Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (17 page)

We don’t need the place to make money or be a big hit. We both agree that even if we we’re the only customers, that’s enough to keep us happy. As it turns out, there are quite a few British ex-pats in Southern California and plenty of Americans who are curious enough to come inside and check us out. We never make much money—we keep the prices low and the margins thin—but the place is always busy. Busy enough to warrant a second property. And then a third.

When the third pub opens, we host an opening night for regulars at the other establishments, and a few of the friends we’ve made since moving down here. Charles also invites one special guest he knows from back in his rugby days.

“This is bloody brilliant,” Oliver remarks excitedly. “I haven’t had a pint of Boddingtons since I moved to the US.”

“I seem to recall that was one of your favorites,” Charles replies. “I thought I could handle my drink, but then I saw you drink this stuff like it’s water. You put me in my place.”

All I know about Oliver Cornish I got from Charles and a quick read through his Wikipedia page. He’s like an overly excited fanboy around this guy. Something about England winning a World Cup a year or so ago. I guess that’s a big deal.

Oliver introduces me to his wife Michelle, who’s got enough of a bump around her belly that I’m fairly certain she’s pregnant, but not certain enough to say anything for risk of embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be drinking Budweiser and eating hot dogs by now,” Oliver jokes. “Is this pub your way of pretending you’re still British?”

“I’m still as British as ever,” Charles says.

“I don’t know, I saw you on the telly the other day talking about scoring touchdowns, and having a strong offense.”

“What can I say, I’m bilingual.”

“Can’t say I blame you. It must be a bit easier on the body wearing all that armor when you play. Of course, real men don’t need all that shit.”

Charles laughs and shakes his head. I get the distinct impression I’m going to be listening to these two throwing insults at each other all night.

“Lay off him, Oliver,” Michelle says. “Personally I think football is just as tough as rugby. You should see some of the bruises Sean comes home with.”

Sean. He’s about ten years younger than Oliver, but technically he’s Oliver’s son after Oliver adopted him a few years back. I found rumors online that Sean’s dad had died in suspicious circumstances, but I don’t think I believe them. If everything I’ve read is true, then Oliver has been through some serious issues.

“You still trying to convince Americans to play rugby?” Charles asks Oliver.

Oliver nods. “It’s not easy, but I’m making progress. You should swing by the training camp one day; that’s if you can still remember how to play.”

Charles smiles. “Says the man who’s already retired. I think I can handle training a few kids.”

“You haven’t met my sister,” Michelle mutters. She turns to me as if noticing I’ve been quiet and not participating. That’s kind of how I like it. I can listen to English guys talk all day. “Would you ever move to England?” she asks me.

“We’ve talked about it,” I reply. “It’s not really an option at the moment.”

“Gemma,” Charles clarifies. “Or more specifically, Gemma’s mom. What about you?”

“Similar problem really,” Michelle says. “Kids. Sean has taken quite a liking to football and he can’t play that in England.”

“Kids are a pain in the arse, aren’t they?” Oliver says.

“Bit late to come to that conclusion, darling,” Michelle says as she rubs her belly. Thank God for that. Now I can ask her about the baby without risking a very awkward silence.

Charles and I disappear briefly to greet other guests and make a quick announcement, but then we rejoin Michelle and Oliver at a table for our meal. We keep a vague eye on how the restaurant is being run, but we hired good staff, and it’s quickly clear we don’t need to worry. That means Oliver and Charles can spend the evening consuming ridiculous quantities of beer and hurling insults back and forth. That’s something I never quite picked up from all the English television I watch. The English love to insult each other. It’s all friendly and in good spirits, but it does take some getting used to.

Michelle and I stick to the basics, namely babies. Michelle is pregnant with her first, and so am I. I don’t tell her that. It’s probably only fair Charles is the first to know, and tonight seems like the perfect time. That’s if he can keep his hands off me for five minutes—a few pints of beer and he ends up looking at me like he did in the sauna the first time we met. I’ll never get bored of that.

B
ack in Washington
at long last. It feels like it’s been a long time coming, although I spent longer living outside Washington than I did in it. Still, it’s good to be back.

Washington feels much more like a second home to me, whereas Southern California always felt like someplace I worked. I know my friends back home think I’m crazy for giving up the California sun and returning to rainy Washington, but I like rain. Okay, I don’t tend to like it when I’m actually standing outside in it, but I like the feeling of coming indoors from the rain. Especially when I have someone to snuggle up to.

In fact, the bed is getting rather crowded these days. Ollie doesn’t sleep through the night unless he gets to curl up in our bed, and there’s no way Gemma’s going to be left out of the fun. Combine all that with the fact that Becky is the size of a whale and I’m struggling not to fall out at night.

I never say it to her face, but Becky is huge. Really huge. I’m still convinced we’re having twins or even triplets, but the doctors insist there’s just one in there. I’m going to have to buy a bigger bed.

I still miss them when I’m gone. We have another road trip coming up—a playoff game in Chicago that’s going to keep me away from my family for a few days. It’s my fault, really. Well, mine and Barton Fenner’s. I don’t like being away from home, but with the two of us kicking ass and taking names, a spot in the playoffs was always inevitable. We’ve had a good season, but no one will be happy if we don’t come home with a Super Bowl ring to show for it.

I smile to myself and shake my head. I still can’t wrap my brain around the concept of playing in a Super Bowl. I’d never even watched a Super Bowl until four years ago, and I only watched that one because I’d placed a bet on the winner.

At least I know the rules now. Most of the rules. Referees still award penalties against me more often than I’d like, and I’m usually clueless as to why. No one complains—not when I run in a touchdown five minutes later.

The oven timer starts beeping at me, so I grab my oven gloves and open the door. Smoke immediately flies out at me, making me cough as I furiously waft it away with a towel.

I can cook fish and chips, I can cook all sorts of curries, fried breakfasts, and even haggis. The last one had just been for a joke. However, I still can’t do shepherd’s pie. It’s either undercooked, burned on top, or both. I break through the black crispy layer of potato on top to look at the meat inside. Yep, today it’s both.

“Takeout tonight then I guess?” Becky asks from the kitchen doorway.

“Good job we own a restaurant down the road. Can you do the honors? I need to dispose of this.”

Becky leans sideways awkwardly to pick up her phone from the table. Bending forwards is pretty much impossible for her at this point.

“Hi, George,” she says wearily into the phone. “Do you have time to whip up one of your shepherd’s pie’s? For three people. Plus a bit for the kids.” I see her smile and look up at me in response to something George has said. “Yes, he did it again.” Pause, followed by laughter. “I think it’s cute that he tries. Okay, thanks, George.”

“He needs to remember who’s the boss,” I say authoritatively.

“He’s always polite with me, so I think he knows exactly who the boss is. Why you don’t just order from him in the first place? It’s not like it really costs us anything. The money just goes out one pocket and in another.”

“That’s not the point. I like cooking for all of you.”

“Good, because there’s no way I’m bending down to take anything out of the oven.”

“I don’t think there’s room in the kitchen for you to bend over.”

“What was that?” Becky asks, suddenly crunching on a mouthful of potato chips.

“Nothing dear. How is Dad getting on with Gemma?”

“He’s fine. Stop worrying about him.”

I can’t not worry about Dad. The nasty cough that plagued him in prison wasn’t just a bad cold. It had been a sign of something much worse. He developed cancer while in prison, but managed to beat it, no thanks to the prison healthcare system. The only consolation to his illness was that he ended up getting an early release after I kicked up a fuss about his treatment and threatened to sue. He doesn’t have the energy he used to have, but maybe that’s just because he’s getting old. Gemma runs rings around him. Mind you, she does that with me as well.

“He’s kicking,” Becky says excitedly, touching her belly.

I quickly stand behind my wife and wrap my arms around her, placing my palms on her belly. “He’s got quite the kick on him.” I always used to hate it when parents-to-be say things like that. ‘He’s going to be a footballer with a kick like that.’ It’s always sounds so silly and corny, but now I understand.

“This one moves a lot more than Ollie did,” Becky says. “I think he’s going to be a handful. We might have to give in this time and get a babysitter. I can’t imagine ever being able to get any work done with another Gemma around.”

“How’s the story coming along? You still think you’ll be able to finish it in the next week?”

“I have to. I sold the story this morning, and they want to publish it in a couple of weeks’ time.”

“That’s great, darling.” I kiss her on the cheek and hold her tightly. It’s no longer a huge surprise when she sells a story to a major publication. The first time she did it, we popped champagne and celebrated in style. Now we tend to just take it on the chin.

It’s funny how things work out. Not getting a job after college ended up being the best thing for Becky. She’s an independent journalist and has the freedom to write about whatever she wants. The fact that she’s fucking good at it also helps of course. Even without my income we’d have no trouble paying the bills.

We walk into the living room and watch as my dad holds Ollie in his arms, while Gemma pretends to feed her little brother with the fake food that came with one of her dolls. She’s so much older than her years. I’m not one of those parents who sees their child do something clever and immediately thinks they have a Nobel Prize winner on their hands. Add that to the list of pet peeves I have about parents. Rationally, I know that Gemma talks at about the same level as other children of her age and on paper she’s no different from them. But I see the differences. She’s smart. Devious even.

Dana and I had a long talk recently after finding out Gemma was playing us off against each other to get more toys. She guilted Dana into thinking that Becky was spoiling her, so of course Dana immediately started throwing money around and buying Gemma whatever she wanted. She’s clever like that.

One day, about a year ago, I’d been expecting World War III to break out between Dana and Becky. I came home to find Dana’s car parked in the drive and I expected the worst. However, when I burst into the kitchen I found them gossiping about me over coffee. After that, things were fine between the two of them.

Dana’s changed a lot in the last couple of years. She agreed to let Gemma live with me full-time, and now when she does spend time with Gemma she’s a much better mother. We even do some parenting stuff as a threesome, like taking Gemma to school on her first day. Dana used to be an inconvenience, but there’s a plus side to having someone who wants to look after your child a couple of days a week. Hell, now that we have Ollie, I’m tempted to ask Dana to look after him as well just to get a bit of alone time with Becky.

“Can I assume you ordered take-out?” Dad asks. “Because no offense, but whatever I can smell from the kitchen I don’t really want to eat. Reminds me of being back in prison.”

“Don’t panic, I ordered take-out from the pub.”

Just as I say that, the doorbell rings and Gemma jumps up excitedly. “Can I pay, Daddy?”

Of course, what she means is ‘can I use your money to pay?’ “Here you go,” I say handing her my wallet.

I watch Gemma as she strolls over to the door and does her best impression of Becky. “Who is it?” Gemma asks in her adult voice. Becky always asks who’s at the door, despite the fact that we have a peephole and CCTV monitoring the front door. Force of habit I guess.

“It’s your food, ma’am,” a voice I recognize as Tom’s yells back. He’s one of the new recruits, but he’s a good kid. And English. That’s not a requirement, but it always helps make the pub feel a bit more genuine.

Gemma reaches up and just about manages to open the door. She smiles as soon as she sees Tom. She likes him—he always gives her larger portions of ice cream than he probably should.

Tom gives Gemma as much of the food as she can carry, and then puts the rest down on a table by the door. I watch Gemma dig through my wallet, and breathe a sigh of relief as I see just a couple of notes exchange hands.

“Thank you, Tom,” Gemma says, before closing the door and taking the food into the kitchen. I grab the rest of the food, and we all gather in the kitchen. Gemma hands me back my wallet which fortunately feels about the same thickness as it did before.

“Sweetie, how much did you give Tom?”

“Five,” she replies.

“Five what?”

“Five pieces of paper.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones with an old man on the front.” Well that narrows it down. Gemma takes my wallet back and pulls out a $100 bill. “These ones.”

No wonder the delivery guys are always so happy to see her. “Perhaps maybe just give him two next time, sweetie.”

“No, I like giving him lots. He’s a nice man and he sounds like you, Daddy.”

Goddammit, I can’t argue with that.

“She spends money like her mother,” my dad says. “Not you, Becky, the other one.”

“Is mommy number two coming to pick me up later?” Gemma asks.

“Um, yes, but don’t ever call her that to her face.”
Or at least not when I’m there.

We take the food into the living room and watch soccer. I’m not a huge fan, but Dad likes it. It reminds him of home, and has always been his sport of choice. Mum had been the one who nudged me towards rugby as a kid. I never would have made it in soccer. I’m fast, but completely uncoordinated with my feet, as Becky can attest to from when I tried to dance at our wedding.

I think Dad regrets ever moving here. The woman he left mom for ditched him fairly quickly once he ended up in prison, and he talks about mom now more than ever. If it weren’t for his two—soon to be three—grandkids he would have probably moved home by now.

I’m glad he’s staying put. There’s nothing like losing your mom, having your father spend four years in prison, and then seeing him battle cancer to really appreciate your parents. Better late than never I suppose.

One of our phones rings from the kitchen. We all have similar phones, and the same ring tones. Every time one of them goes off we always say we must change them, but we never do.

“I’ll get it,” Gemma says, bouncing up and running into the kitchen. She comes back a few moments later telling granddad he has a call.

“Where’s the phone?” Dad asks.

“Oh, I left it in the kitchen. Sorry Granddad.”

Dad heads into the kitchen, and the second he’s out of the door Gemma grabs the remote and changes the channel to one that’s playing ‘daddy’s game.’ Moments later, Dad comes back into the living room and passes me my phone.

“It’s for you,” he says with a shrug. “I guess she got the phones confused.”

I look down at Gemma who’s watching the football and trying to act all innocent. I’ll really have to keep an eye on this one.

“I doubt she got them confused. Gemma, switch back to the other channel so that granddad can watch soccer.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad says. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

I catch Gemma grinning as I walk out of the room to take the call. Devious little sod. It’s just my agent making sure I remember to pack certain ‘sponsor clothing’ for my trip. God forbid I be seen wearing a pair of headphones that have the wrong label on them.

I largely keep the commercial side of my career secret from Becky. Frankly, there are a few parts of it that I’m not comfortable with, and it’s a constant battle to stay on the right side of my morals. I do have a few after all. If Becky knew half of what went on with the other lads and their little side deals, she’d write one of her articles exposing the entire thing. Sometimes I think she’s too good at her job.

No, scratch that. I’m damn lucky to have such a talented wife. After Dad got released from prison, Becky spoke to him about the treatment he received, and she was so furious she wrote an article about medical treatment for prisoners. People lost their jobs because of that one.

I’d never been more proud.

Becky hasn’t been able to focus on her writing as much as she’d like. In addition to the small matter of being pregnant, she tends to take on most of the parenting responsibilities during the football season. That’s how we split things. September to December, or September to February in a good year, Becky does most of the parenting, and then I do it in the off-season. I prefer being a dad to being a footballer, but being a dad doesn’t pay millions a year.

“I’m going to take the little one for a walk,” Dad says after dinner. “Come on, Gemma. I reckon you could do with some fresh air as well.”

“But, Granddad, I want to watch the rest of the game.”

“It’ll still be going on when we get back. Trust me, this sport goes on for bloody hours.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. I’m sure your mom and dad could use some peace and quiet.”

“Why do they need peace and quiet?”

“Stop asking so many questions and get your shoes on.”

Gemma puts her shoes on about as slowly as is humanly possible, and then goes outside with her granddad and little brother. Dad likes taking the kids for walks around the park near the house. Four years in prison tends to increase your appreciation for open spaces.

“I guess we should load the dishwasher,” Becky says, as she pushes herself up from the table with great difficulty.

I stand up and help her to her feet. She’s heavy, but she’s as beautiful as she ever was. Perhaps even more so. Maybe it’s the infamous pregnancy glow, or maybe it’s just because she’s carrying my child, but I’m as infatuated with her now as I was when I first stepped foot into the sauna all those years ago. Becky probably feels just like she did that day too, judging by how much she’s sweating.