Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (13 page)

I push myself up and grab her thighs before fucking her as hard as I can. Her juices spill out of her pussy, coating my hard cock and dribbling down her arsecheeks. I can even see her clit poking out from its hood. She’s horny, dripping wet, and completely perfect.

Becky tosses her head back, eyes closed, and mouth open in a near constant scream. I empty myself inside her as she clenches onto my cock one last time. Her chest heaves up and down, breasts sweaty and firm, nipples pointing to the ceiling.

I watch her for a full minute as she rides out the orgasm, and eventually opens her eyes.

“
I
s this real
?” Becky asks she examines my fingers.

“Yes, my fingers are real.”

“I don’t mean your fingers; I mean us. Are we a thing now?”

“You mean like a couple?”

“Yeah. Like a couple.”

“I think so, yes. I want us to be, but we don’t need to rush into anything. I know you don’t want to go public with this yet.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Becky says. “I just think it will be difficult.”

“I had a run-in with your boss earlier. He already knows about us. I didn’t say anything, or confirm his suspicions, but he clearly already knows.”

“Did he sound disappointed?”

“No, just a touch overprotective.”

“He saw me get hurt before. He found me in the office late at night crying after everything with Brian became public knowledge.”

“What happened with Brian?”

“We dated for a bit. Actually, I suppose that’s not really true. He hung out with me, and took me to parties, but we weren’t dating. I thought we were, but it was all part of some bet.”

“He had a bet with his friends to see who could pull the hottest woman?”

Becky laughs gently and shakes her head. “Very funny. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the type who usually hangs out with footballers. I guess he had a bet that he could screw the nerdy virgin reporter.”

“That’s pathetic.” I do my best to sound calm, because I know getting angry right now will only distract Becky and I think she needs to get this story out. Brian’s lucky he graduated last year; I control my temper around Peter, but if I ever run into Brian he will get enough beatings for the both of them.

“What’s pathetic is that I fell for it. Brian was basically the most sought-after guy in the college. Why the hell would I be stupid enough to think he wanted me?”

“Because he’d be crazy not to. Brian was sought-after because of his position in the football team. You’re sought-after because of who you are. People are so obsessed with labels and positions that they forget to look past all that.”

“You didn’t.”

“I don’t care if a woman is the head cheerleader, or a supermodel. I solely discriminate based on looks, so if you’re hot I don’t care who you are.”

“That’s so sweet,” Becky says sarcastically. She cuddles up to my chest anyway.

“So you’re scared people will think I’m like Brian?”

Becky nods her head against my chest. “It was awful. We had sex a few times, but I guess he needed to prove it to his friends. He let them burst in on us while we were in bed together. The news spread almost instantaneously, and people started making stuff up.”

“Like what?”

“Like how I stayed in bed and fucked the rest of the team. Who even believes stuff like that?”

“Idiots. The sooner I can get you away from this place the better.”

“Get me away? Whoa there, knight in shining armor.”

“You know what I mean. I just don’t like the idea of you suffering, although I do think you should just ignore these people. They’re not worth your time.”

“I’ll do my best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a lukewarm shower.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?” Becky asks. She’s suspicious, but she hands over the phone anyway. I download an app, and after entering my details, and confirming security information on my own phone, I hand the phone back to her.

“You can now use your phone to get into my house. It’s easier than using the code which I have to change on a regular basis. Now you just need your phone. Open that app and the door will unlock when you’re nearby.”

“Holy shit. My door barely opens when I’m using a key.”

“I want you at my place as much as possible. This is like the rich person equivalent of giving you a key.”

“I feel like I’m living in the future. Thank you. I would give you a key to this place, but I only have one, and I don’t think you want to come round any more often than you have to.”

“I want you to go shopping as well. Take my credit card and buy yourself enough clothes to leave at my place.”

“I’m starting to feel a bit like a golddigger. But thank you.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, before whispering in my ear. “Perhaps I’ll buy something a little sexy to wear.”

“Sounds good,” I reply with a deep groan. She smiles and kisses me again, before heading to the bathroom. “You mean underwear, right? Or are you just going to buy a lifetime supply of stickies and highlighters?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” She winks and shuts the door, depriving me of the view of her gorgeous body, still covered in a shiny and sticky layer of sweat.

This is happening quicker than I ever anticipated, but I don’t care. I’m glad things are moving fast. Why go through the tedious nature of dating and moving slowly, when you just want to skip to the end?

“Becky?” I yell to be heard over the running water.

“What?” she yells back.

“You want to go see my dad later? We can go together.”

There’s a long pause. Long enough I’m about to repeat myself, but then the door opens and she peeks through the gap, apparently thinking she now needs to preserve her modesty.

“You sure?” she asks. I nod. I’m positive. I’ve never been more sure of anything. “Okay then. I’d love to.”

She closes the door and steps into the shower, the water quieter as it bounces off her skin instead of the ceramic bath.

I’ve never introduced a woman to Dad before. I’ve never been in love before. Damn, I’m in love. I should probably tell her that at some point.

I
do
my best to prepare Becky for her first time in a prison, but I can tell she is still a little shaken up by the whole experience. The pat down doesn’t bother her all that much—I suppose it’s much the same as you get in an airport these days—but she looks uncomfortable sat in the visitors’ section as we wait for my father to show up.

I can see her looking around the room, as if she expects to be attacked at any moment. I can’t say I entirely blame her. Other prisoners keep staring at her, and even my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare is not enough to get them to look away. I’m not above using my size and strength when I need to intimidate people, but prisoners are not easily scared.

At least Gemma is too young to be scared. I pass her over to Becky to distract her, and it works instantly.

“Goo, goo, goo, goo, goo,” Becky says to Gemma, before blowing gently in her face. Gemma laughs, and mutters something in response. “Oh,” Becky exclaims. Does she understand this language? “Do, do, do, do.” This gets an even more enthusiastic response from Gemma and I picture a future where my teenage daughter and Becky communicate without me understanding a word they’re saying.

My dad walks into the room, and gives me the quickest handshake ever, before turning his attention to the two newcomers he’s not yet met. I’ve not seen him this happy since before he split up with mum.

“Hi, I’m Becky,” she says as she extends her hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you dear.” Dad shakes her hand, but his eyes are completely focused on the beautiful bouncing baby in Becky’s, arms.

“Dad, I’d like you to meet Gemma. Gemma, this is your grandfather.”

Under the watchful eye of prison security, Becky hands Gemma to my father who immediately starts talking to her in this language that apparently everyone but me understands.

“I can’t believe you have one of these, son,” Dad says.

I can see he’s getting a little misty-eyed as Gemma reaches out a tiny hand and starts poking at his face.

“Neither can I,” I admit. “It’s a miracle she’s turned out so incredible given who her mother is.”

“I’m sure there’s room for another mother figure in her life.”

“Subtle, Dad. Real subtle.”

“Subtlety doesn’t get you far in here, son. Besides, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. It looks to me like Gemma has already taken to Becky.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Becky says. “She’s an incredible child.”

“And what about you? Charles has hardly told me anything about you. What do you do?”

Dad sits there and plays with Gemma while Becky tells him how she’s studying English literature and hoping to become a journalist. Becky’s far too modest, and I have to keep on interrupting to let Dad know that she’s the best journalist on the student newspaper, and has one of the highest GPAs in the entire college.

Dad looks impressed. He always wanted me to be scholarly, and when it became clear my expertise lay elsewhere, he made no secret of his desire to see me with a doctor or someone equally smart. Becky won’t be going to med school, but she’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. Brains and beauty—the complete package.

We don’t stay for long. Gemma starts crying, and when not even Becky can get her to stop, I realize she must be either tired or hungry. Either way, we have to leave. I hate depriving my father of his granddaughter, but even if we stay for an entire week he won’t want to see us leave. I promise him we will be back again soon, and this time he embraces me in a real hug. I know he’ll cry as soon as he gets back to his cell, but there’s nothing I can do about that. He has something to look forward to now, and eventually he will get out of this place.

“Sorry about that,” I say once we’re out of the prison.

“What do you mean?”

“All that stuff about you being a mother to Gemma. I know it’s a little early for talk like that, especially since we haven’t even figured out what we’re doing after college yet.”

“I don’t mind. You know I love Gemma, and if things work out with us then obviously I would love to be a stepmother to her. If things don’t work out then… well, we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

“That’s not going to happen. I know we haven’t worked out the details, but I’m going to make sure we stay together. I promise.”

Becky smiles at me, but Gemma quickly interrupts the moment with a loud scream. “I guess we’d better feed this little one.”

“I think she’s tired, not hungry.”

“No,” Becky says. “She’s hungry.”

“How do you know? Please don’t tell me she told you? I’m really feeling left out not understanding this little language you guys have.”

“Don’t panic, she didn’t tell me. Not directly anyway.”

“Then how do you know?”

Becky motions down to Gemma who currently has her head resting against Becky’s chest. “She’s been trying to get at my boobs for the last five minutes. Trust me, she’s hungry.”

“All right, I have a bottle. Let’s find some way to feed her. Just for future reference though, when I stare at your breasts a lot, it doesn’t mean I’m hungry. Not for food anyway.”

“Good to know.”

I kiss Becky on the cheek, and stare at my screaming daughter. The two most important women in my life. I’ll do anything for them.

Y
ou wait an hour for a bus
, and then two show up at once. Or in my case, three.

I haven’t so much as had a sniff at a job interview, and then I wake up on Monday morning and find that I have three. These aren’t just any job interviews. These are interviews for jobs I actually want.

In one case, it’s basically my dream job, writing for the website of a prestigious national publication. I’ll never get that one, but just getting an interview is a victory. You never know, in five or ten years’ time, I may want to apply for a job there and the interviewer will remember me. Anyway, the interview will be a good experience.

The job interview for a Washington state newspaper is a slightly more realistic goal, but it will still be challenging. I might not be competing against Harvard and Yale graduates, but I will definitely be competing against the best of the best locally.

The third job interview is a strange one. Strange mainly because I didn’t apply for it. The email I receive mentions a recommendation from a highly-placed professor. Professor Fenwick. He’s put in a good word for me with his contacts, as promised. It’s a big website without a print presence, but it’s a well-known name, and something I’ll be proud to have on my résumé.

Today is going to be a great day. I can just feel it. For possibly the first time ever, my personal life is in a good place. I don’t just
think
it’s in a good place, only to find out that I’m the butt of a joke. There are issues Charles and I need to work out—where we are going to live and the situation with Dana being the main two. Charles might need to move out of state depending on which team he signs for, but Dana graciously agreed to move to that state as well to ensure Charles can be near his child. Of course, this being Dana, her generous offer comes with more strings than a puppet show. Fortunately, the strings can be easily cut with a boatload of money, and Charles has that in spades.

I have job interviews, I have Charles, and I also have my article. My story’s going live today at noon on the website, and the hard copy of the newspaper will be distributed soon afterwards. The only other time I’ve been this excited about being published was for my first article, which had been tucked away on page nine where no one would see it. This article is front page material.

I’m going to end up ruffling a few feathers. My article focuses on college sports and how all or most of the money is poured into men’s activities, while women are expected to stand on the sidelines and be cheerleaders. That’s enough to piss off most of my fellow students, but I didn’t stop there.

My article extends the situation in sports to the college as a whole. It’s a bit of an exaggeration to say that women are second-class citizens here, but it’s also impossible to ignore the systemic sexism in place. There are fewer female professors with tenure, and the ones who do get tenure always have far more experience than the men. It’s like women have to work thirty percent more for the same reward.

I even touch on the issue of sexual abuse on campus, and the difference in attitudes towards women and men who get drunk. I nearly left that section out; it’s worthy of an article, or even a book, all to itself, but I can’t resist mentioning the appalling track record the college has of punishing those accused of sexual assault.

The few men penalized have often been let back into the college within the space of a few months, and most of them escape without punishment at all. It took barely any research to find a correlation between students from wealthy backgrounds and those who are not punished for serious allegations of sexual assault.

The article doesn’t quite go as far as to explicitly say that the rich can get away with it so long as daddy makes a generous contribution to the library, but I leave enough ambiguity there that anyone can come to that conclusion themselves if they read carefully.

So my article offends or implicates in wrongdoing the majority of the student population, the male professors, and a decent chunk of the faculty. I smile to myself as I pack my bag and head to campus. I used to put so much effort into being polite and popular; now I just don’t care.

If I have to annoy a few people, so be it. The article is good. It’s well-researched, and the writing flows well from beginning to end. I don’t often feel this way, but this time I’m happy with every paragraph, and every sentence. My interviewers will read this and be impressed. Unless they happen to be a guy who used to play college sports. That’s just a risk I have to take.

For the first time since I set my sights on becoming a journalist, I actually believe it will happen. I might not get one of the three jobs I’m interviewing for, but other interviews will come along, and at some point before I leave college I will have a job lined up. It’s going to happen; I know it is.

I walk to college with a spring in my step. I’d been like this after losing my virginity to Brian. I’d been convinced that everything was right with the world, and that I was going to be one of the popular girls for once. It hadn’t taken long for me to be brought back down to earth, but things are different this time.

I must be grinning like a mad woman, because as I walk past other students on the way to campus, I notice them look at me strangely. A couple of guys frown, and step out of my way as if I might walk into them.

A girl gets the attention of her friends, and then points towards me. One gasps dramatically—I half expect her to clutch at a pearl necklace—and the others laugh at me. It’s too much to hope that they’re smiling at me supportively. I know when I’m being laughed at.

Students don’t typically notice me on campus. The only time people had ever turned to look at me was when Brian and I were dating, and then after we split up. They’re definitely noticing me now though.

The article. It must have gone live early.

I don’t care that people are looking at me. At least it means they’ve read the article, and that’s all I want.

A lot of people have read the article judging by the looks I’m getting. Maybe that’s not it. I’m obviously a big believer in the student newspaper, but I’m also realistic. Short of putting a picture of the head cheerleader naked on the front page, there isn’t much that gets everyone in the college to read the newspaper.

There is another obvious reason why people might be looking at me. Word must’ve gotten around that Charles and I are an item. Yesterday, we decided to keep the relationship a secret for as long as possible, but that was because we both enjoyed sneaking around. It adds an extra element of excitement to proceedings.

I can’t say I’m surprised people have noticed. We’ve not exactly been all that subtle. I’ve gone to prison with him to see his father, and we’ve even been out in public with his daughter, another thing that’s supposed to stay a secret.

Yes, that must be it. People aren’t laughing at me for my article on sexism. They might be angry at me, but not many of them would find it funny. News that I’m dating a footballer again would definitely be considered worthy of a smile.

No doubt they think Charles is playing a practical joke on me like Brian had been. Fortunately for me, there’s a big difference between Charles and Brian—Charles is a good man and he likes me. Maybe even more than likes me, but we haven’t had that conversation yet.

I keep my head held high on the way to class. If I look embarrassed or concerned, I’m just feeding the rumors that the relationship is like my last one. Besides, they’re just jealous. Well, the women are at least. Everywhere I walk on campus, I hear women talking about Charles. They swoon over his body, his looks, and his accent. He’s the full package all right, and he’s all mine.

At some point, they’ll all realize Charles and I are the real deal, and then they won’t be laughing. I know it’s petty, but after all the abuse I got after Brian, I’m kind of looking forward to people being jealous of me. I won’t push it too hard, but maybe Charles and I will make a few more appearances at parties from now on. You know, just to be social.

I’m usually on top of my studies, but in the last week I’ve been so busy with the article that a few reading assignments end up slipping through the cracks. I haven’t lost focus on my major, but the world isn’t going to end if my grade slips from an A to an A- in Chinese history.

I try to catch up on reading during the lecture, but my mind’s all over the place. It doesn’t help that people are still gossiping about me. I see heads turn to look at me and my name keeps appearing on people’s laptops as they chat to friends instead of listening to the professor.

I should just ignore the gossip, but it’s not as easy as I’d hoped. Right now, I just want Charles to burst through the door, pick me up, and carry me out of the lecture room while jealous girls look on in awe.

I’ve never been so relieved for a lecture to end. The second class is over, I head to the campus shop where I know the college newspaper is distributed at midday.

A crowd of students gathers around the racks, all grabbing copies of the paper as quickly as they’re put on shelves. The thought that my article is inspiring such fever is deeply touching. It’s also unrealistic. I know something’s wrong. The students are all reading the front page and they’re laughing. Did my article not get published? My editor approved it, and Professor Fenwick promised it would be on the front page.

I push through the crowd and grab a copy of my own. My article is not on the front page, but it is my writing. Instead of an article, the front page is largely empty. In the middle is a short poem. A short poem that is very familiar to me.

Embarrassment explodes from my stomach throughout my body. Its power is only equaled by my sense of relief. Anyone could have written this. “Your Juliet” is vague enough that it could be anyone.

Then I see the byline.

At the top of the paper, just below the college logo, were the words
By Rebecca Warner
.

I
run
from campus so quickly there’s a chance I may be recruited for the track and field team. As if it isn’t bad enough that a dirty poem I wrote for my boyfriend has just been published for the entire college to read, I also have to contend with it being in the college newspaper with my name on the byline.

Fuck.

This is so bad. I can’t even deal with the embarrassment right now. That can wait. People send silly stuff to their boyfriends and girlfriends all the time; eventually it blows over.

The real problem is my potential future employers. My interviewers are clearly going to read my work and that ‘article’ is the first thing they will see. I doubt I’ll even have the interviews anymore. They’ll all be mysteriously canceled due to unforeseen circumstances. No professional news organization wants to hire a student who declares her love for her boyfriend via a front-page piece in the student newspaper. And that’s ignoring the sexual references, which to me at least, are clear as day.

How the fuck did this even happen? I pull out my phone and check my email. Yes, as suspected, I only sent the email to Charles. I didn’t accidentally type anyone else’s name in the send box. The only people who have seen this message are me and Charles. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for maneuvering.

Surely Charles couldn’t have done this. No, he couldn’t. I shake my head and tried to dispel that thought. There’s no way Charles would do such a thing.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Then it vibrates again. I’m getting notifications from YouTube that I’ve been tagged in a video. I don’t even know how you tag someone in a YouTube video, but I can worry about that later. This is bound to be bad. Nothing I’ve done justifies me being in a YouTube video, unless it’s cringe worthy and embarrassing.

I open the video and put my headphones on. The video footage is shaky and the sound quality is poor, but the person on camera is quite clearly Charles and I hear every word that is said.

“Are you dating Becky Warner?” a male voice asks. It sounds like Peter, but I can’t be sure.

“No,” Charles replies. “There’s nothing going on between Becky and me.”

“There are rumors….”

“I don’t give a fuck about any rumors. There’s nothing going on.”

Charles walks away and the video ends. Charles and I have agreed not to come out as a couple, but we also said we wouldn’t go to any extra lengths to hide it. There’s no way he needs to deny it so aggressively. Unless… no, surely not. This can’t be happening again.

When shit went down with Brian, I’d practically locked myself in my apartment, only coming out when it was absolutely necessary for exams. I’m determined not to do that again.