Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (10 page)

I go into the bathroom and run the shower tap for hot water. I see that the bathroom countertop is cluttered with my mascara tube, razor, and toothbrush. I unzip my blue, glittery bathroom bag and toss the objects inside of it.

I’m zipping it shut when my eye catches on something at the bottom.

It’s a pile of tampons.

A pile of tampons I should have touched in the month that I’ve been here.

My stomach flips over. I look in the mirror to see that it’s fogged over completely from the steam of my unused shower water.

I haven’t had a period.

That’s literally never happened. I’m like clockwork. Like a textbook. Every twenty-eight days. And I was nearly halfway through my cycle the first time Ryan and I had sex.

I don’t need to see a calendar to do the math.

I missed a few pills.

A condom could easily have a hole in it and I wouldn’t have noticed in the rabid fucking Ryan and I did that night.

I don’t need to take a test to know.

I’m pregnant.

With a man’s baby.

A man who doesn’t want a baby.

Oh, God.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

RYAN

“So Terence cuts across me and I manage to hit him in the head with the ball,” I say to Hayley over fish and chips from a cart next to the Thames. “You should have seen his face. I thought I’d broken his nose but it turns out he was just bleeding. Shame.”

Hayley munches on a chip and says nothing, staring out across the Thames.

“Hayley? Are you even listening to me?” She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t even hear me. I have to wave a hand in front of her face to get her attention.

She jumps and drops a chip onto the ground. Pigeons flock over to grab the accidental treasure. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just going over my packing list to make sure I didn’t forget anything.”

“Right,” I say skeptically. I change the subject hoping this will draw her attention better than my revenge kick at Terence’s head did. “I know you leave first thing tomorrow, but there’s this charity gala tonight. I was thinking that you and I could maybe go together.”

Hayley looks surprised. “You want me to go with you? As your date?”

“No, as Terence’s date,” I say sarcastically, regretting it instantly at the hurt on her face. “Yes, as my date.”

“But won’t the press be there?”

I laugh. “Your article comes out in a few days. It won’t matter, Hayley. That reminds me, did you finish writing it?”

“What?” Hayley asks, jumping and dropping yet another chip.

“Did you finish - you know what? Nevermind. Do you want to go tonight or not?”

Hayley thinks it over. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

I shake my head with a hearty dose of fake disappointment on my face. “You don’t know me at all, do you?”

Three hours later, we’re back in Hayley’s hotel room in possession of a sparkly, body-tight, floor-length, emerald-green ball gown. We’re picking up her stuff so she can spend the night at my place. Then I’m riding with her on the train to Heathrow tomorrow morning.

“Don’t forget your laptop,” I say to her.

“I can’t believe you just dropped a thousand quid on a dress I’ll wear one time,” she says. She is still acting odd.

“You’re worth it,” I say. I grab her laptop for her and we take a taxi to my new place.

Hayley runs upstairs to shower and do her hair and makeup. I use the guest bath to get ready. I’m in my tux and munching on crisps when I realize I’m not sure what time the gala starts.

I text Harry, one of my new teammates. He doesn’t reply. I pull up the web browser on my phone when I realize I’ve lost a data connection. I look at the kitchen counter and see Hayley’s laptop sitting there. I call up the stairs. “Hayley! Can I use your computer?”

She doesn’t answer, undoubtedly still drowning in the heat of the shower. The water pressure is so good the first time I used it I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to get out of it. She doesn’t respond. I don’t feel like walking upstairs so I throw caution to the wind and open it up.

It wakes up and goes to the home screen without a password.

I click on the browser and head into Google to find what I’m looking for. It starts at eight. Perfect. I click the X on the window when I see a text document blinking in the dock.

“A document needs your attention,” says a dialog box that pops up when I hover over the icon. “Improper save.”

Well, shit. I can’t just let that sit there. I open up the document and realize it’s Hayley’s story.

I know I shouldn’t read it.

But when the title is “MACK ATTACK – THE BIRTH OF A STAR PLAYER,” it’s hard for me to resist.

Ten seconds of reading and I know all that I need to know.

I slam the computer shut angrily, not caring whether or not the fucking document saved.

Fuck the story.

Fuck Hayley.

I don’t know if I’m angrier at her or at myself for opening up to someone and getting burned by them.

It’s the story of my entire life playing out before my eyes for the millionth time.

You can’t trust anybody.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HAYLEY

“You ready to go?” I ask Ryan as I walk down the stairs.

He’s in the kitchen slamming back vodka. That’s weird. I haven’t seen him drink anything the last few weeks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he snaps at me. He checks his watch. “We’re already late. The driver’s been out here for twenty minutes.” He glances at my outfit but says nothing.

My cheeks burn with shame. I thought he’d be complimenting me or at the very least happy to see me looking amazing in this dress.

“Sorry,” I said. “You didn’t tell me the car was here.”

“Can we just go and forget it?” Ryan snaps.

“Is something wrong?”

He gives me a piercing stare. “You tell me, Hayley. You’re the one who’s been a million miles away all day.”

I open my mouth to disagree but know that I have no ground to stand on. He’s right. “Okay, let’s go then.”

Ryan rented a driver and a car to take us to the gala. The atmosphere inside the car is one of icy silence between us.

“Will the team be there?” I ask tentatively, trying to break the ice.

“Why? Need more notes for your story?” Ryan snaps.

I flinch at the anger in his voice. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

We arrive at the gala and slip inside the back entrance away from the small squad of press gathered at the front of the ball room.

It’s filled with people milling around white-tablecloth-covered dinner tables. The champagne flows freely and a few smiling women make their way to Ryan. He refuses to put his arm through mine and I’m soon the third, fourth, and fifth wheel to his growing cadre of female fans.

“I’ll find our table,” I say to Ryan. But he’s busy talking to people who aren’t me. I sit down, uneasy and alone, at a six-top that’s empty but has name placards in each place. I recognize Harry from the team. He waves at me and takes Ryan’s seat.

“Ryan abandoned you?” he asks. “That’s not very gentlemanly of him.”

“Is your wife here?” I ask. I’ve spoken with her at a few matches. She is really nice and pregnant with their third child.

“Using the loo,” he says. “The food should be good tonight. There’s something to look forward to, right?”

“Right,” I say.

He looks around surreptitiously and leans in. “I’ve known that you and Ryan have been together all month. I know Ivan’s pissed at him for not playing aggressively. But I think you’ve made him a better player. He’s a good guy. And you’ve been good for him.”

I smile weakly. “Thanks. He doesn’t think so, though.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head, standing up and patting me on the shoulder. “He’s a hard nut to crack. Just be patient, alright? He needs you but won’t ever say that much to you.”

Those are his parting words to me. I reach to the place setting two over and knock back the glasses of water that have been left unattended. It seems like there’s more champagne here than water. And it’s not like I can drink in my condition.

The lights dim and the emcee takes the podium. “If I could ask all of you to sit down, we’ll be playing the annual donors’ slideshow.” Most people take their seats but Ryan is nowhere to be found. A projector screen unwinds behind the podium, and someone cues up the photos.

A smiling face appears. It belongs to a toddler who is completely bald and hooked up to a rolling IV. He’s on a football pitch and Ryan has his arm around him.

The slideshow continues and I see the various members of Hounslow with kids who are clearly sick from cancer. Ryan appears in about half of them, showing the kids how to dribble the ball down the field. He has a huge smile on his face but his joy is nothing compared to that of the kids.

I see that he’s a natural with children despite what he says.

I feel my eyes welling up as I wonder what it is that I’ve done to make him not want to talk to me anymore. I realize that I’ve made a huge mistake with the article. With not telling him about the pregnancy.

He might think he’ll make a terrible father.

But I know better.

These photos tell the truth.

I get up and start searching for him. I find him in the foyer outside the ballroom. He’s alone and leaning up against the wall, staring out the windows into the perpetual twilight of a late London summer’s evening.

“Hey,” I say. “I had no idea what this gala was for. You should have told me.” I try to take his hand but he jerks away from me. That stings more than anything he’s done tonight. “Alright,” I say. “
Enough
. What the hell is going on with you?”

He glares at me. “I read your article.”

The words cut me off at the knees. Oh no. I left the early draft open on my desktop. I thought I’d closed it but if it hadn’t saved properly, the program would have remained open to warn me.

To warn me too late, that is.

“Ryan, that’s not the article-“

“What? How do you explain this, Hayley? I read the beginning of it. You’ve been playing me this entire time only I was too fucking foolish to notice.” He sighs in exasperation and runs his hand through his hair. “I knew I shouldn’t have opened up to you.”

Tears sting my eyes again. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. That’s not the story I wanted to write. But I was going to lose my job. I was going to lose
everything
.”

He laughs darkly. “You sold me up the river. I bet if I’d kept reading I’d find some little nuggets of wisdom regarding my time in foster care. You fucking
used
me, Hayley. You used me. You sold me out. You wanted to save your own skin. That was more important to you than connecting with me on any level. I can’t believe that I fell for it.”

“Please, let me explain,” I say, tugging on his arm. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key and a twenty-pound note.

“Take a cab to my place. Spend the night there. Then get out. I won’t be back tonight. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

His words sting and cut and burn and wound me.

He wanders away from me.

“I’m pregnant,” I say softly.

But it’s too late.

He’s already walked away from me. He’s already left me alone.

My words fall on no one but myself.

CHAPTER TWENTY

RYAN

I wake up, groggy-eyed, not sure of where I am exactly. I’m on a mattress but I’m not certain whose it is. I hear footsteps in the hallway and I sit upright. I’m still fully dressed in my tuxedo.

Slowly, the pieces of last night start to fall into place in my mind. The gala. Hayley.

Her story.

Which is really
my
story.

My gut still stings from her immense betrayal.

The door to the bedroom flies open.

A gorgeous woman appears there. I blink. It’s Harry’s wife, Elin.

“Wake up,” she says in her Swedish accent. She crosses the room in confident strides and throws open the curtains. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot,” I say to her. I close my eyes and put my hand over my eyelids. I can’t stand even the smallest amount of light piercing my brain right now. “How the hell did I end up here?”

Elin raises her voice. “You were drunk so Harry and I brought you here to our place.” She looks around the room.

“What are you looking for?”

“Just making sure you didn’t piss or throw up anywhere,” she says primly. She taps her foot. “You’ll be late for practice.”

I groan. “I can’t possibly go to practice.”

She yells and the sound kills my ears. “Elsa! Breakfast up here for Mr. Mackenzie! And I need that uniform.” There’s a bemused look on her face as Elsa walks in with eggs, toast, and a smoothie for me. Under her arm is a clean uniform. One of Harry’s, no doubt.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Elsa smiles and leaves the room.

Elin is still facing me. “You were absolutely wasted last night. You can’t do that. Harry’s worried about you.”

I poke at the eggs with my fork. The scrambled texture is not appealing to me right now. I take a small bite of toast. Thankfully, my stomach handles it. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself,” I reply.

She laughs. “If you had been left to
take care of yourself
last night, I’m certain you would be front page tabloid news this morning.” She moves her hand as if painting a giant swoosh in the air. “’Footballer Laid Out’ with a photo of you probably naked in a gutter somewhere.”

“I already thanked you,” I say.

“You thanked
Elsa
, actually. You didn’t thank me.” She tilts her head and gives me a stern look.

“Well, thank you for rescuing me last night. Now can you leave so I can get dressed?”

There’s something about Elin that turns me into a petulant child. I can hear it in my voice.

I choke down the toast slices and smoothie, leaving the eggs untouched where they are. I pull on Harry’s uniform and head downstairs. I see cleats and a duffel bag by the front door. I unzip it; there’s a bottle of water and snacks waiting for me.