Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (10 page)

It works. In the second quarter we go for it all guns blazing. The ball ends up in my hands every other play, and ninety percent of the time I do the business with it. Only running ten yards seems pretty pathetic in my book, but that’s the magic number in this game.

By half time I’ve scored two touchdowns, but have also given away three penalties due to being a little eager to get off the mark. I can’t so much as breathe without being penalized for a false start. One of those penalties leads directly to a field goal, but I’ve clearly still done more good than harm.

The second half is a little more challenging, but we still win the game comfortably and I keep getting the ball. Presumably that means I’m doing something right.

“Thank God you’re getting decent grades in class,” Coach says loudly after the game, slamming his palm on my shoulder. “I must admit, I was a little worried I wouldn’t be able to pick you after I saw your performance in the entrance exam.”

I’m never going to live that down. I probably should have studied more, but the test instructions were so vague it was almost impossible to properly prepare. I just showed up on the day and answered the questions as best I could. I hadn’t realized they were going to be quite so focused on American history and current events.

The whole team probably thinks I’m stupid, and no doubt people suspect that professors are just giving me passing grades to ensure I get to play on the team. The real credit lies with Becky. She’s the one who has me focused on studying for the first time in my life. She’s even instilled in me the tiniest bit of passion for the subject. Without her I probably would have watched this game from the stands.

Everyone gets showered and dressed quickly. Although no one tells the coach, I know most of them are heading to a party after the game. I used to do the same thing. There’s nothing like celebrating victory by getting laid with eager young women.

I plan to do a little celebrating of my own tonight.

“Hang back for a minute,” Coach says while the team piles out of the locker room. He waits until we have some privacy before speaking. “There was a scout out there tonight.”

“Already?”

“Seems word about you got around quickly. I guess you impressed him, because he’s waiting in my office to speak to you.”

“Shit. I hadn’t expected this to happen so quickly.”

“Don’t let him rush you into anything. If you get signed up by a team, it will be through the draft system. He’s just trying to gauge whether you might be interested in playing for his team. This is a good sign though. Getting interest from a scout this early almost certainly means you’ll have them queuing up come draft time.”

“That’s the plan.”

I realize I’ve barely given any thought to my future in these last couple of weeks. All my efforts have been focused on Becky. Playing football is almost an inconvenience—something that gets in the way of time spent with her.

I still want to play professional football, but there’s no burning desire deep inside me like there was when professional rugby teams started sniffing around me at sixteen. However, my money won’t last forever and I have a child and her greedy mother to look after.

Then there’s Becky. I know it’s sexist and old-fashioned, but I have an overwhelming desire to provide for her. If I can play professional football, I can earn enough money for the both of us. She can do whatever she wants. It’s stupid to be thinking like this already, but I know from experience that you can’t force your mind to focus on what sensible. Right now, I’m acting on an impulsive desire to do whatever is best for Becky, Gemma and myself.

“I guess I better go talk to this scout,” I say. “Let’s find out what he has to offer.”

I
’m so screwed
.

Peter’s clever enough not to run straight to Professor Fenwick with some story about Charles and me getting it on in the office. He’s a journalist, and a good one. That means he’ll talk to other people and gather evidence. However, there is little doubt in my mind that at some point Professor Fenwick is going to find out that Charles and I are…
something
. A couple? Friends with benefits? Whatever. We are more than what we should be.

Charles embarrassed Peter, and if there’s one thing people like Peter don’t want to be, it’s embarrassed. He’ll sit and stew for a bit, but at some point he will come after me.

What happens then? I’m probably not breaking any rules by sleeping with Charles. He’s right that a tutor sleeping with the person she’s helping is hardly the same as a professor-student relationship. It’s a little immoral, given that the university pays me $15 an hour to be with Charles, but it’s not something that’s going to end up on my academic record.

Professor Fenwick will be disappointed, though. He holds me in ridiculously high regard, and I know he’ll be annoyed at me for conducting myself inappropriately. He probably won’t say anything, and I won’t lose my position on the newspaper, but the little twinkle in his eye when he sees me won’t be there anymore. Instead, there will just be disappointment. I’m sure he’ll still help me get a job, but he won’t go the extra mile for me.

Peter won’t stop at telling Professor Fenwick, either. Soon, everyone in the college will know that once again the nerdy girl who works for the college newspaper is dating one of the college’s top athletes. When news got out about my relationship with Brian, people had been incredulous and disbelieving. When people realized he was only with me for a dare, there was almost a sense of relief. Social order had been restored and everyone knew where they stood again.

When word gets out that Charles and I are dating, I will be ridiculed. I will actually be a laughingstock. How can anyone fall for the same trick twice?

I know Charles is genuine, and I know he’s not Brian, but my fellow students don’t know that. I shouldn’t be so paranoid about what others think, but when you’ve been laughed at and shamed like I have, you tend to worry about appearances.

I shouldn’t have kicked Charles out of the office. I do have work to do, but I can’t actually focus on any of it. I’m back to staring at my document, unable to type new sentences, or even edit the ones I’ve already written. Right now, my brain is incapable of doing anything other than worrying about the future.

This shit couldn’t be happening at a worse time. If my life gets messed up now, I won’t be able to focus on writing or interviews, and I can kiss goodbye to any chance of a good job. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a life of instant noodles and ignoring threatening letters from the federal government demanding loan repayments.

The college is usually half-deserted on Saturdays, but at around five o’clock crowds of people start walking through campus in the direction of the football stadium. I haven’t watched a game since I dated Brian, and the thought of sitting on those benches again makes me feel a little queasy.

Charles won’t mind if I skip out on watching the game, but I know I’ll feel guilty. I owe it to him. He’s missed nights out with his teammates to be with me, and he’s attended every study session I’ve set for him just so he can make the team. At the very least, I owe him a modest show of support.

I arrive only ten minutes before kickoff and the stadium is nearly full. I’ve never seen it like this before; there’s a positive, energetic atmosphere coursing through the crowd. Usually, people just come here to hang out with friends, but today they are here to cheer on their team. Can all this be because of one man?

In the case of Charles, yes, it can. He’s given the team something to strive towards, something to look forward to when they start training in the morning. A little bit of extra passion. He’s changed the team like he’s changed me.

By half time, I remember just how little I know about this sport. Charles hardly gets the ball at all in the first quarter, but in the second quarter he scores two touchdowns and makes quite a few first downs. I’m sure there’s a reason for those tactics, but they’re lost on me. I would just give the ball to Charles all the time and let him work his magic. The other team can’t touch him; he shoves players out of the way with ease, and his clothes must be covered in oil judging by the way no one can get a grip on him.

I’m not the only one to have noticed the new star man. A group of six girls in front of me cheer on Charles’ every move as if they were his own personal group of cheerleaders.

“I didn’t think the English played football,” says a girl wearing the college jersey.

“He used to play rugby,” a girl in a sweatshirt replies. “Didn’t you read that article? Rugby and football have a lot in common, so I guess it’s easy for him to adapt.”

“Let’s hope he has a preference for American women as well.”

“Do you think he’ll be at the party tonight?”

“Of course he will. The entire team will be there.”

“I can’t wait to hear him speak. Lois says he sounds like Benedict Cumberbatch.”

“I’ve heard he’s got more of a Daniel Craig thing going on. A little rough, but assertive.”

Daniel Craig? Not even close. I suppose the Benedict Cumberbatch comparison isn’t wholly off the mark, but I’ve always thought he sounded more like Damien Lewis.

“I don’t even care what he sounds like,” a third girl says. “I’ll be happy just to stand there and stare at him all night.”

“Yeah, well I plan to do a lot more than just stare at him,” the girl in the jersey replies.

“You’ll have to get in line.”

“I’ll wait my turn if I have to. Anything to get a piece of that.”

I tell myself that even if Charles were single he wouldn’t go near these women. Then I remember Dana. Like all men, Charles has a weakness for a pretty face, big chest, and nice ass, especially when those assets are barely covered.

I want to go down there and tell them all that Charles won’t be going to the party because he’ll be spending the evening with me. It might even be worth it just to see the expressions on their faces, but then they’d realize who I am, and would just assume Charles is stringing me along like Brian had done.

Besides, I like to think I’m a little bit too mature to get a kick out of making other people jealous. It would be sweet to get some revenge though. All those women who ridiculed me after Brian’s deceit came to light would finally look at me with envy, not disgust or pity. That’s if they believe Charles and I are a real couple. I’m still not sure I believe it.

We haven’t had that discussion yet, and technically all we’ve done is have a one night stand and a quickie in the office. That doesn’t look good on paper, but I’d been the one to bail in the morning, and I’d been the one to kick him out of my office. Nothing Charles has done so far indicates that he just wants to have his way with me and run. I need to give him the benefit of the doubt, even if I may end up getting hurt.

A
ll the players
except Charles greet their adoring public just half an hour after the end of the game. Then they rush to get to the party and celebrate in style. I consider waiting around for Charles but he messages me to let me know he’ll be late and that I should wait at his place. He texts me a code for the door and the alarm, so I drive to his place and let myself in.

I haven’t spent enough time here to feel at home, so I just open my laptop and sit at the dining table instead. I’m not sure I can ever feel at home in a house this large. I’ve lived in a few places, but they all had one thing in common; a lack of space. Nothing about this mansion feels right. The walls are still largely empty, and even though he has a decent amount of furniture, it lacks the clutter you expect to find in a home.

I can soon change that. Give me a week here in the run-up to the finals, and the place will be covered in notebooks, pens, and sticky labels.

Charles walks in and makes a beeline straight for me, lifting me up out of the chair before I’ve even had a chance to tear my fingers from the keyboard. He kisses me firmly on the lips as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. Then he just lets go, and I exhale seductively. Just one kiss has me dying for more.

Charles is wearing a navy blue suit, with a white shirt and pink tie. He’s practically bursting through the seams at the shoulders and around the arms, but he still looks so good I want to ignore the rumbling in my stomach and go straight up to his room. I’ve never seen him in a suit before, but he looks damn fine. He’s still hot and slightly sweaty, as if he threw on the suit straight from the shower. I’ve seen men look sweaty in suits when commuting on hot trains, but the difference between them and Charles is night and day.

“Sorry I’m late,” Charles replies. “I had to meet with a scout.”

“How did it go?” I ask.

“Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll have a problem finding a team to play for next year. It’s just a case of deciding which team I select.”

“Do you get a say in that? I thought you get picked in a draft and don’t have much choice.”

“I can still make a decision,” Charles replies, before frowning and adding “I think.”

“Who do you want to play for?”

“It’s not so much who, as where.”

“Okay, where do you want to play?”

“I don’t know. On a completely unrelated topic, where do you see yourself working after college? Will you stay here in Washington?”

“You can’t make your decision based on me. Besides, I don’t really know where I’ll end up. I’ll go wherever the jobs are.”

“I’m sure you’ll have your pick of the jobs.”

“I wish. I’m already looking at a life on minimum wage if I don’t start getting some decent articles finished.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re preparing an excuse not to hang around with me tonight?”

“I’m not,” I say quickly. “I’d actually quite like to relax with you tonight.”

I’ve spent most of the day not being able to get any work done, and I’m not feeling any better now. Sometimes it’s just better to write the day off and start again tomorrow. Especially when you have someone like Charles to keep you entertained.

“Relax? So you don’t want to go to the party tonight?”

“What party?” I ask innocently.

“The team are all going to hang out at a frat house. It sounds kind of horrendous, but if you want to go and make some sorority girls jealous then we can do that.”

“I don’t want people to know about us. Not yet. Can we just stay here tonight?”

I’m expecting him to be disappointed, but if anything he looks relieved.

“Fine with me. How about I cook?”

“You mean you’re going to make a mess of the kitchen and then decide to get takeout?”

“No,” Charles replies pointedly. “I mean actual cooking. I’ve been practicing, and I reckon I can whip you up a decent British dinner now.”

“This I have to see.”

Charles leads the way into the kitchen, and I immediately notice he knows what he’s doing now. Instead of looking in all the wrong cupboards as if he were in a stranger in his own home, he opens them up and takes out exactly what he needs.

Whereas he used to use his laptop, Charles now pulls out a hardcover cookbook by an author called Victoria Spencer and places it on a stand on the counter. The cookbook has sticky labels marking up at least twenty different pages, and the recipe he’s turned to has ingredients and directions highlighted in yellow, green, and pink. Oh my God, he has a system. I am so fucking horny for him right now.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“You can help me get this apron on.”

I laugh, as Charles flings his suit jacket over a chair and rolls up his sleeves. I fling the apron over his head and tie up the strings at the back in a nice dainty little bow. In all my fantasies about Charles, I’ve never once pictured him in a suit with an apron over the top. I will be in the future.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, just stay out of my way.”

“Yes sir.” I sit down at a small table in the corner of the kitchen and watch him work. I should probably use this time to write my article, but I just can’t take my eyes off him. He’s still a little uncertain, and has to keep checking the recipe, but I soon hear the sizzling of fish as he dips it into the deep fat fryer.

Good thing I don’t bother with dieting. I’d have to run a marathon and not eat for a week to make up for the calories I’m about to consume.

The recipe says the meal should take an hour. Charles is finished in ninety minutes, which I still think is a victory. He brings over a plate of battered fish and thick steak-cut fries which I make a mental note to refer to as chips from now on. There’s even a sprig of parsley as garnish on top of the fish.

“This is still a lot healthier than what you’d get at a fish and chip shop in England,” Charles points out. “But it’s not a bad compromise.”

“It looks—and smells—lovely.”

“You have to add salt and vinegar to the chips to get the full experience.”