Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (18 page)

I laugh and bring his hand to my lips. “You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss me again. “You and this baby are the only things I really want.”

***

“You’re seriously going to sit here all day watching this?” Romy asks me. “It’s a gorgeous day outside. And you’ll be in here. Watching the television.” She throws her hair up into a high ponytail and grabs her sunglasses and a blanket. “Rick and I are sneaking off to the town park so I can sunbathe. You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

I nod. “I’m sure.”

She sighs. “Enjoy your football show.”

How can I miss the draft? This is the biggest moment of Saint’s life. I’ve stocked up on necessary junk food provisions and cocooned myself in bed with snacks and the remote. I turn up the volume on the television. Jim Olson and Todd Weathers are sitting behind the red, curved studio desk.

I muted them when they started talking about players other than Saint. The draft takes forever and Romy’s right: it’s going to be a long day.

I dig into my bag of chips and then lean over to crank open the window for some more fresh air. I glance up at the TV to see Jim touching his earpiece and putting his hand up to stop Todd from speaking. I turn the volume back on.

“We have some breaking news,” Jim says. “Independently verified sources are telling us that college football rookie favorite Saint Williams may not be as sainted as he seems.”

“That’s right, Jim.” Todd Weathers’ bald spot is gleaming underneath the studio lights. “We’ve confirmed that Saint Williams is having a
baby
with his girlfriend, Esther Avonlea.”

I drop the remote.

Oh.

No.

I slap my face to make sure I didn’t doze off. My palm stings my cheek and I know that what is happening is not some sort of nightmare.

I pick up my phone and speed-dial Saint’s number. He picks up almost immediately.

“Are you okay?” he asks without any preamble.

“Did you see the-“

He exhales. “Everyone saw it, Esther. Yes. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, I’m-“

Knock knock knock.

My stomach plummets. “There’s somebody at the door,” I whisper to Saint, hastily muting the television before I realize that’s a dead giveaway that I’m really in here.

Knock knock knock knock knock.

“Hang on a minute!” I yell. “Saint, who? What? How? What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Stay calm and remember that ninety-nine percent of football viewers don’t expect someone like me to be a virgin, alright? This will all blow over.” But he still sounds worried. I know from a decade and a half of devouring football coverage that a lot of pro teams will pass over even the most promising players because they don’t want drama.

What’s more dramatic than a star quarterback from an ultra-conservative religious school who paints Bible verses on his face knocking up his girlfriend?

I hang up and walk over to the door, trying to control my breathing. I open it. It’s my RA, the student who is the head of the floor. She looks grim. “The Dean wants to see you in his office. Immediately.”

“Okay,” I reply. “Let me get changed-“

“He said right now,” she says. “I’m supposed to escort you.”

I panic. I don’t want to meet with him alone. Something tells me it’s not safe. I need witnesses. My mind flashes to finding Romy. She’s the only person on campus I trust.

My stomach turns over.

Did she find the pregnancy test under my mattress? Did she tell someone?

That’s the only way anybody would know what was happening with me; there’s no way the doctor would have sold that news. My stomach plummets. “Let me just grab my room key,” I say.

The RA puts her foot in the door to hold it open.

“I promise I’m not jumping out of my window to make a run for it,” I reply, trying to laugh and seem lighthearted. But my voice cracks and tears appear in my eyes instead.

I wish Saint were here.

The walk across campus under the sunny Virginia skies feels like a death march. People are laughing all around me, but I’m just trying to stay upright.

I don’t even have to wait when I get to the Dean’s office. The secretary waves me inside.

I fidget with my pajama bottoms as I take a seat. The Dean says nothing. He folds his hands on his desktop and stares at me.

He stares at me for
two minutes
without saying anything.

“Sister Avonlea,” he finally says in a disappointed voice. “My phone has been ringing off the hook. I had to unplug it from the wall.” He motions to the hanging phone cord. “Is what I’m hearing true?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “That depends on what you’re hearing.”

I wonder how long it’ll take for me to be like this - challenging, obstinate, confident - before I get used to it. The words I speak these days continue to surprise me.

The Dean laughs darkly. “That you are…that you are
pregnant
with Saint’s child.”

“I don’t know why the state of my uterus is your business or anyone else’s,” I say to him. I’m feeling maternal and protective of this life I have inside my body. Now I know how women have the strength to lift entire cars up in the air to save their kids. I’m fighting for this child already and it’s the size of a peanut.

“It
is
the business of the honor committee if you’ve been engaging in unholy acts,” he explains.

I already know that. “I understand that.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So are you or are you not pregnant?”

“I don’t feel comfortable having this conversation with you,” I say, standing up. “If you want to charge me with something, go through the formal channels. I know I signed the Honor Code contract when I came to this school. Take it up with them.”

And with a strength I didn’t know I had, I walk out of the office, ignoring the Dean’s cries for me to not leave.

He can threaten me all he wants to. He’s not getting the information that he wants.

***

Romy’s back in our dorm room already; the news has spread like wildfire across campus and cut short her day of sunshine and making out with Rick.

“Esther.”

That’s all she says to me.

I throw my room key onto my desk and spin to face her. “You did this, didn’t you?”

She looks shocked. “How could you say that? I didn’t know you were pregnant!”

“Save it,” I say to her. “You’ve been trying to get me to admit it for weeks now. You found the pregnancy test, didn’t you?”

Tears fill up her eyes. I’ve never seen Romy cry. “How
dare
you, Esther. I don’t go through your things the way you go through mine. Borrowing my mascara when I’m not here, judging the things I hide under the floorboards. I’m not you. I don’t violate my roommate’s privacy.”

Anger surges through me. “You said I
could
borrow it! You always tell me, ‘Esther, you’re boring. Esther, you’re plain. Esther, dress like me. Esther, look like a slut for this party the way that I do’ and now you’re yelling at me for it?” The words pour out of me. Romy flinches at the word
slut
.

Her tears evaporate. “Is that what you think of me? That’s I’m a slut?” she scoffs. “I have news for you, Esther. The entire country knows now that you and Saint have been banging like rabbits. I haven’t had a problem with it and I’m probably the only person who doesn’t. I didn’t betray you. I would never do that. Even if I am a dirty
slut
.”

I find my breath again and calm down. “I’m sorry,” I say to the coldness of the room. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that. I believe that you didn’t do it.” I sit on my bed. “I’m sorry.”

Romy gets up and points to the floor. “Sit,” she says.

I do as I’m told, feeling numb and guilty all at once. She climbs onto my bed and starts kneading my shoulders with her strong hands. “You’re stressed. I would be too. Esther, you’re having a
baby.
”

I let the words sink in. I guess it hasn’t felt real all this time, but now that someone knows? It’s real. “I know,” is all I can muster in reply.

“Congratulations,” she says.

And that single, simple word alone is what triggers my release. I cry and sob until I can’t cry anymore. Romy stays where she is, massaging all my pain away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SAINT

“No team is going to want to deal with the drama of this.” My expensive-suited agent is pacing the floor of my hotel room. My dad’s booked one of the largest suites at the hotel. I’m sitting on the cream couch overlooking the skyscrapers of Chicago. My agent’s not done. “At a
minimum,
if you get signed, you’ll end up being the least-liked teammate of all time. Other players will resent you for hogging the spotlight with pointless bullshit.” He sighs. “How could you do this?”

I flash him a sarcastic grin. “How could I do this? Well, it started with me putting my cock inside my girlfriend and ejaculating.”

“Francis!” My mom coughs out my name as a reprimand between heavy sobs. She can’t stop crying since she heard the news.

“Let the boy curse. What the hell does it matter at this point?” My dad hasn’t shed a tear, but he certainly has had no issue with reprimanding and scolding me for the better part of the morning. “All your life. All the things we paid for. Football lessons. Out of state competitions. Endless lessons. Homeschool tutoring so you could practice more often. All down the drain.”

I take a sip of water. “Is anyone going to ask me how
I
feel about this?”

Everyone stares at me. My agent speaks. “Fine. Please, enlighten us as to how you feel.”

“I think I’m not paying you five percent for you to tell me all the reasons I’m not going to get drafted by any team. I’m paying you to be downstairs networking and lobbying on my behalf.”

My agent actually laughs. “Fair enough point.” He pulls on his suit jacket. “Allow me to go work my magic to clean up this spectacular disaster.” He slams the door on his way out. I don’t care.

“Anybody for room service?” I ask, picking up the menu and perusing the food on offer.

“You need to take this seriously, Francis,” my father intones.

“Oh, I am. I’m incredibly serious about piping-hot curly fries delivered directly to my hotel room.”

“Dammit, Francis! Get a grip!” My mother has finally spoken. I’m not used to hearing her curse.

“Mom, I’m not worried. I’m the number one pick out of college. I’ve got this,” I say.

She stands up, furious. “You need to do something about this. Stop the story. End it.”

I laugh. “You want a chipotle chicken sandwich? I’m getting two of them and a bowl of spaghetti. Tough workout in the gym this morning.”

She snatches the menu out of my hands. For a second I think she’s going to start beating me with it, but she slams it on the coffee table instead. “You need to get in front of a camera and say how sorry you are about this. How you made a mistake. You need to ask for privacy in this difficult time of personal anguish and turmoil.”

“Anguish and turmoil? Mom, I don’t have cancer. I’m having a child.”

She pauses, her face stony. “I wish it were cancer. Then you’d at least be sympathetic.”

Now it’s my turn to be angry. I open my mouth to scream at her to get the fuck out of my face, out of this hotel room, out of my life.

But I hold back.

I take a deep breath.

I’ll give her what she wants.

Or at least, I’ll do what I did my entire childhood. I’ll let her
think
she’s getting what she wants. Then I’ll do
what I want to do
.

***

“I’m glad we’re doing this in your hotel room. Makes it less of a media circus downstairs. You already have enough people hating you for stealing the spotlight,” my agent says as a makeup woman from FNCA pats powder over my nose.

“Mic check,” says a producer. The video camera is sitting on a tripod about five feet away.

“Testing, testing,” I say into the lapel mic attached to my nicest suit.

They sent the big guns for this broadcast. Jenny Kelly, the same newscaster who interviewed me a few months ago, sits across from me, her perfect suit and blinding white teeth mesmerizing me. “Now, Saint, we’ll just make this a quick interview. Simple questions, and you get the spotlight.”

I nod. “Understood.”

“And we’re on in three, two,-“ the producer mouths the word
one
and the red light comes onto the side of the camera.

“I’m Jenny Kelly and I’m here in Chicago, upstairs at the Hallwood Hotel with Saint Williams. He’s had a busy day today and was kind enough to sit down with me and talk about things. Saint, how are you holding up?”

“Fine,” I reply shortly, no smile on my face.

Jenny’s fake smile falters for a millisecond but she recovers. “Great, great, glad to hear it. Do you care to talk about recent reports that have been circulating in the news?”

I nod. “I don’t really care to talk about them, no, but my agent tells me if I don’t he’s firing me as a client.” It’s my turn to flash a showbiz smile.

Jenny laughs nervously. “I can understand the violation of privacy is jarring. But you are signing up to be in the national spotlight, aren’t you?”

I nod. “That’s true. So I will be the hundredth person to tell you my intensely personal news: my girlfriend and I are excited to announce that we’re having a baby.”

“Excited? Well, yes. Congratulations,” Jenny shuffles through her blue note cards, panicking. I’m going off script. I don’t need to look at my mother to know she’s melting down from the other side of the camera. “You’re a highly religious person. An inspiration to millions. You paint a Bible verse on your cheek and it’s the trending topic on social media for a full news cycle. People would kill to have that kind of platform and impact. How does this pregnancy announcement mesh with your public persona?”

I cross my legs, resting my ankle on my knee. My agent is waving at me to not do that. I ignore him. “It meshes perfectly. God says to go forth and multiply and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”