Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  “He needs to remember who’s the boss,” I say authoritatively.

  “He’s always polite with me, so I think he knows exactly who the boss is. Why you don’t just order from him in the first place? It’s not like it really costs us anything. The money just goes out one pocket and in another.”

  “That’s not the point. I like cooking for all of you.”

  “Good, because there’s no way I’m bending down to take anything out of the oven.”

  “I don’t think there’s room in the kitchen for you to bend over.”

  “What was that?” Becky asks, suddenly crunching on a mouthful of potato chips.

  “Nothing dear. How is Dad getting on with Gemma?”

  “He’s fine. Stop worrying about him.”

  I can’t not worry about Dad. The nasty cough that plagued him in prison wasn’t just a bad cold. It had been a sign of something much worse. He developed cancer while in prison, but managed to beat it, no thanks to the prison healthcare system. The only consolation to his illness was that he ended up getting an early release after I kicked up a fuss about his treatment and threatened to sue. He doesn’t have the energy he used to have, but maybe that’s just because he’s getting old. Gemma runs rings around him. Mind you, she does that with me as well.

  “He’s kicking,” Becky says excitedly, touching her belly.

  I quickly stand behind my wife and wrap my arms around her, placing my palms on her belly. “He’s got quite the kick on him.” I always used to hate it when parents-to-be say things like that. ‘He’s going to be a footballer with a kick like that.’ It’s always sounds so silly and corny, but now I understand.

  “This one moves a lot more than Ollie did,” Becky says. “I think he’s going to be a handful. We might have to give in this time and get a babysitter. I can’t imagine ever being able to get any work done with another Gemma around.”

  “How’s the story coming along? You still think you’ll be able to finish it in the next week?”

  “I have to. I sold the story this morning, and they want to publish it in a couple of weeks’ time.”

  “That’s great, darling.” I kiss her on the cheek and hold her tightly. It’s no longer a huge surprise when she sells a story to a major publication. The first time she did it, we popped champagne and celebrated in style. Now we tend to just take it on the chin.

  It’s funny how things work out. Not getting a job after college ended up being the best thing for Becky. She’s an independent journalist and has the freedom to write about whatever she wants. The fact that she’s fucking good at it also helps of course. Even without my income we’d have no trouble paying the bills.

  We walk into the living room and watch as my dad holds Ollie in his arms, while Gemma pretends to feed her little brother with the fake food that came with one of her dolls. She’s so much older than her years. I’m not one of those parents who sees their child do something clever and immediately thinks they have a Nobel Prize winner on their hands. Add that to the list of pet peeves I have about parents. Rationally, I know that Gemma talks at about the same level as other children of her age and on paper she’s no different from them. But I see the differences. She’s smart. Devious even.

  Dana and I had a long talk recently after finding out Gemma was playing us off against each other to get more toys. She guilted Dana into thinking that Becky was spoiling her, so of course Dana immediately started throwing money around and buying Gemma whatever she wanted. She’s clever like that.

  One day, about a year ago, I’d been expecting World War III to break out between Dana and Becky. I came home to find Dana’s car parked in the drive and I expected the worst. However, when I burst into the kitchen I found them gossiping about me over coffee. After that, things were fine between the two of them.

  Dana’s changed a lot in the last couple of years. She agreed to let Gemma live with me full-time, and now when she does spend time with Gemma she’s a much better mother. We even do some parenting stuff as a threesome, like taking Gemma to school on her first day. Dana used to be an inconvenience, but there’s a plus side to having someone who wants to look after your child a couple of days a week. Hell, now that we have Ollie, I’m tempted to ask Dana to look after him as well just to get a bit of alone time with Becky.

  “Can I assume you ordered take-out?” Dad asks. “Because no offense, but whatever I can smell from the kitchen I don’t really want to eat. Reminds me of being back in prison.”

  “Don’t panic, I ordered take-out from the pub.”

  Just as I say that, the doorbell rings and Gemma jumps up excitedly. “Can I pay, Daddy?”

  Of course, what she means is ‘can I use your money to pay?’ “Here you go,” I say handing her my wallet.

  I watch Gemma as she strolls over to the door and does her best impression of Becky. “Who is it?” Gemma asks in her adult voice. Becky always asks who’s at the door, despite the fact that we have a peephole and CCTV monitoring the front door. Force of habit I guess.

  “It’s your food, ma’am,” a voice I recognize as Tom’s yells back. He’s one of the new recruits, but he’s a good kid. And English. That’s not a requirement, but it always helps make the pub feel a bit more genuine.

  Gemma reaches up and just about manages to open the door. She smiles as soon as she sees Tom. She likes him—he always gives her larger portions of ice cream than he probably should.

  Tom gives Gemma as much of the food as she can carry, and then puts the rest down on a table by the door. I watch Gemma dig through my wallet, and breathe a sigh of relief as I see just a couple of notes exchange hands.

  “Thank you, Tom,” Gemma says, before closing the door and taking the food into the kitchen. I grab the rest of the food, and we all gather in the kitchen. Gemma hands me back my wallet which fortunately feels about the same thickness as it did before.

  “Sweetie, how much did you give Tom?”

  “Five,” she replies.

  “Five what?”

  “Five pieces of paper.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones with an old man on the front.” Well that narrows it down. Gemma takes my wallet back and pulls out a $100 bill. “These ones.”

  No wonder the delivery guys are always so happy to see her. “Perhaps maybe just give him two next time, sweetie.”

  “No, I like giving him lots. He’s a nice man and he sounds like you, Daddy.”

  Goddammit, I can’t argue with that.

  “She spends money like her mother,” my dad says. “Not you, Becky, the other one.”

  “Is mommy number two coming to pick me up later?” Gemma asks.

  “Um, yes, but don’t ever call her that to her face.” Or at least not when I’m there.

  We take the food into the living room and watch soccer. I’m not a huge fan, but Dad likes it. It reminds him of home, and has always been his sport of choice. Mum had been the one who nudged me towards rugby as a kid. I never would have made it in soccer. I’m fast, but completely uncoordinated with my feet, as Becky can attest to from when I tried to dance at our wedding.

  I think Dad regrets ever moving here. The woman he left mom for ditched him fairly quickly once he ended up in prison, and he talks about mom now more than ever. If it weren’t for his two—soon to be three—grandkids he would have probably moved home by now.

  I’m glad he’s staying put. There’s nothing like losing your mom, having your father spend four years in prison, and then seeing him battle cancer to really appreciate your parents. Better late than never I suppose.

  One of our phones rings from the kitchen. We all have similar phones, and the same ring tones. Every time one of them goes off we always say we must change them, but we never do.

  “I’ll get it,” Gemma says, bouncing up and running into the kitchen. She comes back a few moments later telling granddad he has a call.

  “Where’s the phone?” Dad asks.

  “Oh, I left it in the kitchen. Sorry Grandda
d.”

  Dad heads into the kitchen, and the second he’s out of the door Gemma grabs the remote and changes the channel to one that’s playing ‘daddy’s game.’ Moments later, Dad comes back into the living room and passes me my phone.

  “It’s for you,” he says with a shrug. “I guess she got the phones confused.”

  I look down at Gemma who’s watching the football and trying to act all innocent. I’ll really have to keep an eye on this one.

  “I doubt she got them confused. Gemma, switch back to the other channel so that granddad can watch soccer.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dad says. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

  I catch Gemma grinning as I walk out of the room to take the call. Devious little sod. It’s just my agent making sure I remember to pack certain ‘sponsor clothing’ for my trip. God forbid I be seen wearing a pair of headphones that have the wrong label on them.

  I largely keep the commercial side of my career secret from Becky. Frankly, there are a few parts of it that I’m not comfortable with, and it’s a constant battle to stay on the right side of my morals. I do have a few after all. If Becky knew half of what went on with the other lads and their little side deals, she’d write one of her articles exposing the entire thing. Sometimes I think she’s too good at her job.

  No, scratch that. I’m damn lucky to have such a talented wife. After Dad got released from prison, Becky spoke to him about the treatment he received, and she was so furious she wrote an article about medical treatment for prisoners. People lost their jobs because of that one.

  I’d never been more proud.

  Becky hasn’t been able to focus on her writing as much as she’d like. In addition to the small matter of being pregnant, she tends to take on most of the parenting responsibilities during the football season. That’s how we split things. September to December, or September to February in a good year, Becky does most of the parenting, and then I do it in the off-season. I prefer being a dad to being a footballer, but being a dad doesn’t pay millions a year.

  “I’m going to take the little one for a walk,” Dad says after dinner. “Come on, Gemma. I reckon you could do with some fresh air as well.”

  “But, Granddad, I want to watch the rest of the game.”

  “It’ll still be going on when we get back. Trust me, this sport goes on for bloody hours.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. I’m sure your mom and dad could use some peace and quiet.”

  “Why do they need peace and quiet?”

  “Stop asking so many questions and get your shoes on.”

  Gemma puts her shoes on about as slowly as is humanly possible, and then goes outside with her granddad and little brother. Dad likes taking the kids for walks around the park near the house. Four years in prison tends to increase your appreciation for open spaces.

  “I guess we should load the dishwasher,” Becky says, as she pushes herself up from the table with great difficulty.

  I stand up and help her to her feet. She’s heavy, but she’s as beautiful as she ever was. Perhaps even more so. Maybe it’s the infamous pregnancy glow, or maybe it’s just because she’s carrying my child, but I’m as infatuated with her now as I was when I first stepped foot into the sauna all those years ago. Becky probably feels just like she did that day too, judging by how much she’s sweating.

  “My dad didn’t give us privacy so we could load the dishwasher,” I reply. I stand behind her, and scoop up her huge breasts in my hands, giving them a gentle squeeze as I kiss her on the neck.

  “You have to be kidding. I’m the size of a whale.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been a while. Besides, you know the saying in England—any hole’s a goal.”

  “Well, when you put it like that….”

  She kisses me and my mind flashes back to the first time I kissed her in the library. A lot’s changed since then, and all for the better.

  I don’t have a crush on her anymore; I’m in love with her instead.

  I don’t have one child; I have two with a third on the way.

  I still can’t cook shepherd’s pies, but I do a mean fish and chips.

  * * *

  THE END

  Hard Tackle

  Chapter 1

  Kristi

  Sorry Kristi, I can’t make it. You’re on your own.

  A wave of panic washed over me as I stood outside the client’s building and read the message from my boss. I was on my own? The only thing I’d done on my own since starting my internship at Goodson, Mitchell, & Price was make the coffee, and everyone had bitched about that.

  There’s too much milk.

  There’s not enough milk.

  I said two teaspoons of sugar, not one.

  Leona didn’t even trust interns to take proper notes in meetings, so she always had at least two of us doing it. “That way if one of you fucks up, hopefully the other will have picked up the slack.”

  Did I mention how much I was enjoying my summer? At this rate, I couldn’t wait for my final year of college to start. Working sounded great when you were studying for exams at two in the morning, but in reality… yeah, the real world kind of sucked.

  I typed out a panicked reply to Leona’s email. If it was possible to hear terror through typed words, then I felt sure my email had that in spades.

  Maybe we should call off the meeting and do it another day? I’m not qualified to handle such an important client by myself.

  After all, clients didn’t come much more important than Barton Fenner. A first round draft pick, and hotly tipped to be a star quarterback for the next ten years. Plus the media loved him; mainly because he generated headlines. Not always positive headlines, but headlines none the less.

  Barton’s agent hired my firm to look after him, and I’d been put on the team. We’d hoped for an easy beginning; Barton wasn’t supposed to be in the first team at all this year, but then, well, the phrase ‘shit hit the fan’ springs to mind.

  The team’s first choice quarterback, Milton Pattern, picked up an injury in training and ruled himself out until Christmas. Barton was now the team’s first choice quarterback, and tonight he was celebrating his promotion in the only way he knew how.

  I didn’t know jack shit about football, but if Barton was half as entertaining on the field as he was at parties, then he would earn his inflated salary.

  Pictures of Barton appeared on social media within minutes of the party kicking off. The pictures were innocent enough at first, but he started getting visibly more and more wasted. The more he drunk, the more skin he showed. The same could also be said of the bimbos draped over him.

  Leona had called me on my cell while I’d been sat at home in my pajamas watching television. She insisted we get to the party as soon as possible. An “emergency” as she described it, although I doubted it quite qualified for flashing red and blue light and siren treatment.

  I made it to Barton’s apartment within twenty minutes of Leona’s call, but then she had bailed, and left me standing outside by myself. An intern, in charge of the ‘new hotness.’ All I had to do was stop him making an ass of himself at his party. I was basically his babysitter.

  A reply from Leona came through.

  You’ll have to handle it. We don’t have a choice. Just keep the cameras off him if possible. I have every faith in you.

  Oh now she had faith in me. This morning, she’d asked me to tell her the time, and then double-checked my answer.

  At least I had a chance to prove myself. That was the main goal of this internship. That, and not fucking up. One of those was likely to happen tonight.

  I took a deep breath and counted to ten, before stepping through the front entrance of Barton’s apartment building in downtown San Francisco. The building was unremarkable; I’d walked past it hundreds of times before without giving it a second thought. Now, it was intimidating. This was the building in which Barton Fenner lived and partied. The value of properties here was about
to go through the roof.

  I walked to the elevator confidently, trying to look like I belonged, and pressed the button for the top floor. I pulled out my phone and looked through the photos on Twitter. In just the last ten minutes, ten new photos had popped up under the hashtag #BartonMVP.

  In the latest picture, he had lipstick marks on his cheeks. Give it another hour and he’d have lipstick on other parts of his body.

  I heard the music while the elevator was still three floors away from Barton’s. I thought my eardrums were about to explode when the doors slid opened. Barton hadn’t bothered hiring any security to watch the door, which partly explained why so many women off the street had managed to get in and share photos online.

  In three years of college, I’d never been to a single frat party. I’d never regretted missing out—until now. If I’d accepted some of the infrequent invites that had come my way, I might have been better prepared for what I saw when I walked inside Barton’s apartment.

  Men paraded around in wife-beaters, or with shirts wide open, while the women wore either bikinis or tops that covered roughly the same amount. Sure, it was the middle of summer, but it was San Francisco, for Christ’s sake, not a beach in Los Angeles.

  From nowhere, a splash of beer landed on my hand and sleeve, ruining the one expensive outfit I owned. I reserved this suit for client meetings, but I was horrendously overdressed for this one. When I turned in the direction of the beer-spilling culprit, I saw a man pressing a woman up against the wall and kissing her neck, while she moaned loud enough for me to hear it over the music. Then I saw why. He had his hand between her legs, and was furiously working his fingers inside her. Right in the middle of the party. In full view of everyone.