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Nonfiction
Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey
Author’s Note
To Cassandra Carr, the Capital Region crew I ‘met’ because of Christopher Boyne and the Rangers Road Warriors America Group (Jewels Ann, Mikey Joseph, Sam Schiapano, Tolik Borts,) , Natasha Carty, Ana Coqui, Renee Doboy, Jackie Ferrell, Yvette Baron Fitzgerald, Bob Heaney, Geri Krotow, Jen Lazaris, Rosie Lewis, Alisha Rai, Ayesha Shamim, Sandra Velasquez, Sharlene Rice Wegener, and anybody else who took the time to answer my crazy questions, no matter how small. This story is so much better because of all of you. <3
The entire group from Rogue Desire and Rogue Affair: you guys are all brilliant and I feel so lucky to be on this ride with you <3
Emma. Barry. <3 This story would be nothing without your help. Thank you so much for everything <3
Ainsley Booth : You went above and beyond the call of duty for this one. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the help you gave me. As well as my brand new Canadian Country music obsession
Adriana Anders, Kelly Maher, Kris Ripper: thank you all for reading this crazy story for me. <3
AmyJo Cousins, Tamsen Parker, Olivia Dade, Jane Lee Blair – You guys are brilliant and I’m so lucky to share page space with you.
Kimberly Rocha : I’m so lucky you’re my friend. Thank you for the tea, the books, the music and the amazing adventures. May we have more of each of those, but definitely a return to Amish country <3
Vivi Parish: you, my friend, ARE the hand holder extraordinaire. Thank you for keeping me company and helping me retain my sanity through this one. Whatever’s left of it.
Russ Agdern: Thank you for talking the talk and walking the walk. You inspire me and I’m proud to be your sister. You and Marisa have so much light and love to give. Elijah is so lucky, as am I.
April Lee: Thank you for answering all of my questions and thank you also for your excitement about this nutty story. PM Lee has your laugh, your snark and your smarts.
Leticia Mejia & Monica Mejia – Amigas :D As our favorite Irish band releases a new album, I can assure you both that I know where the Chrysler building is *g* I hope Giselle shares your spirit. May we gather new memories soon *hugs*
To Kate McMurray, Maria Cox, Alexis Daria, LaQuette, Jen Welsh, Harper Miller, Maria Ferrer, Ursula Renee and the RWA-NYC board of 2017 who shepherded me through this years Golden Apple Awards as this story was being written. You guys are amazing and I am so lucky to have served with you.
About the Author
Stacey Agdern is an award winning former bookseller who has reviewed romance novels in multiple formats and given talks about various aspects of the romance genre. She is also a proud romance writer. She’s a proud member of both LIRW and RWA NYC. She lives in New York, not far from her favorite hockey team’s practice facility.
You can find Stacey online at:
staceyagdern.wordpress.com
Take a Knee
Jane Lee Blair
Author’s Note
This story is not escapist. It was hard to write, and I wrestled with if it’s my story to tell, or if it belongs in romance. Ultimately, I decided a little joy, a little hope, and a whole lot of trying and forgiveness are enough for a happily ever after. Racist police violence is the catalyst for this story, and it may not be the right story for you to read today. If you need something really happy or more triumphant, that’s okay—come back to this one later.
To Colin Kaepernick: please don’t sue me for using your name. Thanks for all you’ve done.
1
NFL Preseason, 2017
St. Louis, Missouri
Jack Murphy barely kept from stumbling as he walked to his car after the final practice of the week. He’d spent hours on drills and exercises to hone his explosiveness. When he closed his eyes he saw orange cones and big rubber balls, images that would linger for hours.
Last season, his rookie season, he’d done better than anyone had expected. Injuries and roster shake ups had put him in the position of being an expected playmaker this year, and he didn’t want to let his team down. Performance bonuses, didn’t hurt, either. He’d wear his body out every day for the thrill of tackling an opponent for a loss.
But shit, he could barely walk to his truck today. He hefted himself in to the driver’s seat with a grunt, then just sat, feeling his body continue to react to the workout he’d put it through.
He grabbed a specially formulated sports drink and took slow sips. He’d be ready to drive home in a minute. He closed his eyes, and then nearly screeched like a banshee when someone banged on his window. Next thing he knew, a woman opened the passenger side door and climbed in. She was Black, dressed in jeans and a Grambling t-shirt, she had aviator sunglasses that covered half her face, and an afro. The parking lot was supposed to have a security guard, but here she was anyway.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but what the fuck? Can I help you?”
“Ma’am!” She whipped off her sunglasses. “Jack, you don’t remember me? And yes, I do hope you can help me.”
He looked at her again, squinting. “Ummm…” He didn’t know that many people in town, but she had a Grambling t-shirt so maybe there was a Louisiana connection?
She sighed and pulled her hair down in an approximation of the way straight hair would fall. “It’s me. Rochelle? From Huss High? We were in your mom’s history class together. The last class she taught before…” Her voice trailed off.
He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “Before she died, yeah. Right, we did that project together.”
He took a closer look. Rochelle had obviously changed since high school, but there—there was the snapping brown eyes, the wide lips, that one chipped tooth. He’d spent a lot of brain and will-power during that project keeping his eyes only on her face. 2000s or not, it was still rural Louisiana, and his mom was already a slightly radical figure in their hometown, able to keep her job at the public school and her leftist Catholic tendencies because all the conservatives had their kids at the academy. He didn’t want more conflict in his life then, so he’s concentrated on Rochelle’s face. And that face he’d kept his eyes trained on had had straight hair. The afro had thrown him off.
“A+, baby! And everyone knew she was harder on you than anybody. We earned that.”
“Yeah, and I never sang in front of the class again. But I still haven’t forgotten the Bread and Roses song. ‘As we go marching marching…’” He hummed a few lines. His mom had assigned them about a class presentation about a textile workers’ strike. The power of collective action had inspired them both.
That semester had been his last to really care about school. After his mom died, he’d put everything into football, because he could come home exhausted every day and sleep. He’d done enough school to get by, to get into college no problem, but football had been his salvation. The glory of changing the world faded. His mom probably was in heaven, unhappy about it, but she was the one who’d left him. He was never going to be a labor leader who’d change the country like she’d thought he would.
Now he had a career with the potential to earn millions and that consumed all his energy. And when he got those millions, his mom would probably be proud of the way he used most of them.
“Okay, but why are you here, in my truck?”
“Well, I need you.” She turned her head to look him full in the face, and he was struck by the strength of her gaze.
“You need me? I haven’t talked to you since sophomore year of high school.” Maybe if his life hadn’t gone sideways, he’d have kept up with her, or more—they’d talked about all the things they’d like to change in their town if they could just get enough people to act, and yes, her too-familiar face—but after his mom died, everything had switched to football. Football had the same goals every time, the rules never changed, and you could hit people without worrying about the feelings that made you do it.
“So you don’t know what’s happened, do you?�
� She took her sunglasses and put them on her head, tucked into her hair.
“If it’s not related to football, probably not.” He was unaccountably bothered by the insinuations of her tone. He’d had to get out of town. When he’d gotten his signing bonus he’d bought his dad a house in the country outside St. Louis. He hadn’t had much else so he’d rented an apartment in the city. His dad was doing better, away from the memories his mom had imprinted on every street of their small town. You couldn’t heal when every place you went picked at your wound. There weren’t a lot of places to go in Huss, and each one hurt his dad in a particular way. And Jack, well, it didn’t matter where he lived as long as it was his job to hit people every day.
“Well, so you haven’t heard about Jonathan? My baby cousin?” To his shock, her eyes started to well up with tears.
“No, I haven’t heard anything.” What was going on? Why did she think he’d have time for this? “My life is football and sleep. I don’t watch the news or do Facebook. All I want to do is succeed in the league.”
“My cousin was shot by the police. He did nothing wrong, and they fucking shot him. Just for having a Black body in the night. And you’re over here talking about success. Fuck your success, man, I need some action.” She wiped her tears away with a two-handed swipe.
“I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t know what it has to do with me.” He gingerly reached over and patted her knee.
“You ever hear of a fellow named Colin Kaepernick? Did you ever know a woman named Dorothy Murphy? The whole country is going to be watching you this year. You’ve been given a platform, and I want you to use it for my cousin.”
He turned to look at her, his face a mask of horror. “Rochelle! This is St. Louis! We’re a new team. They’re still not over Mike Brown here. I mean, last year, they specifically told us to avoid all those situations. They told all my Black teammates to write down their license plates numbers so the police would know who they were. It’s just my second year.”
“My cousin never even had chance to get started. He was a star running back, too. He coulda been in the league. But some policeman was scared of him because he was Black, and he’s gone now, Jack. He’s fucking gone. My aunt can’t leave the house anymore. My uncle won’t even drive on the highway anymore. I’ve tried getting the media involved, or non-profits. Local groups don’t have the resources, and I can’t get national attention for some reason—probably because we don’t have video evidence. The police review said the officer feared for his life so the shooting was justified. These are folks from your town, Jack. Why won’t you help us?”
“You think me kneeling during the anthem or something will really make a difference? I can’t bring him back.” God, just thinking about the furor that would erupt made his stomach clench.
“No, but you might help someone else’s cousin be safe.” The passion in her voice shook him, but really was anyone every safe?
“I’m don’t think that’s my job, though.” He’d be one person, anyway. And probably fired. He licked his lips and tasted the salt on them.
“You don’t feel any sort of obligation to your fellow humans? What would your mom think?”
“My mom is dead. And I feel an obligation to me and my dad. That’s all my focus is right now.” He grabbed his drink and took a sip. The sugary taste was suddenly cloying. He set the bottle in the cup holder and looked at her levelly.
“Ohhh-kay.” She put her sunglasses back on and opened the door of the truck. “I’m sorry to hear that. Best of luck this season then. Hope you don’t get too many concussions.” And she opened the passenger door and hopped out of the truck.
Jack put his hands to the steering wheel and gripped it tightly, then he pounded it with his fists. He just wanted to live his life. Football was all he had left. Was it too much to ask?
With a sigh, he reached into his gym bag and pulled out his phone. He typed into the search bar, “Jonathan, Huss, Louisiana police.” The news reports were a gut punch.
Jonathan had been walking down the side of the highway—Jack knew the highway—it was a two-lane road, and the police who had been told about a suspicious person earlier, had pulled over behind him. He’d gotten scared and ran, they though that meant he was guilty, they shot him. He’d been 17 years old. Football star, entertaining college offers already. Decent grades. His whole life in front of him, looking like he’d escape the town like so many didn’t. There’d been some protests reported in the local media, but it was a small town in Louisiana and there was no video. Seemed like it went under the radar for most people.
Jack pounded the steering wheel again. Shit. He could see why Rochelle was so mad, so motivated for something to happen. But was he really the right person to do it? His team’s owner had fiercely denounced anthem protests. But the look on Rochelle’s face made him flinch. He had performance bonuses in his contract. Can’t perform if you’re on the bench. Oh, and his freaking mom. No, his sainted mom. She’d met his dad right while she’d been pondering her vocation, hanging out at an abbey, but instead she took all the convictions with her into her marriage. He did know what she would say. Life and justice trumps football, trumps money.
He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. All the way to his crappy apartment in Carondelet, Jonathan and his mom stayed in his thoughts.
Rochelle stood in the sweltering sun, watching Jack drive off. He still had his Louisiana plates on his truck. She walked towards the stairs down to the metro stop, hands clenched, heart pounding. She’d had to leave before she started yelling at him. That was her last best hope.
Maybe it had been dumb to think that just because they’d marveled together at the power of direct and collective action when they were sixteen he’d consider taking part in any. Was it collective action if he was the only one?
In the meantime, a glance at her phone confirmed she had just enough time to make it to her flight back to New Orleans. She’d be at the opening game, New Orleans v St. Louis, for sure. And she would do something to make him regret his choice.
She called her mom before she went down the stairs—she didn’t know if there’d be reception in the subway area. “It didn’t work.”
“Well, hello to you too, honey.”
“Hi, Mom. I love you. Dorothy Murphy’s son is a complete dud and you were right.” Her shoulders sagged as she admitted it.
“Of course I’m right, darlin’.” Rochelle could almost hear the eye roll through the phone. “How did he look?”
“Just the same as on TV—sweaty and beautiful. His hair’s gotten darker since high school.” It was fine. You could strive for justice and appreciate beauty at the same time, right?
“Rochelle.” Her mom’s tone of voice could make her stand up straighter, even hundreds of miles away. “How did his spirit look?”
“It was gone, mom. He said all he cared about was his dad and football.” Her throat closed up a little as she spoke.
“Still so broken, then,” her mom said.
“Broken? More like selfish bastard. Mom, I couldn’t believe—like, I knew, I saw, obviously, after his mom died football was everything, but it’s like everything his mom stood for, even what we talked about during our project, it was all gone.” Rochelle unclenched her fist, again.
Her mom made a sympathetic mouth noise. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m still determined to get justice for Jonathan somehow.”
“Honey, I think we’re going to have to trust God for justice.” Her mom would say that.
“No, I want some now.”
She saved appealing to Jack for last. Like every other proud person in her town, nobody wanted to be that guy who used his celebrity status for their own gain. And yeah, it felt weird to ask a white dude to do the work, but she’d tried everything else. He didn’t want to be a white savior anyway so it was all good. Or all terrible.
She heard a rumble down the stairs so she hurried to catch the train to the airport. As
St. Louis rushed past her, she pulled out her phone and started making notes for ways she could bother him during the game.
Yeah, it was petty, but the idea of doing something instead of achieving nothing—just that thought made her smile.
2
It was game day in New Orleans. Jack had just finished the first half of his pregame program when a harried looking equipment manager gestured at him.
He walked over to the skinny white guy. “What’s up, Duke?”
“There’s something out there you need to see. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you to be blindsided.”
“Okay.” He followed Duke out the tunnel towards the field. They walked along the wall for a little ways, and then Duke stopped and pointed. “There. You see those posters? You know anything about that?”
Three Black women had front row seats and they were all holding up posters. One said, Jack Murphy doesn’t care about Black People. Another: Jack Murphy broke his mama’s heart. And the final one read, Black Lives Matter RIP Jonathan Fox, killed by police June 2016 Huss, Louisiana.
In addition to the words about him, the signs were generously sprinkled with the logos and cheers of the New Orleans team. Shit. Three beautiful women, front row, and yep, a camera man right there? This could go bad fast. Maybe nobody would notice, but maybe it would go viral—one screen shot to Twitter, and everyone’s perception of him would change. Fans might stop buying his jersey. He could lose endorsements. He’d known Rochelle was hurt by his refusal to engage, but he didn’t expect her to be this deviously petty.
He sighed. “I think I know what’s going on. I can handle it.” He walked over. Yes, he was right. The woman holding the sign talking about his mama’s heart was indeed Rochelle. She didn’t have an afro this time, her hair was in braids, but now that he was closer, he could see her clearly. She had seen him coming, and her gaze fixed on him and the strength of it, the emotion in it, shook him even as it drew him towards her. Too bad he hadn’t put his helmet on before he walked out there. He needed protection.
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