Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Vesper Vaughn

She slams the phone down so hard the click of the receiver echoes around my own hotel room.

  “Well,” I say to my empty room. “At least I wasn’t fired.”

  Not yet anyway, says a voice in my head.

  I shove down my guilt. This is what I’ve been working towards my entire career. A feature piece.

  I just never thought that I’d have to betray someone I care about to do it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RYAN

  “Already causing trouble, hm?” Ivan says as I walk into the clubhouse before our Sunday match.

  “I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “He provoked me.”

  “A lot of people seem to provoke you, Mackenzie. I think you should get that reflex examined.”

  I tap my foot on the thick, green carpeting. “Are you kicking me off the team?”

  Ivan laughs. “No. If you’d driven drunk again, yes. But threatening a member of the press? I should give you a medal. Those guys are vultures.”

  “So you’re not firing me?”

  Ivan shakes his head and stands up, clapping a solid hand on my shoulder. “Take that aggression out onto the pitch and we’ll be just fine today.”

  “Thank you,” I say, still stunned.

  “Don’t thank me. Win.”

  And we do.

  We win the match like it’s nothing. Four points to null.

  My eyes immediately go into the stands to look for Hayley. I hop over the barrier to her seat in the second row.

  “Did you see that score?” I ask her, flipping my hair off my face.

  She nods and purses her lips. “Yes.”

  I put my hand on her knee. “What’s up with you?”

  “Work stress,” she says simply. “It’s sort of getting to me a bit. It’s a lot of pressure to write this piece.”

  The stands are clearing and people are stopping to congratulate me. I sign a few bits of paper as they’re shoved in my face, still not taking my eyes off of Hayley. She looks different. Far away. Somewhere else entirely.

  I clear the row of empty seats and sit down next to her.

  “You need a break,” I say.

  She glances at me. “I really have a lot to work on, actually-“

  I put a sweaty arm around her shoulders. I feel her stiffen under my touch. “You need a break.” I stand up. “Let me shower. Meet me outside of the clubhouse, alright? I’m taking you away for the next two days.”

  Hayley laughs. “You’re what?”

  “You heard me. Now finish up your homework.”

  I jog toward the showers. I’m so caught up in my new plan I run smack into Terence.

  “Watch it, asshole,” he says, shoving me away. “I saw your little girlfriend on the news today.”

  “Trolling tabloid sites for the latest in celebrity news?” I spit back, stripping off my uniform and grabbing a clean towel.

  Terence slams my locker door in my face. “I don’t like how much you’re distracting the team.”

  I get close to him. “I don’t like how obsessed you are with Hayley. She’s not interested in you. Take the hint, Terence.”

  I push him into the lockers and he seethes in my direction.

  I really fucking hate that guy.

  Two hours later, I’m standing outside of Hayley’s hotel room door, knocking.

  “Hurry up, we’ll miss the train!”

  Hayley pulls open the door. I look behind her to see that her duffel isn’t packed.

  “You’re not packed.”

  She nods. “That’s right. I told you I need to work.” But she doesn’t look committed to this statement.

  I drop my duffel bag and put my hand on the door, holding it open. “You’re saying you’d rather work than come away with me?”

  She nods. “That’s right. I was almost fired once. I’d like to not repeat that, actually.”

  I tilt my head and smile at her. I see her resolve faltering. I put a finger on her collarbone and she uncrosses her arms. I trace an S-shape across her skin and goosebumps erupt down her arms.

  “So you’re just going to stay here?”

  “Y-yes…” She closes her eyes as I make my way to the space between her breasts. I step inside her room and the door shuts behind me.

  “You’re sure about that?” I lean down and kiss the side of her neck. She’s shaking now.

  “No,” she replies. “I’m not sure about that.”

  I take her wrists into my hands and pin them above her head onto the wall. I run my tongue down her neck, bisecting her collarbone, and down to the line of cleavage.

  I can hear her heartbeat right next to my face.

  “Okay!” She practically shouts it. “I’ll come away with you.”

  I pull away from her. “Then we can finish things up when we get to where we’re going.”

  “Ugh, you’re going to tease me like that and not finish me off?”

  I pull open her dresser drawers and pull out two pairs of lacy underwear.

  “No sense in packing these,” I say to her with a smile.

  She blushes.

  I open the second drawer to find a few demure t-shirts and a long skirt. “I think I’m taking you shopping before we do anything else.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  I slam the drawer shut and face her. “They’re made up of too much fabric.”

  I walk out of the room and pick up my duffel. I don’t glance over my shoulder as I step into the hallway.

  Hayley’s footsteps soon follow me. “Alright!” she says, the door shutting behind her. I hear the zipper of her purse shut. “But nothing too expensive, okay?”

  I laugh and pull her into the elevator. “I’m running this shopping trip, not you. I’ll spend as much money as I want to, thank you very much.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HAYLEY

  Ryan takes me to Harrod’s.

  We walk in and it’s like a movie is playing in front of me. Racks upon racks of clothes. Escalators. An opera singer in the foyer. I smell the delicious scent of gourmet food wafting my way and I stop walking.

  Ryan pulls my arm. “We’ll eat later, I promise.”

  I groan. “I hate shopping.”

  “You’ve never been shopping with me, though. Trust me. You’ll love this.”

  We head upstairs to the women’s clothing section. Ryan grins at the shop girl. “We’ll need the largest dressing room you can find, love.”

  She winks at him. “No problem, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  It’s my turn to grab his arm. “They know you here? How many times have you brought a woman to this place?”

  He laughs. “Are you asking for your article or for your personal interest?”

  My stomach turns over. Does he know I’m supposed to be writing his article about him and him alone?

  “What?” I choke out.

  “I’m joking, Hayley. Obviously you want to know how many times I’ve used this particular seduction maneuver on other women. I’d say about half a dozen times.”

  I laugh. “It doesn’t bother me.” Okay. It sort of does bother me.

  Ryan flows through the racks grabbing lacy tops and short skirts. I stop him and pull the fabric away.

  “This will not fit me,” I protest.

  He yanks it back. “It will. I’m a pro at this, don’t question me.”

  He’s dead serious.

  “I never would have expected you to be such an experienced shopper,” I say honestly.

  He laughs and pushes me into an enormous dressing room with velvet curtains lining the walls. I look at the huge mirror and suddenly feel intensely self-conscious.

  Ryan hangs up the clothes and walks over to me, standing behind me. He drapes his arms over my shoulders. “You look gorgeous, Hayley. I promise you that.”

  He moves his fingers underneath my shirt and pulls it up over my head. It hits the carpet with a soft puff. Then he undoes my pants button and zipper and I shimmy out of my clothes. Now I’m standing in my old u
nderwear and bra.

  “We’ll need to get you some underthings, too.” Ryan disappears and I’m left to try on thin tank-tops and mini skirts.

  I twirl in the mirror while I’m alone and there’s no one there to see it.

  He was right. All of this does fit me. And it suits my body really, really well. I’m not used to showing this much skin, but I kind of love it.

  Ryan comes back with an armful of lacy bras. “Underwear’s already up by the register,” he says, shoving the bras at me. “I’m waiting outside for this. I don’t want my surprise to be ruined for later.” He flashes me his blinding white smile and I go weak at the knees again.

  This man is a pure fantasy.

  Twenty minutes later, Ryan makes me wait by the escalators while he pays for the mountain of clothes. “I don’t want you to stop me from getting you this,” he’d said to me.

  I don’t even want to know how much all of those clothes cost him. It has to be a small fortune. He walks up to me holding about ten shopping bags in one strong hand. His duffel bag is hanging cross-wise on his body. He glances at my horrified expression. “I might not be able to rent that house after all.”

  I gasp. “Are you serious? Why? Why would you do this for me?”

  Ryan strokes my cheek. “I’m joking, Hayley. Now we need to go buy you some new luggage.”

  I groan again. “This is too much, Ryan.”

  “Well, I’m not getting on a train with Harrod’s shopping bags. Paper tissue pouring out everywhere…no way.” He takes my hand and I feel a jolt of electricity arc between us.

  We ride downstairs to the luggage department. I have to pull Ryan away from the Louis Vuitton luggage. “No. Absolutely not.”

  But my eyes land on a rolling suitcase and weekend bag covered in a cheery, modern floral print. Orla Kiely is the designer. I feel a surge of anticipation. Ryan sees my face.

  “We’ll take these two,” he says to the shop clerk.

  This is one purchase I don’t have the heart to protest. I really, really want this luggage.

  Ten minutes later, Ryan has disposed of the shopping bags and filled up my suitcase. We hunkered down in a corner of the foyer while shoppers bustled past us. Ryan took great care in folding up the clothes neatly.

  “Your hotel room is a lot messier than you are,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I might have been a little drunk the afternoon before I met you. I made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Usually I’m neater than that.”

  I absentmindedly run my fingers through his wavy blonde hair while he crouches on the ground. He stands up and hands me the weekend bag. I put it on my arm.

  “It’s perfect for you,” he says. “Now it’s time to eat.”

  We walk through the food halls, past succulent cuts of meat and through the chocolate room. We pass through the produce area that has carved fruit affixed to a muddled turquoise-colored ceiling.

  “I feel like I’m in a movie right now,” I say as we walk by a brightly-colored stand filled with swirly rainbow lollipops the size of my face.

  Ryan laughs. “I like seeing London through your eyes. It reminds me of being a little kid again.”

  I hold my breath for a second, wondering if he’s going to freeze up after divulging that intimate bit of knowledge. But he doesn’t.

  We wander over to a wood-fired pizza oven and order up a large vegetable thin crust. I sip a perfectly cold Coke out of a glass bottle and people-watch, our luggage tucked underneath our feet.

  “Your mom brought you here as a kid?” I ask hesitantly. I tell myself this is a question too personal for my article. I hear Sandra barking in my head that nothing is too personal. Nothing is sacred. I wonder silently if I’m going to be able to draw that line.

  Ryan nods. “She did. We’d just wander around. We couldn’t afford anything. But one time she took me to the chocolate room and bought me a huge truffle. It was the cost of about three days’ worth of food.” He pauses. “It was fucking delicious. She wouldn’t eat any of it, saying it was my birthday treat.” He chuckles and runs his hands through his hair. “My birthday wasn’t for another six months, but I didn’t say anything. I knew she was just making sure I wasn’t going to protest the purchase.”

  “My dad bought me a red bicycle for my birthday once,” I say. “It was the only thing I wanted. I told him he didn’t need to get me anything for Christmas, but he did anyway.” I hesitate, realizing that even though I didn’t grow up wealthy, we must have had a lot more money than Ryan’s mother did.

  Ryan seems to have come to the same conclusion. “Your parents together your whole childhood?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just a boring, middle class family to be honest.”

  The pizza arrives and we dig in, chewing and listening to the hum of conversation all around us, our minds mercifully relieved of having to finish this intimate and slightly awkward conversation.

  I find myself wondering just how bad Ryan’s childhood was. But I brush those thoughts away as best I can.

  Am I wondering for myself? Or for the article?

  I’m not even certain anymore which is which.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RYAN

  The cottage I rented is luxurious.

  The outside is a typical stone English cottage, but the inside looks like something out of MTV Cribs.

  “Whoa,” Hayley says as we drop our luggage in the foyer.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Even I’m impressed with this.”

  Hayley glances at me. “Are you sure you won’t end up having to give up your house rental?”

  She laughs and I join in with her. “I promise you, I have enough money to go around.”

  Hayley goes to wash up and I open the fridge. I paid someone to fully stock it with food. I pull out fresh chicken breasts, spinach, peppers, and onions and set to work.

  Hayley returns wearing a tank top and skirt that I bought her.

  “Twirl for me,” I say, taking a break from dicing the peppers.

  She blushes. “I am not twirling for you.”

  “Do it, or I’m coming over there and making you do an entire fashion show for me.” I make my face as serious as I can.

  She sighs and spins and I get a front-row seat of her ass in tight denim.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” I say with a laugh. “You’re a natural.”

  Hayley brings her purse over to the kitchen island. “I didn’t realize you cooked,” she says, sounding surprised. She slides out her laptop and the bong of the starting screen echoes around the kitchen.

  “My mum taught me,” I say. “She said it was important for a man to know how to cook.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Hayley says. Soon, she’s typing as fast as I’ve ever heard anyone type in their lives.

  “You’ll break a finger going that fast,” I quip, tossing the vegetables into the pan with the chicken. They sizzle as they hit the hot oil.

  “Hm?” Hayley asks absently.

  “Earth to Hayley!” I say. I walk around the island and she snaps her computer shut. “Looking at porn?”

  She smiles at me. “I don’t need porn with you around, do I?”

  I twirl the barstool and put my hands on the sides of her back. I squeeze her and she moans. I bend down and lock her tongue with mine.

  “We could try out the mattress,” I whisper.

  “Your chicken’s going to burn,” she protests as she sighs against my touch. My hand is already up her skirt. Her panties are wet already.

  “I don’t care,” I reply.

  She giggles. “I do. I’m starving!”

  I sigh and pull my hand out. “Food. Then fucking. Lots and lots of fucking.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  We eat out on the back patio, the cool summer breeze picking up as the sun sinks from the sky. “This reminds me of my childhood,” Hayley says, leaning back in her chair and wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin.

  “Definitely doesn’t remind me of
mine,” I say. The mood shifts imperceptibly. “I was always a city person at heart.”

  Hayley looks at me intently. “I am too, I think. I like the people. The bustle of the big city. The way you can just-“

  “Disappear,” I finish for her.

  She smiles. “Exactly. You can just sort of float away into the crowds and not be seen if you don’t want to. Well. I mean, you can’t quite as easily.”

  “It gets easier avoiding the press if I stay away from trendy new restaurants with a sexy woman on my arm.” I grin at her. The wind rustles her red hair and I reach out to touch it. “I like that you don’t dye your hair. I’ve always had a thing for redheads.”

  Hayley waves a hand in the air. “No way. That’s not what I’ve read online.”

  “You’ve been studying up on me. I like that,” I say with a smile. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I know that the last three women you’ve been linked to have all been stick-thin supermodels with blonde hair. I know that you’ve been arrested on what us Americans call a DUI. I know that you like to punch people when you get angry instead of talking through your feelings.” She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip. “What I don’t know is why.”

  “Why what?” I stir the leftover ice cubes in my water glass with a straw. I think I know where this is going.

  “Why do you get angry and physical instead of opening up. I don’t know why you’re closed off all the time, even to me.”

  It’s my turn to chew the inside of my mouth. I jiggle my foot out of nervousness. “This all stays off the record.”

  A look of something indistinguishable flashes across her face. I can’t read it. Is it guilt? It’s gone before I can examine it any further.”

  “Of course,” Hayley says. “My story isn’t about you.”

  A butterfly lands on the rim of the candle holder before disappearing. I take a deep breath. “My biological father, and I call him that because he was nothing more than a sperm donor, was an asshole. He used to hit my mom. He’d hit me if I cried. That, of course, usually made me cry harder. So he’d hit me again.” I sigh. “I guess I’ve internalized more of that than I ever wanted to.”

  “Which is why you don’t want to have kids,” Hayley says. It’s half a statement and half a question.