My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Esther. “Dad, I’ve got to go. I have studying to do.”
“Son, this conversation isn’t over,” he says.
I hang up on him. I’ll deal with his rage another day. “God, that was bad.”
Rick mumbles assent from his side of the room. “You knew it would be.”
“Didn’t make it any easier,” I retort. I slide over to my messaging app.
I need to talk to you. Meet me at our place in the library.
That’s all it says. I look out at the rain and I know that Esther must mean business. “Be back in a bit.”
“Where are you going in this storm?” Rick asks.
“Dining hall,” I lie easily.
“Bring me back some strawberry milk.”
“That shit will kill you.”
“Perfect,” Rick grunts. “Then I won’t have to take exams.”
I don’t even bother with a raincoat; every single time I put one on I end up just as soaked as I do without it. I run through the storm toward the library, pausing at the door to catch my breath.
Nobody is at the front desk, which is perfect. The last thing I want is someone yelling at me for dripping all over the floor. I sprint up the staircase to the third floor, passing students deep into their studies. I’m confident I’m not seen as I push open the emergency door quietly.
The lights are already on in the stairwell, which means Esther is already here. I find her sitting on the dusty velvet couch we fucked on the other day. She has her face in her hands.
“Hey, Delilah,” I say quietly, sitting next to her. The cushion sighs as I sink into it. “What’s the matter?”
She pulls her hands away from her face. It’s puffy, red, and swollen. She’s been crying for a long time. “I have s-s-s-something I n-n-need to t-t-tell you,” she stammers.
“Alright,” I reply, feeling dread building in my stomach.
“I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ESTHER
I’d played the scenario in my head a dozen times all morning while I sat in the old greenhouse alone. I was so thankful that Saint had told me about this place; it’s the only place on campus where I could cry and nobody would hear me.
I wasn’t ready to tell Romy yet.
How could I?
I’d sat here, thinking and crying and wondering what Saint’s reaction would be. I thought he might storm from the room, beg me to end the pregnancy, or just generally freak out.
“I’m pregnant,” I say to him.
He blinks twice. “Okay.”
His response shocks the tears back into my body. “Okay? That’s all you have to say? You’re not…angry?”
Saint shrugs and wraps one arm around me, pulling me to his chest. “Are you okay? That’s what I’m worried about right now.”
I push him away. “No, I’m not okay! How could I be okay? How on Earth could I be okay? I’m pregnant. You heard that part, right?”
Saint nods. “I did hear that part.”
“And you’re not worried. Of course. You’re not the one who has to walk around with a pregnant belly, this big scarlet letter, this enormous, GUESS WHAT, I FUCKED SOMEONE billboard for nine months.”
“More like six months. Probably way fewer, my mom said she didn’t show at all until month seven-“
“Shut up!” I yell, standing up. “Shut the fuck up. Just stop.”
Saint gapes at me. “Okay, I’m more freaked out by you repeatedly dropping f-bombs than I am about you being pregnant.”
I laugh darkly, emotion and hormones coursing through my bloodstream. “How are you so calm?”
Saint actually laughs. He laughs. Which just makes me even more angry. “I have to be calm, because you aren’t calm.”
“Of course I’m not calm, I’m having a baby, Saint.” I kick my foot hard against the sofa frame. My toes sting and I immediately regret it.
Saint leans back against the sofa and a grin appears on his face. A grin. “You about done being angry?”
I cross my arms. “Almost.”
“Well, that’s a shame. It’s been refreshing to see you actually let out some emotion for once. I’d hate to see it end so soon.” He’s still smiling. He’s still actually smiling. Incredible.
I wipe tears from my eyes and take a deep breath. “So, Mister Calm. What do you propose we do?”
“Exactly that,” he replies.
I look at him, confused. “Exactly what?”
“I propose. Well, we court first for a few weeks. Then I propose to you,” he says.
This response nearly knocks me off of my feet. This can’t be real. I shake my head. “Oh, so you court me, graduate and get your contract safely, but I get left behind here and give birth mid-semester, destroying my plans for getting my degree.” I smack my hand against my forehead angrily. “And you never marry me, which, of course not. And that’s all assuming I don’t end up expelled for being pregnant, which I almost certainly will. You get off without any kind of blemish. I’ll just be the girl you left behind to carry your child.” I start to pace again. “You’ll send me a child support payment every month, and go off and be with your supermodels and groupies and-“
My eyes are so full of tears I don’t notice Saint has stood up until I run into him. He grabs my forearms and crouches slightly to meet my eye line. “Delilah. Look at me,” he says.
“What!?” I yell at him.
“I won’t have groupies. I’m not a rockstar. I’m a football player.”
I scoff. “Close enough. It doesn’t matter, Saint.”
“Look at me. Esther. Look at me.”
Him actually using my name to address me is what shakes me out of my shock and unsettledness. I look at him. “What?”
He squeezes my arms. “I want to marry you. To actually marry you. To have this baby with you. That’s what I want.”
“But what about school? And your career? And my education?”
He shakes his head and pulls me closer. “You can transfer to a university near wherever I end up. Hopefully someplace sunny and warm like Los Angeles. You can have the baby. We’ll get a nanny, and you can go to classes when you’re ready. You can finish your education. It’ll all be fine.”
“Are you…proposing to me?” I ask him, feeling my nausea return.
He shakes his head. “You’ll know when I’m proposing to you. Trust me. It won’t be like this.”
The rain quickens its pace and the wind shakes the glass dome we’re standing under. Saint pulls me in for a kiss and I return it.
It’s a perfect plan.
So why doesn’t it feel like one?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ESTHER
I stand outside the clinic for a good thirty minutes, trying to make it look like I’m reading a book under the shade of an enormous oak tree. The rain has finally cleared and the sun has been shining brilliantly. The air is full of the scent of purple irises and freshly-mown grass. The valley has sprung into full bloom.
But I’m not here to enjoy the weather.
The taste of stomach acid has permanently lodged itself in the back of my throat. I can’t take a single day more of nausea. I need help.
But that’s going to require going to the campus clinic. I can’t afford to go to a doctor and have my parents question why I used my debit card on medical services when it could have gone under insurance. I can’t use the insurance because the codes will let my mom and dad know that I’m there for pre-natal care.
The campus clinic is my only option. And it’s arguably the worst option there is.
I finally step into the old, converted house that contains the clinic. The floorboards are bowed and sagging and creak under my feet. The air smells like mothballs and lemon wood polish. Nobody’s at the front desk. I peer around the corner.
“Hello?” I call out. My heart is pounding and part of me thinks this is a sign. I should just turn around and go back to my dorm room already. M
y hand is perched on the doorknob when I hear footsteps coming down the creaking wooden staircase.
“Sorry,” says a short, round woman with grey hair. “I was upstairs. How can I help you?”
“I, uh. I’ve come down with that stomach virus that’s going around and I’m having some residual nausea. I was hoping I could get a prescription for something, maybe?”
The woman squirts hand sanitizer into her hands and rubs them together. “We can get you sorted out. I’m Dr. Smith,” she says. “Head back into an exam room and we’ll see what’s going on.”
I grasp my book bag like it’s a life preserver on a sinking ship and follow her into the back room. I sit on the exam table and see the stirrups sticking out. Someone forgot to push them all the way back in. My stomach does a somersault.
You need a full exam, says this obnoxious little voice in my head. Don’t be irresponsible. Tell her that you’re having a baby.
Dr. Smith shuts the door and pulls up a rolling chair. “So, what seems to be the trouble?”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, my words working faster than the part of my brain that wants this to be a secret.
Dr. Smith raises her eyebrows slightly but surprises me by smiling. “Well, congratulations. How far along do you think you are?”
“About five weeks, maybe?” I say. “I don’t have a stomach bug, by the way. I don’t know why I said that. Well, I know why I said it but I usually don’t lie to people, so I’m sorry I did that.”
Dr. Smith pats my knee with her hand. She has kind, brown eyes and I almost cry just looking into them. “Honey, it’s alright. We’re going to take a look at you and this all stays confidential, okay?”
I nod and tears well up. “Okay.”
She hands me a cloth gown. “Just strip from the waist down and put this on.” She pauses at the door. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”
My mind flashes to Saint. “I’ll…I’ll text someone. But him being here has to be a secret too. Can you….can you make a note in his file that he came here for a cold or something?”
The doctor smiles. “I’ll take care of it.” She leaves the room and I text Saint.
He responds immediately and I break down in tears again from relief.
Thirty minutes later, Saint is holding my hand and Dr. Smith is squirting cold lube onto my stomach.
“I can’t believe you have an ultrasound machine here,” Saint says.
“Well, it’s just this little hand-held one.” Dr. Smith glances at him. “I stole it from the athletic facility while Esther was getting changed. It’s the one the team trainer uses.”
Saint laughs. “I thought I recognized it.”
“Okay,” Dr. Smith says. She’s turned the lights off in the room and it’s almost cozy in here. She holds the screen over to us. “There’s your baby.”
I bust into full-on tears and Saint reaches over to kiss me. “That’s our baby.”
“Oh, my word,” I say through sobs.
Dr. Smith smiles. “Wait,” she says. “I can hear a heartbeat. Listen.”
The rapid-fire sound of a fetal heartbeat fills my ears and I cry some more. I can’t help it.
Dr. Smith cleans off my belly and I pull my sweater down. “I’d say you’re a lot closer to eight weeks based on the fact that I can hear the heartbeat, but you’d need a proper exam to really know for sure.”
Saint hands me a handkerchief again and I take it gratefully, mopping up my saltwater-covered face. “What are the next steps?” Saint asks Dr. Smith.
She pulls off her latex gloves and washes her hands. “Pre-natal vitamins, if you’re not already on them.”
“I’ve been taking them for a few weeks now,” I say.
She nods. “Good. Good. You’ll need to find an OB-GYN in the area as soon as possible. I can make some recommendations.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Saint says.
“From my old eyes, it seems like you’ve got a perfectly healthy baby,” she says. She pauses at the doorway. “And kids? Don’t let anyone tell you that you should be ashamed. A baby between two caring people is a beautiful, beautiful thing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
SAINT
I straighten my tie. I’m never nervous before playing football in front of millions of people on live television. But this meeting?
Has me nearly sick to my stomach.
Ironic that I’m feeling sick just as Esther’s nausea has abated. I find myself wishing that I could hold her hand right now. But we can’t. We’re in the waiting area outside the Dean’s office, and these walls have eyes.
Besides that, all four of our parents are sitting behind the door to my right.
The Dean’s secretary keeps shooting us cute little smiles like she knows exactly why we’re here. Exactly what we’re doing.
And of course she knows what we’re doing. Why else would I be dressed up like this? Why else would all four of our parents be here, together, having tea with the Dean while we wait outside?
I shoot Esther a look of support. She nods back and mimes squeezing my hand.
Fuck, I wish I could touch her in here.
The doors to the Dean’s office open and I stand up immediately, smoothing my pants purely out of nerves. It’s the Dean.
“Come on inside,” he says with a smile on his face. He holds the door open and I let Esther walk in first. We shoot each other furtive looks of support.
We’re going to need it.
Esther’s parents are on one sofa; my parents across from them on the other. The Dean is holding court from a straight-backed chair and he motions us into two separate armchairs. I sink so low I may as well be touching the ground. I bet the Dean likes being on the tallest chair in the room. He’s always on a power trip.
“Well, we’ve all spoken with one another, but we thought we’d let you two have a few words as to why exactly you want to do this. Ladies first.”
I clench my fist. This is all theater. I’m the man. I’m the one who has to make the request. He’s just letting Esther say something to be polite. In reality, she holds no weight.
Esther clears her throat. “Saint, I mean, Francis and I are interested in courting. We would like the opportunity to get to know each other better in a way that is pleasing to God and our families.”
Esther’s eyes are downcast and it reminds me of the first time I met her. She’s really blossomed since then. We actually had to practice for her to look demure. We rehearsed it over and over and over again.
With generous breaks for fucking, of course.
The Dean nods and smiles. I haven’t taken my eyes off of Esther, partly because I want her to know I’m here for her and partly because if I look at her father I’m going to punch him in the fucking face. I can feel the resentment and disapproval radiating from his body.
“Alright, thank you Sister Avonlea,” the Dean says. “Brother Williams. It’s your turn.”
I clear my throat and smile at the room. “It’s like Sister Avonlea said. We are interested in getting to know one another in a godly way. We’ve both met privately with Pastor Blevins and prayed heavily on the subject. We seek your guidance and approval.”
It’s time for me to look at Esther’s dad. This will have to be the performance of my life. “Mr. Avonlea. I ask your permission to court your daughter, sir.”
There’s silence in the room.
Mr. Avonlea shifts in his seat. “I think we ought to hear from the rest of the room first. Mr. Williams, I think you showed some concerns.”
My dad leans forward. “Son, I think this is a strange time to enter into a courtship – that’s what it’s called, correct?” My dad, ever the perfect Catholic, loves to treat everything non-Catholic as this foreign, strange beast. The Dean nods. “It’s my understanding that these things are brief, maybe one or two months, and are part of the pathway to marriage.”
I nod at him. “That’s correct.”
My dad shakes his head. “Do you really think this
is the best time for this? The draft is a month away. I just don’t think you should have distractions. You’ll be signed to a team in a matter of weeks. Then training starts. You could end up anywhere in the country. And Esther still has another year to go in her schooling, correct?”
“Yes,” I reply simply. I gear up to say the thing that we practiced. It feels like bile in my throat, lying this way. I might be a heathen, but I hate lying about God. “God has directed me to this. I’ve spent weeks praying about it.” More like weeks spent in holy congress with Esther’s pussy. “This is the path I’m being led to. If it’s God’s will that Esther and I be together, I don’t see how any distance could come between us.”
Silence again.
The mothers, of course, won’t be permitted to talk. I can’t read the look on my mom’s face, and Esther’s mom is staring at her own lap, as usual. Mr. Avonlea finally speaks. “I don’t agree with this at all. I think Esther should be focusing on her schoolwork and not on a boy.”
We knew that was coming. We also predicted what the Dean was going to say next.
“Well, not to be crass, but I think the two of them could be a great shining beacon of what courtship is for the rest of the country. Young people look up to Brother Williams. I think this godless generation would do well to have such a devoted role model. It’s a great form of ministry, I think.”
“So my daughter is supposed to be an advertisement for your school?” Mr. Avonlea roars. He’s angry now.
“Jed, please,” my father intones. “If the kids want to date each other, I don’t see why they shouldn’t. I know my son. He won’t let rules stop him from what he wants. And if they’re going to be together, I’d rather it not be behind closed doors.”
It’s like watching a tennis match, and Esther’s father is John McEnroe. He’s already yelled at the referee once. It’s only a matter of time before his temper spills over again.
But then Jed Avonlea does something unexpected. He sits back with a smile on his face. “Alright. Do it. Court each other. My daughter has already been acting in unexpected ways all this year. Like you say, I’d rather have them together in public than sneaking around behind closed doors.”
Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 13
