Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (16 page)

Professor Fenwick is definitely faking his inability to use computers. On my walk to campus, I use my phone to find a few old journal articles of his where he clearly demonstrates an understanding of cybersecurity. Sure, the articles are probably out of date, but there’s no way he could go from understanding complex data protection issues to barely being able to turn on his computer in the space of five years.

None of that explains why he would do this to me. Time to find out.

I stand in his doorway for a few seconds before knocking. I’m just staring at him editing an article and trying to imagine him as the person who destroyed my life.

“Rebecca, come in.” Last time we spoke he’d been disappointed in me, but now he looks pleased to see me. He always does. Professor Fenwick has never once turned me away from his office when I need to speak to him.

“I know it was you.” Okay, apparently I’m not going to beat around the bush. Might as well roll with it now. “You printed my article on the front page of the paper.”

Professor Fenwick frowns and leans back in his chair. He chews gently on his lip; has he always done that? I’ve never noticed it before.

“I understand you must be upset right now, Rebecca, but you can’t come in here making those accusations. You know full well I have little to do with the newspaper on a day-to-day basis. I just approve the budget.”

“I looked at the software we use for formatting the paper. You forgot to wipe the metadata—your digital fingerprints are all over it.”

I haven’t looked at the software. I don’t even know how to get access to it, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to look at the metadata. Before doing a Google search on the way to campus, I didn’t even know what metadata was.

Professor Fenwick stares at me intently for what feels like a minute, although it’s probably nearer ten seconds. I’m sure he’s about to call my bluff. For all I know he did wipe the metadata, or maybe the software doesn’t even collect any.

“I did it for your benefit,” he confesses. Wow, I didn’t expect it to be that easy. “This little thing you have with Charles was proving a distraction. You need to be focused on your studies and work more than ever, not gallivanting around with some brainless footballer.”

I don’t know what to say. I came here angry and confused, searching for answers, but not expecting to get any.

“You did it so I wouldn’t be
distracted
?” I ask incredulously. “I’ve never been more distracted than I am now.”

“That will pass. Trust me, in a year when you have a successful career, you’ll be glad I did this.”

“I’m not going to have a career,” I snap. “No newspaper is going to hire me now. It looks like I used the front page of a college newspaper to send a dirty poem to my boyfriend. Even I wouldn’t hire me after that.”

“That’s where I come in. I have more contacts than you realize and I can convince them that this was all a horrible misunderstanding. You were never going to get those jobs at national organizations, but I can get you a good local one.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Why did you have to print that poem? You could have helped me get a job without humiliating me in the process.”

“And then what? Charles will sign for a professional team and move God knows where to play for them. He’ll probably ditch you and break your heart, but even if the two of you stick together, you’ll have to move wherever he goes. You deserve more than being a housewife.”

“I’d rather be a housewife and be with Charles than be a journalist without him.”

Professor Fenwick shakes his head in disappointment. “See, this is exactly what I’ve been getting at. You’ve worked so hard all your life, and now you’re prepared to throw that away for some guy who doesn’t deserve you.”

Professor Fenwick’s not talking to me like a professor should talk to a student. In truth, he hasn’t done that for quite some time and I should’ve picked up on it. I let our relationship become too informal, and now Professor Fenwick thinks he can make decisions for me. Decisions that affect my future.

“You don’t get to dictate the rest of my life.”

I haven’t planned for this, and now I don’t know how this conversation ends. Can I tell anyone what happened? No one would believe me. The entire thing sounds preposterous. Even I’m not convinced, and I’m standing just a few yards from Professor Fenwick as he confesses everything to me.

I turn and head towards the exit. I’ve had enough.

“Wait,” Professor Fenwick yells. “I didn’t use my own account when I formatted the newspaper. You couldn’t have seen my metadata.”

I turn back to face him and allow myself a satisfied smile. I’m still screwed, but it’s important to enjoy the small victories.

“I lied,” I say smugly. “I pretended to know a lot about computers when really I’m useless. Pretty much the opposite of what you’ve been doing these last few years.”

I expect Professor Fenwick to get angry, but instead he just smiles. “You see? You’re far too smart for someone like Charles. The two of you are a complete mismatch. You need to be with someone as intellectual as you are, otherwise you’ll get bored.”

“Charles isn’t stupid. He left school at a young age, but I can assure you he picks things up quickly.”

“Can you really imagine yourself talking to Charles over dinner in ten years’ time. You’re so much better than him it’s ridiculous. You should be with a guy who has a brain equal to yours.”

Well then, there’s the motive. Professor Fenwick is obsessed with me. He wants me for himself, and that’s why he tried to sabotage my relationship with Charles and my entire career. He thinks I’ll pick him because we are both equals when it comes to academia.

He disgusts me. To think, he had the nerve to say I shouldn’t be involved with a guy I’m tutoring. He’s a hypocrite and a lot worse.

“I don’t care about Charles’ brain,” I reply. I know I should just walk out the door, but when I leave here I want there to be no doubt in Professor Fenwick’s mind where he stands. “All that matters is that I love him. Do you understand that? You’re a clever man, but you seem to have great difficulty understanding emotional concepts.”

Professor Fenwick exhales loudly through his nose as he balls his hands into fists. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I’m about to leave when I hear the door slam shut behind me.

“I love you too, darling.” I turn around and see Charles standing by the door smiling.

“How long have you been listening?” I ask.

“Long enough to have figured out what’s going on here. Like you said, I pick things up quickly.”

Charles turns to face Professor Fenwick who backs his chair up against the wall. “You need to both leave, now.”

“How old are you, professor?” Charles asks.

“I’m forty-five, not that it’s any of your business.”

I can tell Charles is surprised by the response. The gray hair around the temples, together with the elbow patches, make the professor look at least ten years older.

“Hmm, I think forty-five’s okay,” Charles says.

“Okay for what?” I ask.

“For this.” Charles walks towards the professor, leans over his desk and picks him up by the scruff of his shirt. Professor Fenwick is barely on his feet when Charles swings a heavy fist into his face, sending Professor Fenwick flying back down into his chair.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” I say, barely able to suppress a laugh.

“I really don’t care. Let’s get out of here.” I take Charles’ arm and we stroll out of the office as if nothing happened. Everything’s changed, but nothing’s changed. My future is still with Charles and that’s the important thing. I can handle whatever else life decides to throw at me. I always have.

“
R
ain is
part of the England experience.”

“Do you think we could experience it from indoors?” I ask. “Gemma looks like she might be getting cold.”

Gemma’s just fine, but I’m freezing my tits off. I lived in Washington long enough that I should be used to rain, but it's not usually this cold. Or if it is, I’m not usually walking around outside to experience it. Call me boring, but if it’s raining outdoors, I’m usually indoors.

We’re looking for somewhere to eat lunch, but it’s a bank holiday and many of the places in Charles’ neighborhood are closed. Charles has brought me to his hometown on the outskirts of London for a couple of weeks. The area is quiet and there’s not a lot going on, but we’re only using it as a home base. From here, we plan to make plenty of trips into London and ‘up north’ as Charles describes it.

Charles finally figured out that I’m a bit of an Anglophile. I gave the game away by being able to pinpoint places like York and Newcastle on a map. Outside of London, I seem to know England better than he does thanks to far too much time spent watching
The Great British Bake-Off
. I used to test myself by trying to match their accents to the region, and then noting where it is on the map. A little sad, I know, but it’s come in use a lot recently. It’s great for embarrassing Charles, like when he confused a Yorkshire accent with a Birmingham accent and I had to correct him.

Charles stops and opens the door to a pub on the high street. “Here we go. This was my local pub growing up.”

That’s a new term I’ve learned.
High street: the name often given to a street in England that goes directly through the town center. These streets are often busy, and have lots of chain restaurants and similar shops.

I immediately realize why Charles has been unimpressed with every British pub we’ve been to in the U.S. It’s not just the food and the drink on the menu that makes a true British pub; it’s the atmosphere. This pub is a bit dark and dingy. The building is easily one hundred years old, with lots of low, uneven ceilings, and a maze like structure that means the inside is a lot bigger than it looks. It’s the sort of place no sensible human being would ever design today, but it’s all the better for it.

There’s also a staleness in the air. You can’t smoke indoors anymore, but the building won’t ever be able to escape the decades of history from before the ban. When I close my eyes, I can picture a man sitting at the bar smoking on his pipe while drinking a warm pint of ale. You can’t recreate that, and I love it.

“I’ve been promising you proper British fish and chips for a year,” Charles says, “and this isn’t a bad place to start. I know it’s not a proper chippy, but my first ever fish and chips came from here.”

Looking at the old guy behind the bar, there is a decent chance he was the one who served them to Charles all those years ago.

“What do you want, darling?” Charles asks.

“Fish and chips, I guess.”

“They do have more than that on the menu. If you want the full chippie experience you can get sausage, battered sausage, pea fritter….”

“What’s a pea fritter?”

“It’s mushy peas fried in batter. You know what, I think I’ll just get you the fish and chips.”

“Good idea. Maybe get Gemma that pea thing—it does sound like baby food.”

Except Gemma’s not a baby anymore. She’s quickly becoming a toddler and quite a handful. She’s starting to talk now, but not well enough to get her point across. Not with us anyway, but she has a way of getting other children at her playgroup to do her bidding. We really need to keep an eye on that one. She’s either going to end up president of the United States, or she will take after her grandfather.

Gemma and I take a seat at the only free table while Charles goes and gets our order. Gemma hands me a napkin and says the words “for mama,” as she passes it over. My heart melts and I immediately feel guilty for doubting her warmth and tenderness.

Then I look down and realize she just wants me to clean up the mess in front of her left by the last group of customers. Yep, I was right the first time; evil genius.

“Here we go.” Charles comes back with a small glass of water and two pints of what looks like pale ale. My mouth waters in anticipation until I remember that it’s going to be room temperature. Just because I’m an Anglophile, doesn’t mean I have to like everything British.

I take a small sip of the beer, and have to admit it’s actually not that bad. I overcome the temperature thing by telling myself that it’s not actually beer; it’s just an alcoholic drink that happens to look a bit like beer. When you think of it like that, it’s quite pleasant, especially on a cold and rainy day.

Shortly after, a waiter comes over and dumps about twenty thousand calories worth of food on the table in front of me. Charles adds the requisite salt and vinegar to the chips before I can eat any of them plain. He considers that sacrilegious. I grab a few chips and shove them in my mouth to satiate my appetite and warm me up a bit. They do the job instantly on both counts.

Gemma copies my approach and shoves her hand into the pile of chips, grabbing a few and aiming them at her face. Her little face cringes as she tastes the vinegar, but she keeps chewing the soft chips anyway.

“You can tell she’s half-British,” I say.

“Let’s hope she stays that way. I don’t want her growing up talking about spring breaks and describing everything as ‘awesome.’”

“I’m afraid it will take more than a yearly trip to England to give her an English accent.”

Charles won’t admit as much, but I know this trip is as much for Gemma as it is for me. He’s worried she’ll never learn about her roots. I don’t think it’s going to be a huge problem. After all, we can afford to travel as often as we like in the off-season. Gemma is going to get plenty of exposure to England and other countries while she grows up, certainly a lot more than I ever had.

“I think I prefer the chips you make,” I say, honestly. “These are a little greasy.”

“That’s how they’re supposed to be. I’ll take that as a compliment though.”

After lunch, we take the train into London and I get my first experience of being with someone famous. Charles spent the last year as a superstar on campus, but outside of college he rarely gets recognized. I expect us to walk the streets of London like any other couple with a small child, but people immediately recognize us. They do double takes in the middle of the street, not expecting to see Charles back in England and certainly not with a small child in tow.

Perhaps this is what life will be like for the next few years once Charles starts playing in the NFL. The novelty of stopping every thirty seconds to pose for pictures quickly wears off, and Charles puts on a baseball cap to hide his appearance.

I’m sort of famous now myself. Okay, nothing on the scale of Charles, but people know my name. Actually, they know my pen name: Becky Adams. ‘Becky’ because that’s what Charles always calls me, and ‘Adams’ because that’s my mother’s maiden name.

I suppose it’s more accurate to say people know my work than know me. As predicted, all my job interviews dried up after the poem fiasco. I tried applying for jobs, but the rejection letters—or, more often, complete silence—got depressing after a while.

One good thing came out of the whole mess. My article on college sexism never got published by the college newspaper, and that meant I was free to use it elsewhere. I delved deeper into the topic and re-wrote the piece a few times until it was as good as I could make it. I used a new pen name to submit the article to a few national organizations, and they ended up in a bidding war for it.

My article went live a few weeks later and caused quite a stir. The money I got paid was small fry compared to what Charles will be earning now, but you can’t beat the feeling of seeing something you wrote on a huge website visited by millions of people a day.

Charles knows London better than I do, but I’m the one leading the way, guidebook in hand, as we move from tourist trap to tourist trap, stopping to take photos and buy tacky souvenirs. After this trip, we’ll never need to buy mugs again.

Gemma is too young to consciously appreciate what we see, but I’m absolutely captivated by everything London has to offer. We end up walking for so long we have to crash at a hotel instead of getting the train back to Charles’ family home.

“You do realize we can come back here later in the week?” Charles asks. “London is only a train journey away, so we don’t have to do it all in one day.”

“We haven’t come close to doing it all.” I grab the pocket guide from my bag and start looking at the pages marked up with stickies. “We still need to go to the British Museum and I hear you have to get there early to avoid the crowds. That’s at least half a day.”

“A museum? Great. The learning never stops with you, does it?” Charles takes the guidebook and flicks through it with a bemused look on his face. “You’ve highlighted it.”

“Of course I’ve highlighted it.”

“I should know what your color scheme means by now, but I must admit I’m at a loss.”

“That’s okay, this is a new scheme specifically for traveling. Stuff highlighted in yellow we should do in the morning as early as possible. Things highlighted in green are close to places we can eat lunch or dinner, so we should time those trips around meals. The blue highlighting means we can go at any time.”

“You’re exhausting. I’m literally getting tired just looking at this.”

“And you call yourself a professional footballer.”

“Not yet I don’t. There’s still one month to go before I’m officially a pro.”

Charles hadn’t had any problems finding a team to take him. A team in Southern California drafted him and after a long discussion we agreed to move south.

“I’m going to miss this little one,” I say selfishly as I ruffle Gemma’s hair. I know it’s a ridiculous thing to say. If I’m going to miss her, then how must Charles feel? He’s her dad, whereas I’m just… I don’t know what I am. I feel like her mom every time I’m with her, but then she goes back to her real mom and I feel like little more than a glorified babysitter.

“We’re still going to see her once a week,” Charles says. “I promise you, and you,” he says, turning to Gemma, “that not a week will go by without us being together as a family.”

“Sorry, I’m just being silly.” This is one of the few times I need to be strong for him. Every time he hands Gemma back to Dana, it’s like she’s being ripped from his arms and he barely speaks for hours afterwards. I lift Gemma up and sit her down on my lap, although she immediately tries to wriggle away. “Come on, let’s plan our day for tomorrow. We’re starting with the British Museum.”

“I’ve been to the British Museum,” Charles says. “That means I don’t have to go. Gemma and I will go to the park and have fun.”

“When did you go to the British Museum?”

“At school,” he mumbles.

“Knowing what you are like in an educational environment, I’m guessing you spent the whole time fooling around with your friends. Am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Charles says dramatically.

“Then we’re all going together, and I’m going to ensure you learn something.”

“Does that mean I have to pay you $15 an hour?”

“This one’s for free.”

“And are you providing any other services on the house tonight?” Charles leans in and kisses me on the neck. He knows the exact spot to touch and never hesitates to use that information to get his own way.

“I assume you’re referring to babysitting services, because that’s all I’m doing while this one’s watching.”

I’ve never been comfortable doing anything sexual with Gemma in the same room, and even less so now that she stares at me all the time. “You’re just going to have to keep it in your pants tonight, darling.”

“I hate hotels,” Charles mutters, before picking up the phone and ordering an indecent amount of food that puts lunch’s caloric intake to shame. What the hell, I’m on vacation.

H
omesickness hits
both of us hard when we move down to California. It’s beautiful on paper—sunny and hot nearly all year-round, and we have a house near the water. We’re literally living most people’s dreams. Most people’s, but not ours.

I keep my homesickness to myself for the longest time, because it feels silly to complain about moving from Washington to California when Charles has moved halfway across the world. When I do finally admit to feeling a little upset, he immediately admits that he feels the same. Apparently Washington had been okay for him because it rains a lot there and he feels at home.

We both promise to give California a shot, and what better way to help Charles feel at home than to open up a British pub. I suggest it as a joke one night, but Charles instantly takes to the idea and within a few weeks we’ve bought a suitable bar and have started converting it to look a little more like Charles’ local from back home.

He’s determined this won’t end up as another British pub that requires inverted commas every time someone describes it as such. We spend a fortune importing British beers, and even go to the effort of using a few chefs born in Britain to design the menu. Most of the staff consist of expats or Anglophiles like me who know their shit when it comes to Britain.