Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (5 page)

Becky reserved a small conference room on the third floor of the library, and I made it to the library on time. I know better than to keep a woman waiting. Unfortunately, once in the library I got lost.

I walked up three flights of stairs to what I assumed was the third floor. Wrong. After ten minutes walking around looking for Becky, I realized Americans don’t have a ground floor and that I was actually on the fourth floor. Given that I’m trying to avoid looking stupid, I decide it’s better she think I’m just a bit late.

“Sorry,” I reply. “Women kept stopping me to ask for photos.”

“Ugh, this is a library not a sports field. I don’t know who I’m more disgusted with; you or them.”

“Trust me, if you heard some of the things they said to me, you’d be pretty disgusted with them. American girls ain’t shy.”

Becky sighs and makes a space for me at the table. “Whatever. Let’s just get down to work.”

“Fine by—”

With impeccable timing, a girl bangs on the window excitedly and then just walk straight in.

“Oh my God, I thought it was you,” she exclaims. “You’re the new running back from England. Please, please, please, can I get a photo?”

I quickly put my arm around the woman and smile for her selfie. Becky stares daggers at us the entire time.

“You quite finished?” Becky asks me after the woman has left.

“You’re not jealous are you? Because if you are, I’m more than happy to pose for a photo with you as well.”

Becky stares at me, breathing heavily through her nose, the noise echoing in the small room.

“
Twelfth Night
,” she says sternly. “What’s it about?”

“Hang on,” I reply with a sigh. “Let me get my notes.”

I can tell she’s impressed that I’ve made notes; she’d be less impressed if she knew they came from a study guide.

“Okay,” I say, pretending to refresh my memory as if I hadn’t read this just an hour ago. “
Twelfth Night
is a love story, and specifically a romantic comedy, however Shakespeare also reminds us that in the game of love, not everyone gets what they want.”

“Sure,” Becky replies suspiciously. “Not a bad summary of the main thesis. But let’s go through the story act by act. That way we can really see the progression of events, because it can get quite complicated what with all the characters dressing up as different people.”

“Great,” I reply, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Lead the way.”

“
C
harles
?”

“Huh? Did you say something?”

“You’re staring at my chest,” Becky scolds. “And I don’t think you’ve listened to anything I said in the past five minutes.”

“I have,” I insist. “You’ve been talking about how Olivia feels the need to dress as a man to get close to the woman she’s in love with.”

“That’s was five minutes ago.”

“Sorry. This stuff is just so boring. Why don’t we study modern literature instead of this rubbish? It’s supposed to be a comedy, but I haven’t laughed once.”

“That’s because the jokes are going over your head. Trust me there is at least one joke you would have laughed at if you’d noticed it.”

“Which one?” I ask. I’ve been doing an awful job of looking intelligent in front of Becky, but I can’t help it. I hated Shakespeare in school, and I hate it now.

Becky flips to a page in the book and points at a paragraph of speech from Marvolio. “Read that again.”

“I don’t get it,” I admit.

“’Her very c’s, her u’s and her t’s.’ It spells ‘cut.’ That was slang for… well, you know.”

“Shut the front door,” I exclaim. “Holy shit, I guess that is a bit rude for the seventeenth-century. Although if he’d have included a reference to ‘her n’s’ as well, I would have gotten it a bit quicker.”

“There are very few Shakespeare plays without rude jokes.”

“If the teachers had pointed this stuff out in school, I might have read more closely.” I laugh as I read the passage again. “Dirty old git.”

“Did you just refer to one of the greatest literary geniuses who’s ever lived as a ‘dirty old git?’”

“He is. If he were alive today, he’d—” I trail off as my phone vibrates loudly on the table. “Sorry,” I mutter as Becky gives me the evil eye again.

I go to reject the call, but the number is familiar and it’s not one I can just call back. I answer the phone, making sure not to look at Becky who I know is still staring at me disapprovingly.

“Press one to accept a call from Washington State Penitentiary,” a robotic voice says on the other end.

I press one on my phone and there’s a click to indicate we have been connected.

“Hi, son, it’s me.” Dad always says that when he calls, despite the fact I don’t know anyone else who would call me from prison.

“Hi, Dad.”

“How are things going? You settling in okay?”

“Yeah, things are good. I’m actually in the library right now, so it’s kind of difficult to talk.” I recognize the silence on the other end as one of disappointment. “I’m coming to see you this weekend, though.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “I mean, there’s no rush.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m free, and it’s about time I came over.” Plus, that gives me a good excuse to end this call early.

“Great, well in that case I’ll let you get back to your studying. Christ, I didn’t think I’d ever say that.”

And I didn’t think my dad would ever call me from prison.

“See you soon, Dad. Take care.”

I turn my phone off and put it away in my bag. “Sorry about that. You now have my undivided attention.”

“Sure you’re not going to stare at my breasts again?”

“I can’t promise that, but if I do stare at them, I will be listening as well. How’s that sound?”

Becky shakes her head, but I see a hint of a smile on her lips again. She’s warming to me. It’s taking a fucking long time, but she is warming to me.

“I guess it will have to do,” she says. “Now, let me show you more of Shakespeare’s rude jokes.”

J
ust remember
, Becky, you agreed to this
.

I park my rickety old car at the bottom of the driveway leading up to his huge house. This was the address. I know I’m one of the poor students, but even the rich kids tend to live in nothing more than a one or two bedroom apartment. The only people I know who live in houses this big are members of fraternities and sororities, and those houses are shared between ten or more people.

I walk up the driveway towards the front door, while admiring the garden which he presumably paid a gardener to maintain. I’m sure Charles isn’t lazy, but there’s no way he’s spending ten hours a week in the garden.

I shouldn’t be here at all, but we don’t have a choice. At least, that’s how I’ve justified it to myself. Charles suggested we study at my place, but there’s no way I’m letting him see the shit hole I live in. Especially not now that I’ve seen his mansion. I tried to insist we study at the library again, but Charles said there were too many distractions.

He did have a point. We can’t study in the library for more than five minutes without a woman bursting in and asking to have a picture taken with him. He hasn’t even played a game yet, and he is already famous on campus. I’m partly to blame for that. My article was just published and in avoiding being overly critical, I’ve managed to write a piece so laden with hero worship that Peter might as well have written it.

The library is a no go, and the same goes for other public spaces. Charles insists his place is the only option, and I can’t think of an alternative.

So here I am. About to enter the devil’s lair.

I ring the doorbell, and loud chimes echo throughout the house. The place is so big it takes him thirty seconds to reach the door.

“Come in, come in,” he insists.

His place might be the size of a frat house, but it’s a hell of a lot tidier. That had been my job once. When I was fourteen, my mom started taking me with her to work on weekends. Some of the places we cleaned were like this, but none of the owners were anything like Charles.

“You want the tour?” Charles asks.

“Let me guess, you’ll start by showing me the bedroom?”

“Of course not,” Charles replies looking genuinely offended. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”

“Sorry I just—”

“I wouldn’t
start
with the bedroom. That’s just poor form. I’d warm you up by showing the downstairs first,
then
take you upstairs and show you the bedroom.”

I bite my tongue so that I don’t laugh. The last thing I can do right now is encourage him.

“Need I remind you, you promised to behave today?”

“No I didn’t. I promised to be on my best behavior. There’s a difference. This
is
my best behavior. Personally, I think I’m doing rather well. I wouldn’t usually let a young lady stay fully clothed for so long.”

“I’m honored. I think. Come on, let’s go study.”

Charles leads the way to his dining room where we sit down at a large and expensive looking table. My desk only has room for my laptop and one textbook. When I want to write notes, I need to balance the notepad on my lap. I would kill for this much study space. I suppose it is useful for entertaining as well, although I don’t think I have enough friends to fill the table.

“Did you read the two plays that I assigned you?” I ask, as I take books out of my bag and place them down on the table.

“I did,” Charles says with a little uncertainty in his voice. I don’t think he’s lying, but he might have read them quickly and relied on the study guides that he’d so clearly regurgitated from the other day. At least he’s complying with the letter of the law if not the spirit.

“You won’t be tested on those plays until the end of the semester, but I wanted you to read them early.”

“Why?” Charles asks.

“The college gave me a copy of the entrance exam you sat and the answers you gave. Let’s just say the plays I asked you to read cover aspects of American history that I think you need to brush up on.”

“I do wish everyone would stop banging on about the entrance exam.”

“Do you remember the question about the Emancipation Proclamation?” Charles nods and I can see he’s a touch embarrassed. “Do you remember what you wrote in response?”

“I remember writing a long coherent answer to that question. I thought it was rather touching. I even had a tear in my eye at one point.”

“And what did you write about?” Charles mumbles something inaudible. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“The rise of feminism in the United States and its effect on the working class male,” he says tiredly.

“You confused emancipation with emasculation.”

“Yeah, I get that now.”

To his credit, he wrote a brilliant essay on feminism, and it came from the heart. I’ve read enough articles and essays over the years to know when people are saying what they think they should say and what they mean.

“And then there’s the answer you gave on the Second Amendment question. Surely you know that the reference to ‘the right to bear arms,’ doesn’t have anything to do with keeping the arms of a bear after a successful hunting trip.”

“That I do know.”

“Then why did you give such a stupid answer?”

“Your gun laws are stupid, so I gave a stupid answer. Call it a protest answer.”

He’s telling the truth, which suggests he doesn’t much care about the entrance exam. Charles isn’t as stupid as I first assumed. He doesn’t enjoy studying, but that doesn’t make him stupid. I need to remember that, or I will underestimate him.

I watch Charles as he organizes his books and notes in front of him. I can tell studying doesn’t come naturally to him. He doesn’t have the sticky labels and highlighters spread out in front of him that are indicative of those as studious as me. Studying takes a real effort for him.

Maybe that’s why he ends up staring at me. I caught him staring at my chest the last time we studied, but he could just as easily have caught me doing the same to him. Even now, I’m looking at every movement of his bicep as he flexes his arms in that tight polo shirt.

In the six months I’d been with Brian, I’d never looked at him like I’m looking at Charles now. Brian was perfunctorily good looking, but he was normal. Charles is anything but normal. He’s not huge, but he doesn’t have any body fat. His skin hugs every muscle tightly, putting it on show for everyone who looks.

“You’re not enjoying this, are you?” I ask.

“It’s studying. Surely even you don’t
enjoy
it. It’s something we do because we have to.”

“You don’t have to though. Surely you could have just waited another year before coming to America. Why come here now and put yourself through all this?”

“I told you, I wanted to be close to my father after my mother died.”

And yet he hasn’t seen his father since he’s been in the US.
From what I overheard of his phone conversation, it sounds like he will see his father this weekend, but he hadn’t exactly sounded excited about the prospect. Why move halfway across the world and mess up your career to be close to someone and then not see them?

“Is that the only reason?” I ask.

“Yes,” Charles replies. “Of course, now I’m here, I have another reason. A much sexier reason.”

“Charles….”

“I know, I know. I have to behave. It’s just hard to do that around you.”

“Better get used to it because—”

I sit bolt upright as the loud chimes of the doorbell sound directly above my head.

“It’s a little loud,” Charles concedes, as he stands up and heads to the door. “Won’t be long—I expect it’s just a new television I ordered online.”

I watch Charles as he walks out of the room. More specifically, I watch his ass, each cheek visible in his tight shorts. I’ve never really stared at a man’s ass before, but this one I could happily watch all day.

The second Charles opens the door, it becomes clear that this had nothing to do with the delivery of a television. Not unless delivery drivers have started bringing babies along with them. The noise of the baby crying is almost as is deafening as the doorbell.

“You have to take her,” an exhausted woman says to Charles. “I have an interview and my mom’s at work.”

“I can’t, I’m studying,” Charles replies.

“Oh, poor you. You’re always saying I need to get a job, and now that I have the chance to get one you can’t even be bothered to look after your own daughter?”

Daughter? Charles is a father?

Before I’m even aware of my actions, I stand up and quietly walk over to the door where I can see Charles, the woman, and the baby. The woman is holding the crying baby up to Charles, but he refuses to take her.

“You can’t just drop her on me like this. That’s why we have an arrangement.”

“Screw the arrangement. Take her Charles, or you give up all your rights to complain about me not having a job.”

Charles sighs loudly, but reaches out and takes the baby into his arms. The baby’s crying becomes a whimper as her daddy rocks her in her arms.

“When will you pick her up?”

“Tomorrow morning,” the woman replies. “Or maybe tomorrow lunchtime.”

“Long job interview,” Charles says sarcastically.

“Give it a rest, Charles. I can do without your….” She trails off as she spots me. “Well well, what do we have here? No wonder you don’t want to look after your own child.”

“That’s my tutor,” Charles says, after looking around and seeing me standing in the doorway. “Like I said, I’m studying.”

“Sure, sure. And your tutor just so happens to be an attractive, and probably naïve, young woman. Just your type.”

“I am his tutor,” I say stepping forward and offering my hand to the woman. “My name’s Rebecca.”

She makes no effort to shake my hand, so I quickly withdraw it. “I don’t care what your name is sweetheart, and neither does he. Charles doesn’t make a habit of remembering their names.”

“Ignore
Dana
,” Charles says. “I know I try to.”

“Just like you ignore your daughter?” Dana says. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Charles. I guess I’ll see you too, Rebecca. He usually lets them stay until morning. Charles is quite the gentleman like that.”

Dana turns on her heel and storms off leaving Charles and I standing there with only the sounds of the baby breaking the silence.

I
pretend
to study as I hear Charles coming back down the stairs with the baby. I’ve been sitting here in a daze for the last five minutes just trying to get my head around this entire mess.

Charles has a baby. That certainly explains why he’s here in America. I knew something wasn’t quite right with that story about his father. Although, if he’s come all this way to spend more time with his child, he has a funny way of showing it. He looked even less excited to see the baby that he did at the thought of studying. Not exactly father of the year material, although he isn’t the first jock to get a woman pregnant and then abandon his responsibility. It doesn’t sit right with me. I’m sure Charles is better than that. Maybe I’ve just been hoping he’s better than that.

“Sorry about her,” Charles says as he walks back into the dining room with the baby in his arms. “Dana always hands Gemma over when the baby needs changing. I think it’s that extra little bit of punishment.”

“I’m not sure looking after your baby is supposed to be a punishment.”

“She thinks it is, and I want her to keep thinking that. If she knows I enjoy spending time with this little terror, then she’ll just make it difficult for me.”

Charles opens a closet and drags out a high chair, placing it next to him by the table. He lowers Gemma into the chair, but the second her butt touches the seat she starts crying again.

“She likes being held by her daddy,” I say, as Charles lifts her backup and she immediately stops crying.

“I liked that at first, but now all she does is scream at me whenever I’m not giving her one hundred percent of my attention. She’s a bit like you in that respect, really.”

“I don’t want you to give me your attention; I want your attention to be on your studying.”

“If you say so,” Charles replies, gently bouncing the baby in his arms. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Maybe not, but I should have told you for your article. You could have broken the news and gotten a lot more publicity.”

“I’m guessing that’s exactly why you didn’t tell me.”

Charles nods. “People treat you differently when they know you have a child. I know I’ll have to tell people eventually, but for the time being I’m hoping we can keep this between us.”

“I can handle that.”

“Talking of handling things, you want to hold her?”

“Are you sure? She’s so tiny. How old is she?”

“Ten months. She’s tougher than she looks, although best to avoid dropping her if you can.”

I can’t remember the last time I held a baby. I’m not sure I’ve ever held one this small. Her face cringes as if she’s about to break out into tears, but instead she just stares at me intently with big curious eyes.

“She is absolutely adorable.”