Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (3 page)

“It’s been a pleasure Ms….”

“Warner.”

I stand up and walk slowly out of the sauna, giving her time to check out my ass. I hear her pen scrawling notes on the paper, but she’s still probably checking out my ass. She might be a little uptight, but she wouldn’t miss that opportunity.

The locker room’s empty now, thank God, because the second I get inside, the raging boner I’ve been suppressing for the last half an hour suddenly springs to life. It isn’t often I’m grateful for a boner in the men’s locker room, but better now than in front of Becky who already hates me enough as it is.

She said we’d never see each other again. She may be right. We definitely hang in different circles. She works for the college newspaper and probably takes classes like art history and anthropology, while I play for the football team and take whatever classes give me an easy-pass grade.

I dry myself off while seriously considering taking an art history class, when I remember that I switched the coals off in the sauna. The basketball team will be using the sauna in a few hours, and I can’t imagine they’ll be too pleased to find the place cold.

I’m whistling as I walk back to the sauna. Why am I whistling? I never whistle. I think I’m in a good mood, although it’s been so long, I can’t really remember the feeling.

My whistling comes to an abrupt halt when I hear a woman scream as I enter the sauna. Becky’s still here, and I’m still naked. And hard.

“Shit,” I mutter, as I make a vague attempt to cover up my erection.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Becky screams, turning her head away from me.

“I just came back to…”
I came back to turn on the coals. Just say that. Don’t be the dick she expects you to be.
“I just came back to show you the full package.”

Dammit Charles
.

“You have an erection.”

“I know. You like it? That’s your doing.”

“Is this how things work in England? You just walk up to women naked with an erection and they jump on you?”

I shrugged. “It’s worked for me in the past.”

She doesn’t reply. She just grabs her pen and paper and storms past me, making sure not to come within touching distance of me or my hard cock.

Well that went well. I can look forward to a glorious write-up in the college newspaper.

Sex pest pounces on girl in sauna.

Way to make an impression Charles. Before she just thought I was a dumb jock, now she thinks I’m a fucking moron.

I turn the coals back on and walk back to the locker room. I manage to get dressed and make it outside without offending anyone else. By today’s standards, that’s a minor victory in and of itself.

Becky’s right when she says we probably won’t see each other again. At least, not unless I put in a bit of extra effort. Time to rethink my schedule.

I
can’t stop thinking
about dick. I mean
the
dick. Not the dick’s dick.

Shit, who am I kidding? I’ve been thinking about it all weekend. I barely looked at it for a second, but that was enough to commit the image to my memory. I can picture its long length, thick girth, and throbbing eagerness as it stands to attention in front of me.

It’s been far too long since I’ve had any cock. That’s probably why I found Charles’ member so fascinating. I just hadn’t seen one in a while—I need to get laid. It’s been... well it’s been a long time. Over a year. Until this weekend I haven’t really missed it all that much. I’ve only ever had sex with one man, and the way things had ended with Brian was bad enough to put me off for life. Or at least, I thought it had been.

I don’t even masturbate all that often. I wait until I’m about to explode, and then do the absolute bare minimum to get release. I don’t really enjoy it, although I guess I feel better afterwards. It’s hard to fantasize about sex when your mind insists on dragging the past back up to haunt you. My entire sexual history consists of Brian, and my imagination isn’t creative enough to replace him. That means I’m making myself miserable while trying to make myself happy—not the ideal circumstances for an orgasm.

But now there’s Charles.

On Saturday morning, I can’t get out of bed without rubbing one out, and the relief doesn’t last long. I spend the morning working on my article about Charles, but the angrier I get about our interview, the more I need to touch myself again. In the end, I set myself a rule; I can only masturbate once per two hours of solid work.

I still can’t focus on the article, and I blame Charles completely. The interview had been awful, but I’d expected that. Charles had acted like a cocky, arrogant asshole. Completely true to form for a college footballer. The whole sauna thing had just been icing on the cake.

But as bad as the interview had been, he’d doubled down and made things ten times worse by bursting back into the sauna and waving his huge, hard cock in my face.

Who does that? Seriously, who walks into a sauna in college completely naked and with an erection? Even if he’d thought the place was empty, it still seemed patently absurd.

He’d expected me to be grateful. Like I was supposed to say ‘thank you for showing me your cock, can I suck it now?’ Does that really work? Of course it does. Even in my limited social circle, I know at least five women who are shameless enough to throw themselves at him if he appears naked in front of them.

I couldn’t do that even if I want to. Not after last time with Brian. Most people in my year already think of me as the slut who banged half the football team. The fact that it isn’t true hasn’t stopped the rumor from spreading like wildfire. I can’t just go and jump on the new star footballer in his first week. Not that I want to. Sure, just by being in my head when I’m under the covers, he’s already given me more pleasure than Brian ever had, but thinking about someone while touching myself is a million miles away from actually doing anything in real life. Some fantasies should stay fantasies.

He wants me though. I’m not imagining that, am I? He walked in on me with a rock hard cock—if that’s not a sign of desire then I know even less about men than I thought.

God, I desperately need to get laid. I need to find some average, nerdy guy to undress me, move about a bit, and finish three minutes later. Anything to quench my thirst for a cock I can’t go near.

I hate Charles for doing this to me. I just want to write an article and be done with him, but I can’t get him out of my head. My anger seeps through onto the screen as I type and I realize that the article I’ve spent most of the weekend working on is absolute trash.

I like to consider myself an impartial writer, but as I read a printed draft of my article, I realize that what I’ve written is completely biased. It’s not the words so much as the tone. All my anger and frustration with Charles has appeared throughout the article. Anyone who reads this will immediately know I don’t think too highly of the college’s new star athlete. That might be true, but as someone who wants to be a professional writer, I can’t let that be so obvious in my work.

I have to rewrite it. I realize this at eleven o’clock on Sunday night. I’m mentally exhausted, but I pull up a blank Word document and start from scratch. I work for five minutes before I stop typing and go to bed. I’m not going to sleep—I just need to take care of a bit of business before writing about Charles.

This idiot is really and truly in my head.

M
y deadline is technically
five o’clock Monday afternoon, but so long as I’ve submitted it by nine o’clock Tuesday morning, no one is going to mind. That’s all well and good, but it’s midday on Monday and I’ve barely got three hundred words written. And, just to make matters worse, Professor Fenwick has summoned me to his office.

His email doesn’t give anything away, but they rarely do.

Please come see me at lunch time.

By his standards, that’s rather verbose. Professor Fenwick is one of those old-school professors who you can tell resents the prevalence of email in the workplace. He’s not actually old—I guess about forty-five—but he’s set in his ways and unlikely to change.

He’s a little curmudgeonly, but I like him. He’s done a lot for me in the last three and a bit years. He’s my official ‘mentor’ under the named scholarship program that brought me to this college in the first place. He’s also my boss on the college newspaper, and the one who made me write the story on Charles. Other than that though, he’s a good guy.

“Rebecca,” he says, excited to see me as always. “Come in, come in. Take a seat.”

Both the chairs opposite his desk have piles of books on them. I grab the smallest pile and place them on the floor before taking a seat, while he finishes arranging some papers.

“How was your weekend, sir?” I ask. He hates me calling him ‘sir’ but I’ve never been comfortable calling professors by their first name. It’s either ‘sir’ or ‘Professor Fenwick,’ no matter how much he protests.

“Good, good. The tomatoes in my garden are looking healthy, although a couple of damn rabbits got in and nibbled away at all my lettuce. What about you?”

“Just working on that article.”

“Article? What article?”

“The article on Charles Lewington you asked me to write.”

“Oh yes,
that
article. How is it going?”

“It’s due in today, but to be honest I’ve had a tough time with it. I’m afraid I won’t be able to submit it until later tonight. I hope that’s okay?”

“Of course. Having trouble filling the word count?”

“Quite the opposite. There’s plenty to say about him.”

“Good or bad?”

I still haven’t decided that myself. Is it good when a hunky footballer presents himself to you fully naked with a hard cock? It isn’t appropriate, but it sure as hell gave me plenty of good memories to get me through the weekend.

“Good,” I reply. “He seems like a nice guy. I’m sure he will help the college football team win some games this year. Well, I’m not
that
sure, because I don’t know anything about football, but that’s what’s I’ll say in the article.”

“The interview went okay? I must admit I was a little concerned about sending you in there to meet him. He’s not like the people you typically interview.”

Yeah, no shit.
So far, I’ve mainly interviewed members of staff at the college, together with a few moderately successful alumni. All of those interviews have been conducted in formal business attire, and none of them had taken place in a sauna.

“The interview went well,” I reply. “I don’t know a lot about football, but neither does he at the moment. We bonded over that, and he opened up about his family life and the reasons he is here.”

I’m not completely lying. There is some truth to that. I can’t just say that we argued the entire time, and he tried to get me naked more than once. Professor Fenwick will be one of the professors I ask to write a letter of recommendation when, or if, I ever interview for a proper job as a reporter. I need to succeed at all the tasks he gives me, and not just the ones I enjoy.

“Interesting,” Professor Fenwick says slowly, while drumming his fingers on the oak desk. “I need a willing volunteer to help with something over the next couple of months. I was going to ask Peter—”

“I’m available,” I interrupt. Anything Peter can do I can do. More to the point, anything Peter wants to do, I want to do. I can’t let him get a leg up on me at this stage.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Professor Fenwick says. “I wanted to give it to you anyway, but figured it might be a little awkward given….” He trails off in that way he often does when the conversation gets a little awkward. “Given issues in your personal life from last year.”

“I don’t understand,” I reply uncomfortably.

Professor Fenwick knows I had a rough time a year ago, and he probably knows exactly what happened, but we’ve never discussed it. We are close, but we work hard to maintain a professor/student relationship. That means not discussing my sex life. He knows, and I know that he knows, and neither of us says anything about it. What I don’t understand was why this next assignment has anything to do with my relationship with Brian. My
former
relationship.

“Never mind,” he replies. “I’m being silly. You’re a professional, and I never should’ve doubted your ability to get on with things. With that in mind, I want you to do some tutoring this semester, and probably next semester as well.”

“Sure,” I say relieved.

I’ve done tutoring before, and to be honest I can usually do it with my eyes closed. The college pays $15 an hour for me to sit there and help other people pass tests that I could take when I was fifteen. Easy money. The students are usually grateful for the help, except for the athletes. They just do it because they need to maintain a passing grade to stay on the sports teams.

Oh shit. Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit.

“Who will I be tutoring?” I ask, even though it’s glaringly obvious at this point.

“None other than your new best friend, Charles Lewington.”

Time to backtrack. I need to get myself out of this mess without disappointing Professor Fenwick in the process.

“I’m not sure I’m the best for the job,” I say innocently. “I’d love to tutor him, obviously, but I doubt we’re taking the same classes.”

“Actually, he’s taking almost the exact same classes as you. You’d be the perfect fit for this assignment anyway, but the fact that you’ve already met him and built up a rapport just makes it all the more perfect.”

He showed me his rock-hard erect cock. Does that count as a rapport?
I spent the weekend masturbating while thinking of him sliding it inside me. I don’t think that’s the kind of rapport Professor Fenwick is talking about.

“Are you sure?” I ask desperately. My brain has gone to sleep. I can’t think of a single excuse. “Maybe he should get professional assistance. After all, he is
so
important to the team.”

“No, I think it’s best he works with someone who knows the syllabus inside and out. You’re right though, he is important, and he needs a lot of help. Between you and me, he’s not all that bright. The college made him take an entrance exam before joining. It’s a bit like the SATs with a few more essay questions thrown in. Basic history, politics, stuff like that. Anyway, his score was so bad that the college almost had second thoughts about bringing him in. I’m used to footballers performing badly, but he might have just lowered the bar even further.”

“Some people just don’t do well in exams,” I offer. Why am I defending him? I already know he’s just another dumb jock, although I’m surprised to hear he did that badly.

“Trust me, this is another level entirely. You’re going to have your work cut out with this one. But that’s good I suppose.”

“It is?”

“Tutoring pays well. I’m sure you could use the money, what with the cost of living around here.”

Professor Fenwick is being polite. He knows I’m poor. I got my scholarship largely based on my grades, but there is a need element to it as well. I don’t have a trust fund or rich parents, so I need money more than most. $15 an hour is a lot for a college and it adds up pretty quickly.

It wouldn’t be for long. Charles didn’t look like the studying type. After three or four lessons, he’d probably give up and I’d be off the hook. It might even help my career. Being a tutor for a future professional footballer might give me an in at a major publication. Even the respectable websites and newspapers still crave the attention of sports fans. They might hire me just on the off chance I can get them an interview with him.

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“Excellent. I’ll have my assistant email you the details.”

As I’m walking back to the small office assigned to the college newspaper, I realize Professor Fenwick has tricked me. He must have called me into his office specifically to give me this assignment, and yet he’d pretended it was a spur of the moment thing. I like to think I’m intelligent, but these last few days I’ve been making some stupid mistakes. This latest one might just be the biggest of all.