Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (15 page)

“Becky didn’t help me in any way on that test,” I insist. “We didn’t even talk about the exam afterwards.” Who wants to talk about exams when you can just fuck instead?

“You have to realize it looks bad.”

“And you have to realize that I don’t take too kindly to being labeled as a cheat. Even less so when you imply Becky had something to do with it. She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met, so if you want to imply I cheated then go ahead, but you better leave her out of it.”

“You need to remember who you’re talking to.”

“I know who I’m talking to. Dan Edwards, played for Michigan, got drafted by Chicago and made three professional appearances before being dropped and never heard of again. Coached at Michigan, before being fired and ending up at this place. Does that sound about right?”

Oops. I may have gone a bit too far there. This is why I don’t usually talk on the phone while driving.

“You’re going to apologize for that right now, or—”

“Or what? You need me more than I need you. I already have teams interested in me. The draft is a formality at this point.”

I can’t stop the words escaping from my mouth. No athlete wants to be called a cheat for obvious reasons, but that’s not what’s getting to me. Becky has studied hard her entire life, and twenty-four hours ago she had a full scholarship, high GPA, and a couple of job interviews to show for it. Now those interviews will probably be canceled, and her GPA and scholarship might get called into question. All because she wrote me a poem.

I know I’m not actually mad at coach, but he’s the only person I can take it out on right now. At least he’s only getting verbal abuse. It could be worse—just ask Peter.

Coach is silent for a few seconds. I wonder whether I should apologize, but then he speaks. “Not that I need to defend myself to a student, but for what it’s worth I left the NFL because of an injury, and I was not fired from my job at Michigan. I needed to move back here to look after my mother.”

Shit. “Coach, I—”

“Save it. Who do you think arranged for the scout to be there for your first game? You might have impressed him, but no team is going to sign you without a recommendation from your coach. You might want to think about
that
.”

He hangs up.

I know I’m going to regret that conversation in the morning, but right now I’m too angry, tired, and concerned to care. It’s just football. I still can’t play the sport properly, so losing out on a career as a professional isn’t that big a deal. I have money; not enough to live on for the rest of my life, but enough to set Becky and myself up for the future. After that, I don’t care if I have to wait tables.

It’s midnight by the time I get back, and I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. The nine hours of driving has left me feeling like I’ve got jet lag; I’m in that exhausted and mentally confused state. Eventually my eyes feel genuinely heavy, and I sense the sweet relief of sleep on the horizon.

Then I sit bolt upright.

I have an exam tomorrow. Scratch that, I have an exam today. Yesterday was supposed to be a study day and this isn’t the sort of exam you can go into cold. If I don’t know my shit, I’m going to fail miserably. Does an exam really matter now? I’m probably off the team and it seems pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. With everything that’s happened today, I’m not even sure Becky would care about an exam.

Of course she would. She isn’t the type to put exams and studying to one side just because she’s had a bad day, and she’ll kill me if I use her misfortune as an excuse to fail the test.

I groan loudly and force myself out of the bed that suddenly feels so comfortable. I turn on nearly every light in the house to wake myself up and grab my books. Becky’s done a lot to make me appreciate old plays, but all her enthusiasm can’t help me at one o’clock in the morning the day of an exam.

I’m doing this for you Becky.

I open my book and grab my highlighters. It’s going to be a long night.

I
don’t hide
. I don’t exactly go out of the way to be seen either, but most importantly I don’t hide.

Fortunately, I only have two classes and I can leave college at lunchtime, so it’s not like I have to hang around for long. My classes pass by in a blur of checking my messages and emails. I’m getting plenty of both, but few of them are positive. It amazes me that people have nothing better to do than send abuse to someone they don’t even know just because I have the tenacity to think that an attractive footballer might like me.

None of the messages are from Charles. He hasn’t been in touch since I ran from his house yesterday and that’s probably for the best. Yesterday had been a day for feeling sorry for myself. There had been plenty of tears, and more alcohol and ice cream than I care to admit.

If Charles had come over yesterday, he’d have seen the worst of me. I’m over that now, but still he doesn’t get in touch. I don’t hate him anymore. I never did hate him, I was just angry at him. I still am, but what’s the point in being angry at someone who’s not here? At least if he were here I could yell at him.

When I arrive back home, I get a message that makes me want Charles more than ever. One of my interviews has been canceled. Well, the interview is being “re-scheduled,” but no new date has been set. The interviewer is “out of town, and will be in touch.” I’ll never hear from them again. I still have two interviews left, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re canceled or rescheduled too.

Fuck, Charles, I’m glad you gave me some space yesterday, but I need you now.

There’s a loud knock at the door. I quietly creep up to the peephole, careful not to make a sound in case I don’t want to open the door. This apartment block isn’t exactly secure, so you don’t open the door unless you have to.

It’s Charles.

I swing the door open immediately before thinking that perhaps I should have put up a bit of a fight.

“Can I come in?”

I nod slowly, careful not to seem overly enthusiastic. He looks exhausted. I can’t smell alcohol on him, but the heavy bags around his eyes don’t leave much to the imagination.

“I see you had a fun night,” I snap. I spent the night inside crying, but clearly he had been out drinking and partying.

“What do you mean?” Charles replies groggily.

“From the looks of you, I’m guessing you went to a party last night.” Was there a party last night? Probably. For popular people like Charles, there’s always a party they can go to.

“I was up late studying.”

I scoff. “Yeah, okay, if that’s really the lie you want to go with.”

“It’s true. I had that exam this morning, remember?”

Now I feel guilty. I’m still technically his tutor and I’ve forgotten about one of the biggest exams he’s had to date. If he stayed up all night studying, he must have been struggling with the material. I should have been there to help him.

“How did it go?”

“It went well. Obviously I’m not going to get the results for another week or so, but sometimes you just know when you’ve done well and, without wanting to sound arrogant, I think I kind of aced it.”

“Wow. I guess you don’t need me as a tutor anymore.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says solemnly. “I still need your help, but given a choice between having you as my tutor or my girlfriend, I know which I’ll pick.”

I shake my head. “I’m glad you did well in the exam, but nothing’s changed. You fucked up and now my life is a huge mess. I can’t think about my love life right now.”

“You don’t still think I did this on purpose, do you?”

I shake my head immediately. I’ve never really thought that. The words had left my mouth, but I’d known immediately just how stupid they were. “It doesn’t matter whether you did it on purpose. All that matters is it happened, and I don’t see a way out for me.”

“That’s because you’re looking for a way out by yourself. I was doing the same thing yesterday. We can get through this, but we need to do it together.”

“Maybe, but not right now. I just need to be by myself.”

“I used to quite like being by myself, but it’s not so much fun anymore.” He steps forward and places his hand on my cheek, his thumb wiping away a solitary tear that I haven’t even noticed escape my eye.

I could give in right now. I could let Charles hold me for hours, or even days, while I feel sorry for myself. But at some point he’d have to let go and nothing will have changed.

I take hold of his hand and pull it away from my cheek. His knuckles are rough and scratched, with some small scabs dotted around. “What did you do?”

“Punched the wall,” he replies. I raise my eyebrows doubtfully. “Okay, I punched Peter. Long story.”

“I thought he was out of town.”

“He is.”

“Feel better now?”

“No, not really.” Charles is silent for a few moments and I can tell he’s debating whether or not to tell me something. I stay silent, suspecting that if I challenge him he’ll refuse to tell me. It works. “There’s something else. About Peter.”

“I really don’t want to talk about Peter right now.”

“I don’t think he did it.”

“You don’t think he did it, but you punched him anyway?”

Charles shrugs. “He had that coming.”

“Why don’t you think he did it?”

“He says he couldn’t access the software remotely. Something about being able to sign into the network, but not accessing software stored locally.”

I’m fairly sure you can sign in remotely and access the software, but I must admit I’ve never tried it. When I sign in to the college’s servers from home, I’m able to access all online databases, like the library catalog, and research articles, but I can’t access separate pieces of software that are stored locally on the desktops. I’m sure you can though.

“Peter’s better with technology than I am,” I say. “He’s the one Professor Fenwick and I have to go to when we can’t get something working. He’s probably lying and trying to cover his tracks.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Charles says, clearly not convinced. “I’m hardly an expert on these things. I can’t even log into my own account on the college servers. Thing is, Peter seemed genuinely surprised by the whole thing. I don’t think he even knew about the poem being published.”

“Let’s just hope it was him, because otherwise you punched an innocent man.”

“There’s nothing innocent about Peter. I should have punched him before when he threatened you, so this was just delayed gratification on my part.”

A silence falls between us as we run out of things to say. Charles is looking down at me with a longing look in his eyes. He wants to kiss me. He wants to take me in his arms kiss me and make everything better. I want him to do exactly that. His lips on mine would make me forget everything, but he can’t kiss me forever. At some point he’d have to let go, and my problems will still be here.

“You need to leave,” I say, firmly but quietly.

“I want to stay.”

“I know, but you can’t. I just… I just need some time apart right now.”

Charles nods, but he stays standing just a foot from me. “Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” He turns and heads to the door, when something suddenly pops into my head. “Wait a second.” He looks around excitedly, probably hoping I’m going to ask him to stay. “You said you can’t access your account on the college computers.”

“No,” he replies. “I guess I’m as dumb as everyone says I am.”

“But you sent me an email from college asking for my address. How did you do that if you can’t sign on?”

“Professor Fenwick let me use his account. That guy is seriously slack when it comes to computer safety. His password is ‘password1234!.’ I’m amazed the system even lets him have that.”

“Maybe the college has some basic accounts that visitors can use. I imagine the account was heavily restricted, and you wouldn’t be able to do much more than use the internet.”

“I suppose. But I don’t think the account was for visitors. The username was nfenwick.”

“Huh.”

Charles stands patiently by the door, but when I don’t say anything, he finally sighs and walks out without saying a word. I can’t let him back into my life until I’m strong enough to support myself. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I can’t let myself be reliant on him for everything. It’s for the best—for both of us. Charles doesn’t want a broken woman any more than I want to be one.

My first inclination is to lay on the sofa, close my eyes, and think about how fucked up everything is. That’s what I did most of yesterday, and it seems fitting for today, too. No, today I’m in a different mood. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself; I want to accomplish something.

I’m convinced Peter set me up, so I want revenge. At this point, I don’t have anything to lose, so why not hatch a devilish plan to get him back? I have nothing else to do. I log onto the college servers and look through all the help documentation trying to find a way to access the desktops of the computers in the newspaper office. I’m sure it’s possible, but my account seems to be limited to information that can be accessed via a browser.

I log off and run my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp to relieve the frustration. I stare at the login screen and notice my username: rswarner. All the college usernames follow the same structure; first initial, middle initial, last name. If the username is already taken, then there is a number at the end. Charles had said Professor Fenwick’s username was “nfenwick.” That doesn’t fit. How did he get such a unique username?

When it comes to privacy, I don’t even like looking over people’s shoulders when they’re using a computer, so what I do next takes me by surprise. I log into Professor Fenwick’s account with the username and password Charles gave me.

I quickly gain access to the server, but immediately something feels wrong. By default, the homepage usually comes up as the college’s website, however on this browser I only see a blank screen. I start to type something in the search bar, and immediately see recent search history appear below me. That’s weird; the college server doesn’t usually save any history. It won’t even let me set up bookmarks, much to my annoyance when I have to retype the same addresses again and again.

I open up the history and take a look at recent results. Professor Fenwick doesn’t use computers any more than he has to, but even so the history is scarce. In fact, the last website accessed is a GMail account. I click the link and it takes me straight to the inbox. Again, that’s not right. There’s no way the computer should be saving login details like that.

Of all the emails, one jumps out at me immediately. It’s an email from me to Charles—the poem.

Fuck. Anyone who logs in to this account can see my email.

I curse Professor Fenwick for his complete ineptitude when it comes to computers, but then have second thoughts. The lack of privacy settings on this account don’t signify a lack of effort—quite the opposite. Someone had to change all the default settings and to do that they would need administrator access.

Professor Fenwick’s nowhere near smart enough for that. Or is he? He’d always professed his lack of expertise, but what was it he said the other day? Something about accessing the newspaper software through a VPN. Even I don’t know how to use a VPN, and I’m amazed Professor Fenwick’s even heard of one.

Professor Fenwick has access to the software, but he long ago passed off responsibility to another student. No real surprise there. Organizing the layout of all the articles isn’t necessarily that difficult, but it is time-consuming and fiddly. Not to mention, it often needs doing at the last-minute. It’s hardly the type of task you leave to the responsibility of a busy professor.

I don’t even know who deals with the newspaper layout. I send my articles to an editor, and then the editor sends them to this other student when they’re ready.

I clasp my hands together and grip tightly as if that will help make a solution appear in front of me. Surprisingly, it actually does. The college website has a list of all students involved in the newspaper. I know everyone on the list except one girl—she must be the one in charge of formatting.

Before I have time to slow down and come to my senses, I bash out a quick email and ask her who gave her my poem to publish. She replies quickly, starting with a paragraph about how sorry she is for what happened. She sounds genuine, but I skip over that and get straight to the second paragraph.

I haven’t been in charge of formatting the newspaper for a few weeks. Professor Fenwick said he figured out how to do it himself. He said he enjoys it, and likes to feel involved. I did try to insist on keeping the work because I need to pad out my résumé. He said I could keep pretending I’m involved. I know that’s pretty unethical, but who am I to argue with a professor?

No one argues with professors. People like me treat professors like gods, words of gospel coming out of their mouths each lecture. If I need help understanding something, I go to my professor and expect to get the answers.

They’re beyond questioning.

No one ever suspects the professor.

I
’m just
minutes from Professor Fenwick’s office when I start having doubts. Everything made so much sense at home, but now I realize I’m missing one fairly big piece of evidence. Motive.