment the band struck up a Charleston and the knees jostled onto the dance floor to commence their gyrations. Annie left the room. She knew the birthday girl would not be among them.

The entrance hall of the Fitzpatrick mansion was larger than the entire apartment Annie shared with her aunt, uncle and five young cousins. A wide sweep of stairs led to the upper floor. She hesitated briefly. The young lady of the household might be up there, taking refuge in her room, but then Annie shook her head. No. She had a better idea of where to find Miss Elizabeth Fitzpatrick.

The double doorway at the rear of the hall stood open, giving access to the garden. The cool night air was a welcome change from the heavy, too sweet atmosphere inside. Lanterns had been set around the terrace. Their flames flickered in the gentle breeze blowing in from the sea. Beyond the stone balustrade, moonlight bleached the garden in harsh blue-white light and soft black shadows. Still farther away, the distant lights of the city reflected in the black waters of the bay.

Annie was not the only one on the terrace. A few others had
drifted out to enjoy the night air. They stood talking quietly in pairs and trios. Red lights flickered like fireflies as people drew on their cigarettes. A sudden burst of laughter, quickly hushed, caught Annie's attention. She looked over, but her quarry was not there—nor had Annie expected it. She knew where to look.

Stairs at either end of the terrace led down to the garden. The sound of Annie's footsteps changed from the sharp click of stone to the crunch of loose gravel. As she walked down the path, the sounds of the party faded and gave way to the song of crickets and the whisper of wind through the bushes. At first no more than a faint undercurrent, but growing louder, was the boom of the sea washing against the bottom of the cliffs. Annie took a deep breath, expelling the last of the smoke and alcohol fumes from her lungs.

At the end of the lawn the path passed between a pair of topiary bushes in the shape of peacocks before rounding a now-silent fountain. Beyond lay the less formal area of the garden, degenerating into an overgrown rockery. The path no longer ran straight. After another minute, it ended at a promontory where an old, round wooden summerhouse overlooked the ocean. The building appeared deserted in the brilliant moonlight, but Annie had little doubt of who would be there.

She stopped in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness inside. Sitting to one side was the heir to the Fitzpatrick shipping fortune. A stray beam of moonlight glinted off the shimmering silver evening dress clinging to her slender form.

“Your father sent me to find you, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Well, please don't tell him you found me, and please don't call me Elizabeth.”

The rich, warm voice made Annie's insides melt. Before trusting herself to reply, she took a second to ensure she had full
control of her lungs. “Lizzie.” The name felt more stilted on her lips than it used to.

“Annie.”

Even without seeing her face, by the lilt in Lizzie's tone, Annie knew she was smiling. Just the memory of that smile was enough to make Annie's pulse leap and her knees weaken. She leaned against the door frame for support.

“Can you do me a favor? Go back to the party and get me a glass of bubbly.” Lizzie paused, reflectively. “Actually, make that two, and see if you can snag a bottle as well.”

“Supposing I meet with your father, what will I say?”

“What exactly did Daddy ask you to do?”

Annie searched her memory. “To tell you to get your sweet butt into the party.”

“Consider me told.” Lizzie laughed. “If you see him, you don't have to lie. You can say you couldn't find me in the house. Which is true. And you can say you're going to try find me in the garden. You don't need to add that since you know where I am, your chances of finding me are extremely good.”

Annie shook her head, in amusement rather than denial. If truth be told, she would have lied for Lizzie, willingly.

Back in the house, the party was, if anything, even more exuberant than before. The absence of the birthday girl did not appear to be hampering the proceedings to any noticeable degree. A few young men were wandering around as if in a very halfhearted game of hunt the parcel, but even they seemed more interested in the champagne.

Annie did not run into Mr. Fitzpatrick, so was spared the need to be inventive with the truth. No one else paid her any attention, the black maid's uniform rendering her invisible, unless she was carrying drinks. Unfortunately, this was the fate suffered the first four glasses of champagne she acquired, but she
was eventually able to get away safely, drinks and bottle in hand.

By the time she returned to the summerhouse, the moon had moved on, and now enough beams reached the interior for her to see Lizzie's face, highlighting the plains of her fine high cheekbones and small upturned nose. The colors Annie had to provide from memory, the gold in the ringlets of Lizzie's hair and her cornflower blue eyes.

Annie handed over a glass of champagne and looked around, wondering where to place the other. A bench ran the full circumference of the walls, but it was not level enough to stand the glass on without risk, and there was no table. She bent, about to place the second drink and the open bottle on the floor by Lizzie's feet.

“No. That one's for you.”

Annie placed a hand on the ground for balance and looked up, uncertain. “I don't…”

“Oh, for god's sake, Annie, sit down and drink it. I want to ask your advice.”

“Why me?”

“Because I trust you and you know me better than anyone else. Like you're the only one who knows I can't stand Beth and prefer to be called Lizzie. Now sit down.”