Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (21 page)

She gapes at me, joy dawning on her face. “Even the draping?”

I nod. “
Especially
the draping. Where do I sign up?”

I sneak back into the hotel room feeling like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my shoulders. There’s a white box with a note taped to it sitting on the bed.

Delilah
, it says on the front.

I slide my finger under the flap and open up the envelope.

For you. Tonight. And every night. As long as we both shall fuck. I mean live. Whichever one comes first.

-Saint

I laugh uproariously and slip the lid off of the glossy box. I pull open the tissue and see a black negligee and panties. I think it’ll fit over my stomach; Saint keeps feeding me extra food to fatten me up. “I like chubby babies,” he says.

I go into the bathroom and change clothes.

The top is a black bra with gauzy, see-through black fabric that hangs from the bottom and forms a tent over my burgeoning belly. The panties are boy shorts with black lace bows on the edges.

I feel beautiful.

And pregnancy has made my libido go through the roof.

I walk back into the massive, glamorous bedroom and perch on the edge of the perfectly-made king bed. I pick up the black receiver and hit the button for room service. “I’d like to order a hamburger, French fries and…” I trail off, weighing my options. “And fruit, I guess.”

I at least
try
to eat a balanced diet. “Ma’am, there’s already room service being delivered to your suite. The tray just left the kitchen and should be up in your room shortly.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Then I
do
realize.
Saint
. “Thank you so much.”

There’s a knock at the door as I hang up. I’m so hungry I nearly answer the door in my lingerie. I grab one of the plush bathrobes and slip it over my risqué outfit.

The room service spread is exactly what I would have ordered for myself. Burger, fries, fruit. There’s the unexpected bonus of a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. I dig in and finish the meal in a matter of minutes. I’m wiping my mouth when I hear the key card in the door and Saint steps into our room wearing his post-workout gear.

He beams when he sees me. “You followed my instructions to a tee.” He drops his duffel bag and leans down to kiss me on the head.

I blush. “I don’t think you meant for me to have my fingers covered in French fry grease, though.”

“Quite the fucking opposite, actually,” he says, pushing aside the room service tray and taking my face in his hands. He kisses my lips. “I want a fat baby, remember?” He kisses my cheeks and there’s fire left behind. “Which means fattening
you
up.” He runs his hands down my arms and kisses my neck.

I’m finding it a little hard to breathe.

“So you eating all of this
and
wearing the underwear I bought for you?” He stops, inches from kissing my rapidly-filling-out breasts. “Is literally the sexiest you’ve ever been.”

He cups my breasts with his hands and kisses my flesh between them. “Do you like what I bought  for you?”

“Of course,” I whisper to him, grabbing his hair with my fingers as he moves down to my mound. He pulls aside the lace panties and licks me as softly as he can. I’m already on edge, and this is threatening to send me over. He pulls away and tells me to flip over on my hands and knees. “You sure you want this much physical exertion before the game?”

He tears my panties off my body in response. “You’re my good luck charm. It’d be breaking tradition to not fuck my fiancée on game day.”

He slides into me and I have try to dig my fingers the duvet cover, attempting to hang onto reality in the midst of this pleasure. It’s no use.

I slide into oblivion, hanging on to only him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

SAINT

I cross my arms and lean up against the cold brick wall. The late September is warming me a little, but there’s no denying it: Minneapolis is freezing. I rub my hands together and blow warm breath in an attempt to revive my appendages. I check my watch and head into the building.

I open the door and run smack into Esther. “Delilah,” I say with a smile.

She looks surprised. “What are you doing here?”

I take her heavy backpack off of her back, well aware of the undergrads staring at me and whispering. I’m more famous now than I was five months ago. It’s still a little weird to have people know who I am.

Not that I mind the attention.

“I’m here to carry your five-hundred-pound backpack before the exertion of carrying it sends you into early labor,” I say.

“Don’t you have practice?”

“Coach let us out early to get some rest before the game tomorrow. And I wanted to see you, first thing.”

She blushes and I can’t help but meet her rosebud lips with my own.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

I slip her hand into my own, and we walk across the campus under the canopy of color-changing trees. “It’s a good sign you’re hungry and not too nervous to eat.”

Esther looks so good. Gone are the dowdy skirts and sweaters; she’s wearing body-hugging jeans and t-shirts nowadays, her enormous belly clearly showing. She even cut her hair to a sleek, long bob. It accentuates her perfect features.

“I
am
nervous, but considering I signed over all the planning to someone else entirely, I’m a lot less nervous than I would have been otherwise.” She squeezes my hand and we come to a stop before a skateboarding student slams into us.

“Fucking watch it!” I scream, my paternal instincts kicking into high gear.

It’s amazing how much more lively this campus is compared to Fullerton. I feel like I can breathe.

“Can we go over everything one more time, just in case?” she asks me.

We’re almost to my Jeep. I kept my crappy car. I don’t want to be the cliché football player who gets injured and loses all of his money due to overspending and mismanagement. Besides that, this car and I have a history. I can’t just let that go. “So we’re going to go eat an early dinner. Then we’re going to sleep.” I give her a flirtatious look.

“I still can’t believe you want to bang me when I look like this.”

“Stop saying that. You’re talking about someone I love,” I say, opening her door and helping her up into the Jeep.

“Keep going,” Esther says.

“Right. Dinner. Sex. Sleep. Then I’m up early to get to the stadium. Then the game. Then we both come home, shower, change clothes, and hop on Reggie’s plane that he’s letting us use.”

“And we land in Santa Barbara at four o’clock California time,” Esther adds as I pull out of the parking space.

“That’s right. Dinner, sleep, bed. Separate beds. I know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony.” I squeeze her ample thigh and she laughs.

“There’s that superstition coming out again,” she says.

“And then we get married. Reception on the beach, dancing, drinks for me, none for you, obviously. Then I get to fuck my wife. And then the next day we fly back here. Honeymoon over Christmas in a few months.”

“I love the part where you leave out the dozen video cameras recording our every single move tomorrow,” she says.

“You won’t even notice them after a few minutes, I promise,” I say.

Esther sighs. “I still haven’t heard from my mom. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to make it.”

“She’ll come. She will. I know she will. You just relax and let the next forty-eight hours unfold the way they’re supposed to unfold.”

But later that night, after food and sex, I’m wide awake. I just made a promise to Esther that I can’t guarantee. I’ve laid the groundwork for a plan, but the execution for that plan is out of my hands.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ESTHER

California is sunny and warm and perfect, as usual. We have a wonderful dinner on the terrace of the hotel with some of Saint’s teammates. Everyone is glowing and happy.

But something is really, really wrong for me.

I just can’t put my finger on what it is.

I can’t sleep that night. I waddle out to the beach around five thirty in the morning in one of the caftans I found at a thrift store in Minneapolis. I breathe in the salty air and squish the gritty sand between my toes. I love how it feels as it cascades across my skin.

The crashing of the ocean sends me into a standing meditation. I close my eyes and listen as the waves match up to my heartbeat.

Suddenly, I have an idea.

A thought.

A reckless one.

An impossible one.

I waddle as fast as I can back to the hotel. I press the elevator button at the hotel impatiently, willing the carriage to make its way to me more quickly. “Come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath.

Finally, it comes and I press the button for the penultimate floor where Saint’s room is. I rap my knuckles on the door. I hear stumbling footsteps and Saint answers the door in his boxers, his six-pack right in my face.

I feel a surge of attraction and remind myself why I’m here.

“What’s up? Is the baby coming?” Saint mumbles. His hair is sticking up from his head and he looks adorable.

I push past him into the room. “I have questions.”

“Hang on, I need to go splash some water on my face to wake up,” he says. I hear the tap running and he wanders out a minute later. “Alright. What’s going on?”

“We don’t actually have to get married for the cameras, right?”

He squints at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there’s nothing in the contract that says we have to get actually, fully married in the presence of cameras, correct?”

Saint laughs. “I don’t think so. I mean, we have to show up. But if you don’t want to, I think we can afford to break the contract.”

I shake my head. “No, no. I’m fine with having the ceremony and the reception. I just don’t want to get married in front of everybody.”

Saint smiles. “Well, you’ve already broken one rule today.”

“What’s that?”

He kisses me. “I’m not supposed to see you before the ceremony. It’s bad luck, remember?” He stares at me like he’s reading my mind. “You have a plan. I can tell.”

I nod. “I do. But you just have to go along with it, alright?”

When the sun comes up, we hop into our rental car and speed south to the Los Angeles county courthouse. Saint made the requisite phone calls.

I changed into a beachy, white linen sundress and silver ballet flats. Saint is wearing one of his old suits that isn’t quite as flashy as his new ones. We pay for the parking garage and walk hand in hand through the already-hot streets of Los Angeles. People are in California business dress, bustling down the streets with cell phones pressed to their ears.

But it may as well just be us. We walk up the steps of the courthouse, empty our pockets (my dress has pockets, how awesome is that?) and walk through the metal detectors. We find each other immediately after, locking our fingers together.

We have to ask for directions multiple times, but we finally find the room. It’s nicer than I thought it would be. Wood panels line the lower half of the walls, and there is room for quite a few witnesses. We pull in one of the security guards and he holds my purse for me while we say the requisite things in front of the judge.

A flourish of four signatures later, and we’re married.

Simple.

Easy.

Quick.

And it’s just us. Exactly the way I’ve always wanted it to be.

We keep stopping to kiss on our way back to the parking garage, finding each other’s lips and skin and hands every few feet. I feel giddy and like I weigh about five pounds. I’m floating across the gum-spackled sidewalks of downtown Los Angeles with the love of my life by my side.

We have to speed to get back to the hotel in Santa Barbara. We make it just in time for me to get hair and makeup done. My wedding planner is having a meltdown, but she’s trying to hold it together for my sake. I let them poke and prod and brush my hair and paint my skin, happy that I had at least
some
control over this day, the happiest day of my life.

The ceremony is like a fairy tale. I can objectively appreciate that. But it’s someone else’s fairytale.

I already had mine this morning, in a courtroom in a smog-covered city.

Saint and I burn with our shared secret, and he smiles at me through the entire ceremony. We run down the aisle together, our hands squeezing each other’s.

The rest of the night is a blur of people I don’t know shaking my hand and congratulating me, pointing to my wedding dress and making jokes about how large my stomach is underneath all this silk and satin.

I finally pull away from everyone a few hours into the reception. Nearly everyone is drunk by now; I’m resting in a chair at the edge of the tide when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Esther,” says a small voice.

I look up and burst into tears.

It’s my mother. I hop out of the chair and hug her. It’s an awkward hug because my body keeps us mostly apart. But she gets the sentiment. “How did you get here?” I ask her.

“Saint sent a plane. I almost didn’t get on it. Your father forbade me to.” She pauses. She looks different. There’s a gleam of defiance in her eyes that I’ve never seen anymore. She doesn’t seem so small anymore. “He told me that if I came to the wedding I wouldn’t be allowed to come home.” Her voice catches in her throat but she collects herself well. “You can see that I made my decision.”

“Oh, Mom,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” she says. “I took too long to make my decision. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

I laugh. “You didn’t miss anything, actually.” And I let her in on the secret I kept with Saint. I tell her about the courthouse, my dress, and my simple shoes. “You’re the only one who knows.”

She squeezes my hand. “That means more to me than I can possibly say.” She tears up. “I’m sorry I raised you in that house, Esther. A part of me died every single day that I saw you wither under his control. I’m just so, so sorry.”