Cleat Cute

by Meryl Wilsner

You can’t win a championship without gays on your team. It’s pretty much never been done before, ever. That’s science, right there. —Megan Rapinoe

Other kids had fidget spinners for their extra energy—Phoebe had her soccer ball.

Oh quit it

“What’s not to like? I love running and being better than everyone.”

Oh bitch. im gonna hate u if u dont cut it out soon

Well, both are important—soccer and kissing girls are Phoebe’s two favorite things—but she’s not focused on girls right now.

Grace has to do the same thing after being around people. Mental recovery, rather than physical. She needs to recharge.

Not publicly talking about her identity doesn’t make it a secret. Her sexuality has nothing to do with her career.

Her identity is hers alone.

One of the downsides of being a lesbian athlete is other women are always doing hot things around you.

The way she flirts with Grace is her favorite, though: annoying but charming. Irresistible.

Grace speaks without thinking. “If you get here early, I’ll braid your hair.” Phoebe practically guffaws. “Okay, I know you said we’re not talking about it, but that is flirting. That is good flirting. Hendy, you got game. You didn’t even show me this before—well, I guess with the whole kissing-me-not-on-my-mouth thing. That was game, too.” Grace breathes through her nose and keeps her eyes on her locker. Matthews feels like the sun, like if Grace looks too closely, she’ll go blind. That smile is even brighter.

Matthews grins, dimples as deep as the Grand Canyon. “I thought we weren’t talking about it.” “Who’s talking?” Grace asks, and kisses her.

Phoebe easily loses focus when something is not interesting to her, but she could look at Grace forever.

“Yeah, sorry,” Phoebe says, not sorry in the least. “I’m proud of making your legs not work.”

“Lesbian is important to me,” Phoebe says. “The world likes to act like it’s a porn category, not an identity. It took me a while to realize it wasn’t. I want other girls like me to know it’s a beautiful word.”

Grace has a clear memory of seeing two women holding hands and thinking, I hope I’m not a lesbian. She hates the memory; it feels like a betrayal of who she is,

I’m loud and obnoxious and gay. It’s like my brand.”

She’s an unabashed flirt who is somehow also absurdly respectful, backing off the moment Grace said she wasn’t interested. Phoebe clearly loves being the center of attention, and yet from everything Grace has seen, she’s more likely to pass the ball than take a shot.

She’s not bothered, but she is a little distracted. Phoebe has a nice laugh, is all.

But with Phoebe, she can be herself, and Phoebe never acts like that’s not enough.

“You can’t claim you’re doing it this time because I’m so good you want to learn from me,” she says quietly. “Maybe I just like being your partner.” “Obsessed,” Grace mutters, but she’s smiling. Phoebe giggles. See? Easy.

“Ah yes, I remember now. Your poster is above my darling daughter’s bed.” “I hate you,” Phoebe says, face as red as her hair. Grace’s own face flushes. She wants to kiss Phoebe. She’s wanted to kiss her all day, or at least since Phoebe asked her to braid her hair.

Grace used to require alone time to recover from being around people, but now when she’s home alone, she’s lonely.

“So,” Grace says. “You’re my…” “Girlfriend?” Phoebe offers. “If you want.” Another step. “And I’m yours?” “If you want.” “I want.” “I’m gonna kiss you now.” “I want,” Grace says again.