Rooster: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (14 page)

“Yours”, she says, before I can stop her.

Her words hang in the air like the echo after a bomb explodes, while the rest of us wait for the inevitable aftermath. The casualties stumbling around confused, the adjustment to the new world order.

Rory is clearly shell-shocked, although he’s trying his best not to show it. I’ve got my head in my hands wondering how I can get myself out of this, and April has her
I didn’t want to, but you left me no fucking choic
e eyes on.

Rory looks at me, holds Oscar out to look at him, and then looks over to April.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he says.

The words don’t need to be repeated, but April clearly thinks otherwise. “Yours”, she says again, the second bomb blast of the night tearing through my carefully maintained lie. “And Izzy’s”, goes the third.

My heart has all but stopped. I can’t see for the clouds of smoke in the room, the ringing deep in the canals of my ears. I feel sick and dizzy and I want it to stop.

Oscar is out at full stretch again, as far away as he can get him without giving him away. Far enough to take him in properly.

“Our son?” Rory says, his eyes finding mine across the chaos of the world we’ve found ourselves in.

I nod, my
I can’t believe this is really happening eyes
already wet with tears.

“Fucking hell”, he says and I can’t help but laugh for the stupidity of it.

Rory comes over, passes me our boy and takes a couple of steps away.

“Oh fuck”, he says, rubbing his head. Now he’s laughing a little bit too, a look of complete bewilderment on his face, like he’s just woken up in a strange room and he doesn’t know how he got there. “Sorry-. Fuck”, he says again. “This is-. I’ve got to.”

“You should sit down”, April offers.

In my arms again, Oscar begins to cry. What the fuck is it when Rory holds him?

“No, I, er, fuck”, Rory says again, lost for words. “I think I need to go.”

“Please don’t go”, I say.

“I’m, look, I’m sorry. I-. This is, a lot to take in”, he says.

“I told you this would happen”, I say to April.

“Don’t look at me, you should have told him”, she says.

“I’m sorry, Izzy. Fuck, I’m sorry, I need to go”, Rory repeats.

“That’s not going to solve it”, April says.

I understand. Fuck, when I first found out I wanted to do the same. It’s not exactly the easiest news to take.
Hi Rory, meet Oscar, your three-month-old baby.
It’s exactly why I didn’t fucking tell him.

“I just need some time to think”, Rory says. “Fuck, you told me it was hers.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to shock you”, I say.

“Right, no, of course not. Only this is my fucking baby. How is that not going to shock me?”

“Our baby”, I correct him.

“Fuck, Izzy. Were you going to tell me at all?” he says.

“Of course I was. It just didn’t seem like the right time”, I offer.

“I’ve got a fucking baby. Jesus, look at him”, Rory says.

First shock, now surprise, if we can bypass denial and rejection we might actually be able to get through this.

“My head is spinning. A real fucking baby”, he adds.

There is a moment in which I think he’s going to stay, perhaps even a microsecond that I’m convinced everything is going to be okay before Rory finally decides reality is too potent a drink to imbibe right now and he has to get out of there.

“I’ll call you”, he says, randomly. “We’ll work something out. Thank you for the dinner, sorry for the, fucking, thing. Nice to meet you, Cory, April, everyone. I’ll call you, Izzy. I’ll call you.”

Denial. That absolute motherfucker.

April looks at the empty space he’s left, and then she looks over at me.
Tired, big sister, reality is harsh
eyes.

“Well that went well”, she says, and sits down on the couch beside me.

Seven.

Rory

I get penalty boxed for more minutes that I play in the first period and then get pulled off halfway through the second because, apparently, I’ve completely forgotten how to play. Kowalski slams into me when the rest of the team comes off 3-0 down, trying his best to hold me up against the wall of the locker room but barely able to budge me an inch.

“What the fuck is your problem, Irish?” he says, spit flying everywhere. “Where’s your head?”

Baby. Fucking tiny, little, human, midget, baby is where my head’s at. I still can’t believe it.

I push him away, which is basically as easy as swatting a fly, and head for the showers.

I hear his stick break against the bench and Kowalski go into one of his trademark temper tantrums. Fuck him. Fuck the whole of this team, I’ve got way more important things to think about now.

It’s been a week since April dropped the news to me on Izzy behalf, most of which time I’ve been trying to work out exactly how to process the baby bombshell.

I’m not proud of walking out of there the way that I did, but I just couldn’t help it. Izzy should have told me that the baby I was holding was my own way before April came back that night and revealed her own secret to me. She should have told me the first time we met up again, right here outside of the stadium.

I get that it’s a big fucking thing to her, but it’s a big fucking thing to me too. I’m a daddy, I have a fucking son, and even though that terrifies the fuck out of me completely, I can’t tell you how excited and proud it makes me too.

I know nothing about babies, but I knew nothing about ice hockey before coming here either and that seems to be going well enough. Oscar, which is a fucking awesome name, by the way, couldn’t get enough of me last night. Crying in Mommy’s arms, and then as soon as he came to me that little bundle of shit and smiles was in fucking paradise.

It’s a complicated situation. I’m Irish, she’s American. I’m a hurling player, she’s a, actually, I don’t even know what she does. It doesn’t matter. The more I think about it, the more perfect it seems. It’s clear Izzy and I have a connection. Fuck, I have more of a connection with Izzy than some of the girlfriends I’ve had in the past, and we’ve known each other way less time.

I’ve only been with her for less than a heartbeat, but if that was enough to make another heartbeat too, we’ve got to take responsibility for it. Both of us. If that’s what she wants, of course.

For all I know she just wants a casual hook-up and someone to throw a few bills her way to help with the maintenance. Maybe she wants a distant baby daddy that takes a purely financial role in his own kid’s upbringing, while she finds someone she really likes.

I still can’t believe it. Every time I think about what it means it sends a shiver of something electric down my spine. My own kin. My own child. My genes. All it took was a five minute fuck and nine months later that little fella pops out. How fucking virile am I?

Mom is going to freak when she finds out. I haven’t told her yet because I still can’t believe it’s real. She’s going to piss herself when she sees him too, however the fuck that’s going to work out.

I don’t know how anything’s going to work out, to be honest, but that’s never stopped me doing stuff before. That’s the least important thing for us to worry about. First, I’ve got to get to Izzy’s house and apologize for ducking out like that last week, and have a serious conversation with her about how we fucking handle this.

I never thought coming to America would have such an effect on me, nor how fucking lucky it is that I got called back here. If Francis hadn’t come over to draft me onto his team there is little to no chance Izzy and I would have got back together, almost zero that I’d have ever found out about Oscar.

That’s some serious fucking pushing the world is doing to make this work and I’m not the kind of person who plans to ignore it.

We lose the game 4-1, but not after Kowalski breaks another one of his sticks and gets sent to the penalty box. He’s super pissed at me for having a rare off day, but if anyone should take responsibility for fucking up the score it’s him. I decide that today is probably not the best day to challenge him, though, pack up my kit and make my way out of there.

I feel like I ought to get to Izzy’s apartment quickly, but there’s a row of kids out here clamoring for autographs and photos I just can’t ignore. It’s been a week already and Izzy and I haven’t spoken, but part of that was me coming to terms with what April told me on her behalf, and part because it went down exactly like that and not how it should have done instead.

A week seems like the right amount of time anyway. I don’t want to set a precedent by rushing back and being there at her beck and call in seconds, and I don’t want to leave it so long she thinks I’m being a jerk either. I like Izzy, I think I really like her, and whatever happens between us, whether it works out or not, we are always going to have something we share. We’ve got a fucking kid together, which means that we are going to be in each other’s lives forever, whether we like it or not. That kind of thing deserves a week of thought, and to be honest, I haven’t really been thinking about much else, hence not being able to get my head in the game today.

Izzy deserves the wait too. I know that sounds harsh but she made no attempt to get in contact with me at any point over the last year, and when she had every opportunity to let me know about our son, she pussied out. I know, at the moment at least, that Oscar is only my son genetically but I seriously want that to change. Being a single parent sucks balls. I’ve seen that shit so many times in my life it’s not funny. Looking after a rucksack is hard enough when you’re are on your own, so with a baby, it has to be a fucking nightmare.

I stick around outside the ground for an hour and a bit taking photos with fans, signing autographs, holding babies - I kid you not - as if by some weird fucking coincidence two different people want me to hold their babies and take photographs with them, before the crowd finally thins out and I’m good to go.

There are babies everywhere I look on the way over to Izzy’s apartment. In fact, come to think of it, I’ve been seeing babies all week, ever since I held my own. It’s fucking weird the kind of thoughts I’ve been having when I look at them too - thoughts only a father would think - yet I’ve only been one for less than a week, despite Oscar being almost four months old.

I think about shitting, diapers, screaming, walking, talking, climbing, hurling and even ice hockey, and as I climb the piss stained stairs up to Izzy’s front door I wonder how the fuck she’s going to keep doing that as Oscar gets bigger and bigger.

She doesn’t know I’m coming, but I want to surprise her anyway. I guess, partly, because she gave me a shock last week and I feel it’s only fair to get my own back now too. A phone call is a bullshit way to talk anyway. I can’t see her pretty face like that. I know where she lives so I might as well come here directly. If she’s not about, I’ll slip a romantic note under the door and wait for her to get in contact.

She wasn’t at the game, I know that because I spent the first period looking for her. Maybe she thinks I’ve disappeared for good.

Izzy

Rory is the last person I expect to see when I open the door. The milkman, the mailman, maybe even someone to inform me they are finally fixing the elevator. Rory? Not a chance. I thought he’d bailed for good after last week’s bombshell. I thought he’d be on the first boat back to the Emerald Isle, yet here he is all tattoos and smiles, all muscles and responsibility.

“I thought you’d disappeared for good”, I say.

“Is that why you haven’t cooked me stew today?”

Cheeky fucker, but I’ll allow that. He’s back for a reason and I know he didn’t forget his coat because he didn’t bring one last time. Maybe he wants his stick back, or his baby.

“How was the game?” I ask, not inclined quite yet to let him back in.

“We lost.”

“How does that feel?”

“I had other things on my mind”, he says.

“Irish stew?”

“That as well.”

A trickle of time passes by before I swing the door fully open and let him in. It amuses me that he has to duck a little to make it through the door frame.

“I bought you a present”, he says, before taking to the couch and adopting the pose I saw him most comfortable in last.

“A present?” I say.

Please don’t be adoption pamphlets, or legal letters of visiting rights. Rory digs around in his kit back and pulls out a plastic teething toy.

“It’s a teething toy”, he says.

“I know what it is”, I say.

“I was reading that could be what it is, you know, the crying and all that.”

“You were reading?”

“I did a bit of research”, he says.

I’m shocked.

“You look shocked”, Rory guesses.

“I am a bit shocked.”

I sit down on the couch next to him. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I wasn’t sure if you had one already”, he says. “It’s just a little something, you know.”