Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 by D.L. King

Author:D.L. King
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Best Lesbian Erotica Of The Year
ISBN: 9781627782173
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2016-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

OFF SEASON

Valerie Alexander

Shea had her admirers. Soccer fans and students screaming in the stands; straight girls bringing her brownies for the bus trips to games; ex-conquests grudgingly conceding she was a legendary goalie, even if she was a heartless slut off the field. And players from other Division I schools like me, who studied the team’s game tapes even before I knew I was transferring to that university and it would be my team too. She was a thing of butch magnificence under the lights, a brooding jock of a girl with heroic shoulders and a stoic face that never changed as she guarded her goal.

I didn’t talk to her at our first practice. Coach introduced me as the new center fullback and while some girls smiled and other girls said welcome, Shea’s handsome face stayed impassive. She was squinting in the late afternoon sun, waiting for Coach to finish her opening season first practice pep talk so we could get on to the business of drills.

I tried not to look at her too much.

“Everyone gets along, no one’s competitive in a mean way,” said our sweeper Bridget when we went out for beef pho and pork rolls after practice. “Last year sucked because of Shea and Lana but then Lana transferred so—” She drank her water. “And now we have you.”

Lana was the stopper I’d replaced. I’d studied her the most on the game tapes, her long coppery braid swinging as she booted the ball with powerful kicks. “They were…?”

“Oh, yeah. They thought no one knew, but we all knew. And then Shea slept with Lana’s roommate and every practice, every game, was shit after that. Thank god Lana left before she ruined this season too.”

“Seems like Shea ruined last season,” I said.

“Eh,” Bridget said. “Everyone knows what she’s like. Who’s stupid enough to fuck their teammate?”

Walking back to my apartment—not a dorm room, but a student housing apartment for athletes—I wondered how it felt for Shea to see me in front of her on the field, a shorter, curvier stranger with a honey-colored ponytail, instead of rail-thin Lana. During my penalty kick in practice, she’d watched me like I was any opponent trying to invade her goal, bent slightly with her floppy sun-bleached hair pushed back. She’d leapt up and caught my ball like a cat capturing a lame sparrow and released it back to us with a simple rise of her foot.

Soccer practice had always meant a few things to me: the hard crack of cleat kicking ball; the robin’s-egg blue of the sky and the smell of grass; sweat trickling down my shirt and the hard breathing of girls around me while a coach lectured or cajoled or guided us. Walking home in autumn twilight with sore calves and blood still flowing with adrenalin. It didn’t mean stealing glances across the field. Team romances were for summer leagues, not Division I athletes with their eyes on NCAA tournaments.

Shea, Bridget and four other stars were seniors, which made the season an emotional one for the school.

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