Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (7 page)

“Can’t argue with—” Dad erupts with a loud, chesty cough. It sounds slimy, like that of a forty-year smoker even though my dad has never touched cigarettes.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just got a bit of a cold.” He coughs again; it doesn’t sound anything like a cold.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“James is a doctor, and he gave me the once over. He thinks it’ll pass after a week or two.”

“James? As in your cellmate?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“There must be an official prison doctor you can see. That cough sounds nasty.”

“The prison doctor has bigger concerns than a patient with a cough.”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “Make sure you see him.”

I have no right to act concerned about my father’s well-being. He could have had this cough for weeks, or even months, and I wouldn’t know about it because I’ve not been in to see him. That’s going to change now.

“How’s my little granddaughter?” Dad asks.

I know it’s eating up him inside that he has a grandchild he has never seen. He probably didn’t anticipate being a grandfather so early, but it’s a role he would relish.

“She’s a handful,” I reply. I hand him one of the pictures of her I printed from my phone. “This was taken just a few days ago after a surprise visit.”

Dad holds the photo close to his face and grins ear to ear. It’s a picture of me holding Gemma up in front of my face with her laughing hysterically for no apparent reason.

“She’s incredible,” Dad says. I can tell he’s fighting back tears, but he won’t cry. He’s never cried in front of me, and I can’t imagine him starting now.

“You can keep it.”

“Thanks. Who took the photo?”

“Uh, Dana,” I lie.

“No she didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re smiling in the photo as well. You look happy. From the way you talk about Dana, I can’t imagine you ever looking happy with her around. And the fact that you just lied to me about it, means the photographer is a woman. One who means something to you.”

“When did you become so inquisitive?”

“Answer the question, son.”

“Fine. Her name is Becky. But she’s just my tutor, nothing more.”

“Clearly you’d like her to be.”

“I’m working on it,” I admit. “She’s great with Gemma.”

“Good. I hate to sound like the strict father, but you do need to be more careful about the women in your life now. Having a child changes everything.”

“Tell me about it.”

I can still sleep around if I want to. I only have Gemma two days a week, and that leaves plenty of time for me to get my end away. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Even if Becky wasn’t in the picture, I wouldn’t feel right screwing around like I used to. Gemma is too young to pick up on how I act, but I’m still acutely aware that I need to be a role model for her.

I’m not going to date a woman just because she’s good with Gemma, but if I happen to meet a woman who is incredible for me and great with Gemma then I’d be crazy to turn a blind eye. Becky is exactly that woman.

“Do you think I can see her one day?” Dad asks, still staring at the photo.

“Becky?” I haven’t even told Becky my father is in prison. That’s not going to be a fun conversation.

“I meant Gemma,” he says with a knowing smile, “but it would be great to meet Becky as well.”

There are other babies here in the room with us, but I’ve deliberately come on a day when Gemma is with her mom. Dad has never seen his grandchild. I know I’m being selfish, but it just feels wrong to bring a bundle of joy like Gemma to a place like this. Mind you, maybe it’s a good idea for the evil genius to get a glimpse of this place. It might scare her straight.

“I’ll bring Gemma soon, I promise.”

“Thanks, son. It would mean the world to me to see her. Now then, why don’t you try and explain this American football nonsense to me. I never did learn the rules, but the guys in here talk about it all the time.”

“I’ll do my best, but I’m learning the rules as I go. Did you know that only the quarterback can pass the ball? It’s a crazy sport.”

M
y dad talks
about his time in prison positively, but he does that for my benefit. Apparently the chef likes him and gives him extra portions, but that sounds more like a punishment than a reward considering the food consists of dry chicken in a bland sauce most of the time.

The second I’m out of the prison, my stomach starts rumbling and I know I need food. Not just the sort of food I can make at home; I need a big meal that will leave me unable to eat for the rest of the day. I head into the city and park at the mall. I take a quick look at the food court, but the food is all crap and the seating area is full of teenage girls screeching at each other in a language I can barely comprehend.

There’s a street packed with restaurants just a short walk from the mall, so I head to the exit when I bump into a familiar face.

“Becky?”

She’s on her way out as well, having bought something she now holds in a small carrier bag. Whatever’s in the bag, she doesn’t want me to see it, because she slyly passes it to the other hand and keeps it out of sight.

“Hi Charles,” she replies nervously. “What are you doing here? I didn’t take you for the mall type.”

“I’ve just learned that I’m not. I’m absolutely famished though, so I’m heading to a restaurant for lunch. Why don’t you join me?”

“I should probably be heading back.”

“Back where? You don’t have any classes this afternoon.” Probably shouldn’t have said that; she doesn’t need to know that I have her schedule alongside mine on my calendar.

“I still have to study. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I do take college very seriously.”

“You still need to eat.”

“I’ve just eaten.” Her stomach immediately rumbles in violent protest, loud enough to be heard over the noise in the mall. “Okay, I haven’t eaten, but I have sandwiches stashed in the fridge at college.”

“Your stomach wants more than some sandwiches. Just come with me for lunch—it’ll be my treat and you don’t
have
to sleep with me afterwards. Purely optional. You deserve it for putting up with me so long and for getting me to read Shakespeare.”

“It’s my job. I’m already paid for that.”

“Stop being stubborn. It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. Just one friend buying lunch for another friend.”

She takes a deep breath in and exhales the word “okay.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Agreed. Now, where shall we go? I actually have a craving for chips—proper British chips, I mean. Are there any decent British pubs around here?”

“There is a British pub, but I don’t know if it’s any good or not.”

“There’s only one way to find out. Come on, lead the way.”

I follow Becky out of the mall and down a few side streets until we end up outside a pub called—predictably—The Red Lion. How original.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” Becky says as we walked inside. “I’m not as rich as you, but I think I can afford to buy my own lunch.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, I have to pay. I know the modern thing is to split the check, but I still like to pay on the first date.”

“You said this wasn’t—”

“Don’t worry, you can pay for the second date. Or maybe the third. Come on, let’s sit down. I’m starving.”

I know Becky doesn’t want to argue about whether or not this is a date in the middle of a pub, but I also know I’m going to get an earful about it later. I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

The menu isn’t exactly inspiring. There are a couple of options that might be considered ‘British’ at a push, but this place is nothing like a British pub. They have fish and chips and shepherd’s pie, but there’s no curry, no meat pies, and no roast beef. It doesn’t even have the staples like chicken with melted cheese and bacon, or a surf and turf. Sure, most of that isn’t even British, but it’s still served in nearly every British pub.

The drink selection is even worse. There’s Guinness—which isn’t British—so the only option for a decent ale is London Pride. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

The waitress comes over to take our order and doesn’t attempt a British accent. Thank heavens for small mercies.

I go first because Becky’s still deciding. “I’ll have the fish and chips, and a pint of London Pride.”

I have to show my ID to the waitress. I still can’t get used to that. I’ve been drinking in pubs since I was sixteen in England, but I’ve seen people with gray hair get asked for ID here.

“For you, ma’am?”

“I’ll have the shepherd’s pie, and… a pint of Blue Moon.”

The waitress smiles and disappears without asking Becky for ID. I look about twenty-five, and Becky looks about nineteen, even though we’re both twenty-one. Something’s not right there. Becky’s been here before, I’m sure of that. Why wouldn’t she have told me that? Unless… yeah, she’s a closet Anglophile. She can’t admit that, because she’s trying to resist me.

It really is a miracle she hasn’t given in yet. This girl’s even more stubborn than I thought.

“Is this anything like a British pub?” Becky asks.

I look around at the large Budweiser signs on the wall, and the televisions playing repeats of last night’s baseball matches.

“No, not really.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.

“I guess I’ll have to take you to a real pub one day.”

“I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves.”

“You’re right. This is just the first date after all.”

“This isn’t… never mind.”

Our food arrives and any pretense of this being a good British pub quickly disappears. Instead of a large slab of cod covered in batter, there are smaller individual pieces closer in size to scampi. More worryingly, instead of chips I have a side portion of crisps. Couldn’t I have at least got fries?

Becky’s beer is even more disturbing. “Why the fuck is there a piece of orange in your beer?” I ask.

“That’s how they serve it.”

“Bloody hell. Fruit in beer, whatever next?”

“I take it the fish and chips is not exactly what you expected either?”

“Nope. It’s nice enough, but without a plateful of greasy chips covered in salt and vinegar, it really isn’t the same.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“It really is delicious. Maybe I’ll cook it for you one day.”

“You can cook?”

“How hard can it be? You just find a recipe on the internet and follow the instructions. I’m sure I can manage that.”

Becky laughs, her smile lighting up her face. I hope she never realizes just how much power that smile has over me. She’ll have me waiting on her hand and foot if so. “I guess you’re right. I look forward to it.”

The food isn’t actually that bad, but it makes me realize how much I miss home. I don’t regret my decision to come here one bit. Gemma is worth every sacrifice I have to make, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

“What did you do this morning?” Becky asks.

“I finally went to see Dad. It was about time.”

“How was it?”

“Okay.” I know I’m not technically lying, but I feel just as shit about what I’m not saying. Becky already knows about Gemma and she’s still here with me now. I can trust her with the news about my father. “My dad’s in prison,” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I know,” Becky replies.

I frowned. “What do you mean you know?”

Becky reaches over the table towards me and taps me on my chest. I look down and see the sticker still on my shirt. “Departments of Corrections: Visitor.”

“Oops. How long were you going to let me sit on that one?”

Becky shrugs. “I wanted to give you a chance to tell me about it. Which you did. Thank you.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“I’m sure your dad being imprisoned isn’t your fault. Getting a woman pregnant on a one night stand on the other hand, is entirely your doing.”

“He’s not a violent criminal or anything,” I say defensively. “He’s the stereotypical white-collar criminal. Don’t get me wrong, he deserves to be in prison, but you don’t need to be scared of him or anything. He fucked up and he’s paying the price.”

“So let me get this straight. Your dad moved to the States, and while there he managed to get himself locked up. You slept with Dana while you were visiting him, and nine months later Gemma appeared?”

“I didn’t sleep with Dana while I was visiting. Prison security is too strict for that.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

I smile knowingly, and take a long sip of my pint. Everything is out in the open now. At least, it is on my end. I know she’s not told me everything about her ex-boyfriend yet, but she will if she wants to.

I drive her home after lunch, but the date ends at her doorstep. Other than a quick kiss on the cheek, it’s all rather tame. I don’t mind. It will happen soon and when it does, it will be worth the wait. I know it.

I
didn’t join
the college newspaper because I wanted to become a journalist. Like most students—especially those majoring in English literature—I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life after college. Signing up for the college newspaper was just one of those things I did to pad my résumé and make a few connections.

Two years later, I want to be a journalist more than anything else in the world. I know it sounds boring, but the process of gathering all the facts, speaking to the right people, and then crafting a well-written article, really gets the passion coursing through my veins. It’s not the same passion I feel when I’m around Charles, but it’s still intense.

Perhaps there isn’t room for two passions in my life. Ever since Charles came on the scene, I’ve been slacking. It hasn’t been deliberate. I still spend as much time studying and working as ever; the time I spend with Charles comes out of the small amounts of free time I allot myself so that I don’t go mad.

Regardless, something’s been missing lately. I’ve filed a few stories, but they’ve been so dull even I wouldn’t read them. I feel like I’m doing the bare minimum, instead of exceeding all expectations. It couldn’t have happened at a worse possible time.

I’ll be applying for jobs soon, but I haven’t had a story on the front page since the article I wrote about Charles. That might not be a huge problem, but Peter has really upped his game recently. He’s on the front page of the paper today, and that’s not the worst thing. He’s on the front page with a story that I really should have written.

Tension Within Football Team Threatens Dawn of New Era
.

Everyone loved my story on Charles, but they love Peter’s even more. Peter’s has scandal. He hasn’t been dissuaded by my friendship with Charles. Quite the contrary; he took it upon himself to investigate the football team and uncovered a piece of gossip that has everyone talking.

Apparently not everyone on the team is overly enamored with Charles. He’s created a split. Many of those on the team are used to just showing up and playing football once a week, while scurrying around and partying the other six days. With Charles on the team, some of the players now realize they have a chance to be noticed. They’re knuckling down and working hard, but there are still those who just want to coast along.

Half the team isn’t talking to the other half, and the season starts in five days. Sports teams always present themselves as big, happy families, so this is a big deal and students are lapping it up.

Most annoyingly of all, Peter’s writing is really damn good. He uses Charles’ arrival to set the scene, then shows the house of cards as it threatens to tumble down. It’s the sort of article I hate. College sports shouldn’t be on the front page of the paper. Not unless I’m writing the article. And I really should have been the one to write this article.

I’ve been on a date with Charles. We’ve talked about his secret baby, and his father in prison, but never about football. He probably has no idea what’s going on with the team. He’s spent more time with me than he has on the football field, and apart from going to one party, he doesn’t seem to have made much effort to connect with his teammates. Maybe that’s part of the problem. I’ve been off my game ever since the two of us started spending time together; perhaps he is off his as well.

I’m staring at a blank document on my screen, and have been for ten minutes when the door opens and Peter walks in with a big grin on his face.

“Boss wants to see you,” Peter says, before adding “now,” for dramatic effect.

I head straight over to Professor Fenwick’s office. I want to get it over with, and besides, I’m not exactly getting a lot of work done right now.

“Rebecca, come in,” Professor Fenwick says without looking up from his computer. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Professor Fenwick takes pride in the fact that he never has his door closed. He doesn’t even close the door when he is on the phone, much to the annoyance of everyone else in nearby offices. This isn’t going to be a cheerful conversation.

“Have you had a chance to read Peter’s story?” Professor Fenwick asks.

“I have. It’s interesting.”

“No, it’s not. I think we would both prefer the front page to be taken up with slightly more highbrow topics. However, the writing is good, and he’s going to get plenty of eyes on it.”

“He’s a good writer.”
He’s a piece of shit as a person, but he is a good writer.

“The big newspapers will start interviewing graduates soon,” Professor Fenwick says. “I’m doing my best to put you forward for all of the good ones, but I’m going to have to recommend Peter as well. I was hoping you would keep him off the front page at such an important time.”

Now I know why the door’s shut. Professor Fenwick has always favored me over Peter, but he’s always been subtle and never says anything too direct. This is the first time Professor Fenwick has outright admitted I’m his favorite.

“Peter already has interviews lined up,” I say. “At least that’s what he’s told me. I’m never too sure whether he’s being honest.”

“He has an interview at the Washington Tribunal. His dad has connections there, so it’s inevitable. However, that doesn’t mean he’ll get the job. I almost wish he would. That way, you’d be free to interview for the better jobs.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of room for the both of us.”

That’s how I try to console myself. There are a lot of jobs for journalists in Washington. Unfortunately, there are also a lot of students who are after those jobs. Not just the students who study in Washington, either. There are also the ones who study elsewhere and want to come home, or just the ones who see Washington as a good place to live. For my dream job, I’ll be competing with Harvard and Yale students, so really Peter is the least of my problems.

“I’m worried you have too much on your plate,” Professor Fenwick says. He doesn’t just sound concerned, he sounds guilty. He probably blames himself for giving me too much to do.

“I’m busy, but that’s the way I like it.”

“Even so… would you like me to scale back your responsibilities?”

“How so?”

“I can find another tutor for Charles. You’ve been logging a lot of time with him.”

Probably a little too much time. Charles insists I log all the time I spend with him, even when I’m not technically tutoring him. According to him, even playing with Gemma should count as tutoring time because it’s freeing him up to study. I drew the line at charging for our unofficial ‘date’ though.

The date had been way too much fun to count as work, although I am a little disappointed to find out that The Red Lion wasn’t all that accurate a representation of a British pub. I’ve been there so many times that most of the staff know me and I don’t even get asked for ID. I don’t know why I insist on lying to Charles about my minor obsession with everything British. At first, the lie had been necessary to stop him thinking I wanted him. Now, it’s more that I don’t want him thinking I want him just because he’s British. Sure, the accent is a nice little bonus, but there’s much more to him than an English accent and rippling muscles.

“I don’t want to abandon Charles at this stage,” I say. “Besides, I’m taking the same classes, so while I teach him, I’m learning as well.”

“So long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m actually a little surprised you didn’t get this story yourself. Did Charles not let slip there were tensions within the team? Or didn’t you want to write another story about football? Not that I blame you.”

“He never said anything. He probably doesn’t even know. I think it’s fair to say he hasn’t really taken to football yet. He shows up, does what he’s told, and then goes home.”

“Can’t say I blame him. I’ve always thought football was such a dull sport. Give me baseball any day.”

I smile, but if there’s one thing more boring than football then it must be baseball. It would take a lot more than the promise of a good job to get me to write about baseball. I like writing, not putting numbers in spreadsheets.

“I’ll be back on the front page soon,” I promise.

“Glad to hear it. What are you working on?”

My mind is blank. I’ve been trying to think of new topics for days, but every time I go to type my fingers refuse to move. The only things I feel capable of describing relate to Charles. His accent—dripping in smooth elegance, and sophisticated without even trying. His body—slender, but muscular, without a single bit of needless fat. I can even write a few paragraphs about his hair if I want to, and I barely care about my own hair that much.

I cast my mind back to topics I scribbled in notebooks months ago and then abandoned. There is one that springs to mind immediately. Ironically enough, I decided against writing it a few months ago because it crosses over a lot with college sports. I guess that’s now my area of expertise.

“I’m writing about ingrained sexism in college.”

Professor Fenwick laughs. “You’re going to ruffle a few feathers with that one. What’s the angle?”

“Football. That’s the new college obsession after all. Football is a great symbol of everything wrong with college at the moment. You literally have women standing on the sidelines cheering on the men who do all the work. It’s kind of cringey when you think about it.”

“Completely agree. I look forward to reading it.”

And I’m looking forward to writing it.

It’s amazing what’s a good idea can do for one’s enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm doesn’t last for long. The second I step back into the office, I see Peter hanging up the phone with a huge grin on his face. Someone got good news.

“Another interview,” he says casually, as if the interviews are becoming an inconvenience on his schedule. “Do you have any interviews lined up yet?”

“No, not yet.” I try to sound like I don’t care, but I end up practically spitting the words out and making it obvious how infuriated I am. I’m usually good at hiding my emotions, but something about Peter brings out the worst in me.

“You need to up your game. I’m amazed you didn’t scoop me on that team chemistry story. What with all the time you’ve been spending with Charles.”

“You know I don’t care about football. They could be openly fighting in the streets and I wouldn’t write about it.”

“Your loss,” he replies, with a shrug. “I suppose it’s possible you’ll get a job by writing about serious, important stuff, but if you want a bit of friendly advice, I recommend you write what’s popular.”

Peter doesn’t know how to give friendly advice. He knows full well that my best chance of beating him to the top jobs involves serious writing that impresses an interviewer.

“I’ll continue to write what interests me, although I appreciate your concern.” The words weren’t completely dripping in sarcasm, but they weren’t exactly sincere either.

“You’ve got a real stick up your ass, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You need to loosen up a bit. No one wants to hire some boring, pretentious bitch who will likely file a sexual harassment suit the second a man looks at her in the office.”

“Get stuffed, Peter. I’m too busy for your shit right now.”

“I’m sure you are. Why don’t you run on back to Charles and continue to not write front page stories?”

I want to stick around in the office just to prove him wrong, but I know I won’t get any work done while he’s around. I’m stubborn, but I’m not that stubborn.

As I walk home, I realize Peter is right. I do need to loosen up. I also need to stop letting Charles be a distraction. Unfortunately, if I try to ignore Charles, I’ll end up more uptight and distracted than ever. Besides, ignoring him won’t help. Charles will just take it as a challenge, and I’ll probably see more of him than ever.

Perhaps there is one way to relax and have Charles be less distracting. It’s a little counterintuitive, but I think it might just work.

“
B
ecky
? I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course you can.” Charles steps aside and I walk into his huge mansion, the entryway more spacious than my entire apartment.

I only made the decision to come here ten minutes ago, but I’m already having doubts. I convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. If I go home, all I’ll do is sit in front of my laptop and not write anything while thinking about Charles. By coming here first, I get my dose of Charles and then maybe I can concentrate. That makes sense. I think. If not, I’m making a huge mistake.

I kick my shoes off by the door, and look up at Charles. It’s only now I realize he’s wearing an apron. It’s new—creases still visible from where it was recently folded in a square shape—and Charles looks slightly awkward in it, like he’s never worn one before.

“Are you cooking?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“And do you always wear an apron when you cook?” I try to suppress a smile, but it’s hard. He looks so damn cute in the apron. It’s too small for him, but with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he still looks damn appealing. I don’t often want to stop men from cooking, but now is definitely one of those times.