Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (4 page)

Romy grabs my arm. “Does he go here?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, Romy. Like I said, he ruined a perfectly good reading session.” I push my sleeves up higher. I’m probably going to pass out before this game ends. I’m wearing a t-shirt underneath my sweater but it’s a little small. I think I’ve exposed enough skin in the last twenty-four hours as it is. “I had to use like half a bottle of your makeup remover last night, by the way.”

“How’d you find it?” Romy asks.

“I’m your roommate. I know everything.” I’d pried up the secret floorboard under Romy’s bed. I’d never looked under there before, but I knew it was where she kept all of her contraband. I’d jumped back in shock when I saw the boxes of condoms.

“So you saw my entire stash, huh?” Romy laughs. “I would have paid to see your face. Esther Avonlea being within arm’s length of a box of condoms.”

The announcer mercifully interrupts our conversation. “Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to our visitors, the Michigan Rays!” Most of the stadium boos as Michigan takes the field. A few people, fans they brought with them, applaud and cheer.

I clap lukewarmly. I hate booing; I think it’s unsportsmanlike. But that doesn’t mean I need to get excited for the other team.

“Alright. Get on your feet. It’s time to welcome. YOUR. FULLERTON. SHAAAARKS!”

A smoke machine goes off and the team breaks through the paper banner that our cheerleaders hold up. I look at the poor women wearing head-to-toe polyester and think that they’re hotter than I am in their trouser pants and long-sleeved, modest uniforms. I figure the school had to get custom ones for modesty. I’ve never seen cheer uniforms like that before arriving at Fullerton.

I stand on my feet as each player’s name is called out, yelling and cheering. Even Romy is getting into the spirit of the game.

“And last but not least. Give a warm round of applause for the Miracle on the Field. It’s Saint WILLIAMS!”

It’s like a thunderclap has erupted beneath the stadium. People stomp, cheer, yell, and generally just lose their minds as Saint makes his way onto the field, his helmet in his hand. He waves and flashes his perfect, arrogant smile for the crowd, even stopping to reach up and touch the hands of fans leaning over the walls begging for a chance to touch his skin.

It’s hard for me to not roll my eyes. I stop clapping and Romy elbows me.

“What?” she mouths.

I shake my head. “Later,” I mouth to her.

“Ladies and gentleman. Please rise for the national anthem.”

Everyone quiets down and places their hand over their heart. I sing along, my heart thudding as the camera lands on Saint, who is reverently singing. I’m sure there are women all across the country swooning over him. Particularly moms who could see him with their daughters. Saint almost looks like he has tears in his blue eyes.

Now I
really
have to fight to not roll my eyes.

The camera moves before I get the chance to see what Bible verse he’s flashing for the crowd. The anthem ends and we all sit down. The coin toss is underway and of course, Saint wins it. Saint seems to win absolutely everything.

I reach into the pocket of my jeans for my trusty portable radio. I tune into the AM band where the commentators are broadcasting. I stick an earbud in my left ear.

“I think you’re the only person under the age of fifty to still own a radio,” Romy yells over the roaring crowd.

“I like to hear the commentary,” I yell back.

The game is underway and Romy is already back to being lost in her cellphone.

I don’t care. This is for me, not her.

I love football.

I tune to the proper band as the referee makes the first call against the Sharks.

“Oh no,” I mutter. I start to stand up to yell at the referees but something holds me back in my seat.

Football isn’t for girls, Esther.

My dad’s voice fills my head.

I sit back down and crank up the volume.

“Bad start for the Sharks, but let’s get to the reason you’ve all tuned in today,” Jim Olson says. Saint Williams has just been tearing it up this season, and I think we’re going to see big, big things for him when he turns pro at the end of this year.”

“Jim, you’re absolutely right about that,” Todd Weathers replies. “I think the network is expecting record views for
all
of the Sharks’ games this year. It’s rare for such a small school to see this kind of attention.”

“Todd, let’s talk about Saint’s infamous Bible verse face paint. He told us in an interview last year that it’s one of the ways he spreads the word of God. It’s admirable in this day and age for a young man to be so committed to his faith, I think we can all agree on that.”

My eyes almost fall out of my head I roll them so hard. If only people knew what he was
really
like…my lips and cheeks burn in the places where he kissed me last night.

“Oh, Jim. There’s the camera zoomed in on Saint’s face. Let’s see.”

I look up at the Jumbo Tron and nearly drop the radio along with my jaw.

“What verse is that, Todd?”

“Looks like it says Judges sixteen four, Jim.”

“That’s right. I’m getting that, too.”

My heart is thudding. Pounding. Pulsing.

It can’t be.

It can’t.

No way.

“What’s Saint’s Bible message today?” Romy asks, smacking gum and playing on her phone.

“Judges sixteen four,” I whisper.

“I can’t hear you,” Romy says, but I know she’s not really interested. She’s just trying to make conversation so I don’t yell at her later for not paying attention.

I say the verse aloud as Todd Weathers reads it out to America, confirming what I already know by heart. “Some time later, he fell in love with a woman in the Valley of Sorek whose name was Delilah.”

My stomach flips over.

Saint Williams has painted his face
for me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SAINT

“You’re late,” Coach intones as I step into his office.

I straighten my shirt and tie and hold out my hand to the Dean of the college. “Many apologies to both of you. I was caught up studying for my Babylonian History course and lost complete track of time.”

I could probably say I was fucking hookers and doing blow off their stomachs and neither one of them would bat a single eyelash. I flash them both one of my trademark smiles.

The Dean clearly sees dollar signs on my teeth and brushes my apology away. “Glad to hear you’re hitting the books. If the worst I have to worry about from my quarterback is him running a little behind due to
studying
, I think I’ve lucked out.” He chuckles in a grandiose fashion.

I suppress a shudder. The Dean has always creeped me out.

Coach steps in. “That’s so true. Did you hear that the Texas quarterback was just stopped by police for drunken driving?” His tone is one of “I’ve never heard such a thing in my entire life.”

I take a seat, smoothing my tie. “What is it you wanted to see me about today?”

The Dean leans back in his seat. “Well, the feminists are at it again.”

I clear my throat. “Sorry?”

Coach is still standing up, his arms crossed over his chest. “The darn college association is making us add a woman to the team.”

I bark out a laugh. “A woman? To the team?”

The President sighs. “Well, not to the team exactly. She won’t be playing football. But we have to add a woman to our coaching staff or support staff. Otherwise we get fined ten million dollars.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Wow. What are you going to do?”

“We thought we’d ask you. You’re the quarterback, the leader. We have a few ideas but we wanted to bring you in on this. Get some young, fresh blood to help us out.” The Dean gives me a wink.

I paste on my patented Saint Williams smile. “We could have a water boy. Or, water girl I guess. That way she’d be visible on game day but wouldn’t get in the way. And you wouldn’t have to pay her. You could get a student. Fire the kid we have now; he’s terrible anyway.”

The Dean purses his lips and considers my suggestion. “I like it. Simple, easy. We could put out a flyer on campus, maybe let some of the women’s studies professors know.” He shakes his head. “Odds are there’s got to be some butch girl in that department desperate to be recognized.”

He says the words “women’s studies” like he’s talking about a “marshmallow cooking” major. There’s barely disguised contempt behind his words.

Coach raps his class ring on the Dean’s desk. “Well, sounds good. I’ll spread the word and hopefully by game day next week we’ll have a woman walking around on the football field.”

I stand up and shake both their hands. “Pleasure to see you both,” I say. In reality, I want to punch the two of them in the mouth until all their teeth break. The way they’re talking about women makes me fucking sick to my stomach.

“Great game the other day, Saint,” the Dean says. “You sure made this school, and God, proud.”

Of course I did.

That’s all that matters here in the end: how much money can I bring into this school.

I’m nothing but someone else’s paycheck.

CHAPTER NINE

ESTHER

I’m early to class Monday morning. I pull out my notebooks and spread them over my desk by the window. I glance outside and see that mid-morning football practice on the smaller, old field is well under way. More students wander in, chatting about mid-semester papers and boys.

I glance out the window one more time and gather up my notebooks. I should probably sit in the front row if I’m going to have any chance of paying attention to Professor Jenkins.

She walks into the room and sets down her plain, brown leather briefcase. “I’m going to need your first drafts of your papers on my desk, please.”

Everyone groans a little and shuffles forward, slipping thin first drafts onto her desktop.

It’s not too long before Professor Jenkins is droning on about women in the Old Testament. It’s not that I’m not interested. It’s just that I could probably teach this class better than she can. I grew up having Old Testament stories drilled into my head by my father. My mother tried to balance it by honing in on women’s stories when he wasn’t at home to interfere.

The clock seems like it’s broken. I try to pay attention but all I can think about is Saint. How he looked at that party. How he talked to me. How he was attracted to me.
To me
. I’ve never had a man look at me like that before.

Of course, the girl at that party isn’t really me. I was wearing a costume. That’s what he liked. All guys like a good display of skin.

I tug at the top of my sweater nervously, as if Saint were here and trying to look down my top.

“Alright, I’m finishing a little early today,” Professor Jenkins calls out. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve actually survived. She pulls on her reading glasses that hang from a chain around her neck and peers down her nose at a yellow flyer. “The Dean wanted me to announce this to all my classes. The football team is looking for a female student to fill the position of water girl for the rest of the season.”

My heart leaps into my throat at these words.

“So if anyone is interested, stay after class and I’ll submit your name to Coach Johnson.” She lifts off her glasses. “Papers are due Friday at the start of class. Anyone not here within the first five minutes automatically gets a zero. This is fifty-percent of your grade, so don’t mess this up.”

The bell rings and everyone gathers their stuff. I’m stuck to my chair.

“You coming?” Romy asks, stopping by my desk.

“Go ahead,” I say. “I have to ask Professor Jenkins about my paper.”

Romy looks at me suspiciously. “Alright. See you in the dining hall.”

I wait until everyone is gone to approach the desk. “Professor?”

She doesn’t even look up. “Mm,” she replies.

“Um. I was hoping. I was wondering. Could you-“

“Spit it out, Esther. I have papers to grade for my other classes.” She sighs and stops shuffling the stack of drafts.

“I’d like you to submit my name for water girl,” I say in one rushed sentence.

She raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t peg you as a football fan.”

I swallow hard, my cheeks glowing with heat. “Well. I am,” I say slowly. “So if you could submit it, that’d be great. Thank you.”

I rush out of the room into the hallway, adrenaline overtaking my body. I lean against the wall, breathing hard as students pass me by.

I did it. I can’t believe I actually applied.

***

I refresh my email about a dozen times over the next two days, hoping to hear word about the water girl position. I’ve told no one, not even Romy.

She bursts into the room and throws herself dramatically onto the bed. She sighs several times and I realize she’s trying to get my attention.

“What?” I ask her, turning around in my chair.

She lays the back of her hand across her forehead. “I just ran into Saint Williams.”

“Okay. Is that what you’re so excited about?” I’m grateful that Romy doesn’t know about the butterflies that are flapping in my stomach.

“He’s just so…
dreamy
. That’s really the only word for it. I know it’s a ridiculously old-fashioned word, but it fits perfectly.”

“I don’t like him,” I say firmly, turning back to my desk and reaching for a pencil and notebook to make it look like I’m busy.

“And
why
exactly is it that you don’t like him? He’s gorgeous. He’s going to be a deca-millionaire in like, eight months. He’s famous.”

“He’s a fake,” I say.

Romy laughs. “And how would you know that?”

“I just do. He was at the party the other night. I think he has this persona he puts on. I’ve never trusted him.” I shrug and hope this will be the end of the conversation.

“You’re ridiculous. You just want to say he’s awful because he doesn’t meet
your
standards. Everyone’s allowed to be different people in different environments. It’s not a sin to do that.”