Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Vesper Vaughn

  “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 t
o 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.”

  I start to cry. “Mom, please. It’s okay. I’m okay. Look at me!” I laugh and motion to the ocean behind us and the reception taking place further down the beach. “I’d say I’m doing alright.”

  We hug again. As we pull apart, my mother speaks. “How is school?”

  “Amazing.” I launch into stories about my new classes, about how I’m going to take an extra year and go for a degree in chemistry with a double major in women’s studies. Real women’s studies. We talk for the better part of an hour.

  Saint appears at one point to bring us snacks, water, and an extra chair. I love him for giving us space and time on this day.

  It’s perfect.

  Weddings aren’t about the bride and groom anyway. They’re for family. And we have a family. All the family we could ever want.

  That night, Saint carries my heavy frame over the threshold of our honeymoon penthouse suite. We don’t have just have sex. We make love.

  For the second time today, I feel like I’m floating.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SAINT

  “And we’re back in the Minnneapolis stadium studio with Minneapolis’s own Saint Williams. Saint, how are you doing today?”

  “I’m great, Jenny,” I say with a smile. The truth is that I’m sitting under burning studio lights and trying not to sweat from the heat. “Thanks for having me.”

  “Saint, you and your team have had a brilliant season so far.”

  I nod. “It’s ninety-nine percent my team and not me.”

  She laughs in that fake newscaster way. “That’s very humble of you, as always. To change the subject to what the people really want to hear about, I want to congratulate you on your wedding last weekend.”

  “Thank you so much,” I reply.

  “I’ll definitely be tuning in when the special airs next month.”

  “Don’t tune in for me. Tune in for my gorgeous bride,” I look behind the camera to where Esther is perched. She makes a gesture like she’s going to slit my throat for mentioning her on national television.

  “But I think the real question people want you to answer is this: what happens when the baby comes? What if it’s on game day?”

  “My commitments are both to my team and to my wife. I think we’ll leave the timing up to God and go from there.”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t miss a game to go assist your wife in childbirth?”

  I demur. “Like I said, no sense in worrying. It’s in God’s hands.”

  The rest of the interview is filled with endless questions about our season. The team sent me to do this interview because they call me Mr. Hollywood. Yeah, they give me shit over it, but I think they’re happy to not have to be on camera.

  I really lucked the fuck out; I have the best teammates in the entire world.

  The interview ends and I walk over to Esther to give her a kiss. “You doing alright?”

  “Yeah,” she says. Her teeth are gritted. “My back just hurts, you know.” She kisses me on the cheek. “You, sir, belong in the locker room.”

  I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something she’s not telling me. “Are you absolutely sure that you’re alright?”

  “Just take me at my word, Saint. And go kick some serious ass out on that football field.”

  She squeezes my hand and I run downstairs, still feeling like something’s wrong.

  But I don’t have time for that. There’s a game that needs winning.

  ***

  It’s the fourth quarter, and we’re tied up with ten seconds left in the game. Coach is yelling at all of us. It looks like it’s going to come down to a penalty kick.

  “I want you to get out there, Kirk,” he says to our kicker. “And focus on nothing but that field goal. You’ve hit easier targets with your eyes blindfolded.” He glances at me with a strange look on his face. “We don’t want this to go into overtime, alright?”

  Nobody else seems to notice the strangeness in Coach’s voice, so I ignore it. We cheer on Kirk.

  He makes the field goal. The stadium is so loud I feel like my eardrums are going to burst. I run into the pit of players to congratulate Kirk, but the hand of our quarterback pulls me away. “You gotta go, man,” he says with a wide smile.

  “What?”

  “You’re having a fucking baby, Williams. You gotta go! Run!”

  I don’t stop until I’m in the locker room, where I tear off my clothes and hop into the shower.

  “You’re showering?” Coach yells. He’s followed me into the room. “Boy, she’s in hour four of labor. There’s already a car waiting for you. Your wife doesn’t care if you’re smelly or not. Trust me. I was late to my first-born’s delivery and you don’t want that kind of wrath on your head.”

  I hop out and towel off, my heart beating. Coach hands me clean jeans and a t-shirt. “Here, son. Good thing you aren’t driving. I bet you don’t know your ass from a trashcan right now.”

  “Thanks,” I say. My mind is numb. “I’m having a baby. Oh, God. I’m having a baby.”

  Coach has to grab me by the arm and take me out to the car that’s waiting. There are two motorcycle police escorts that clear the traffic leading out of the stadium, but we get stuck once we’re on main roads filled with fans eager to get home.

  “Can’t you hop the median?” I ask the driver. “My wife is in labor.”

  The driver glances back at me. We’re in an SUV. He can do this. He floors it and speeds around the gridlocked traffic, flying over the median and a sidewalk and onto the exit ramp. The police follow us. “If I get a ticket for this, you’re paying it.”

  “I’m good for it. Don’t worry,” I reply. I’m finally in focus mode. This is just like a game, that’s all. I just need to keep my eyes on the prize. “You have any kids?”

  “Three,” the driver says. “Best decision of my entire life. But I also manage to question that decision daily.” He laughs.

  “Right,” I say, having no idea how to respond to that.

  The police motorcycles get in front of us again and lead us down the highway. It’s clear sailing to the hospital. The SUV is barely braking and I hit the ground running. “Esther Williams,” I say to the nurse at the front.

  “Aren’t you Saint-“

  “I need my wife. She’s in labor. Tell me the floor,” I say.

  She’s star struck but manages to type into the computer system to give me my answer. “Fourth floor, room two sixteen.”

  I’m through the door to the emergency staircase and taking them three at a time. This is nothing. This is what I train for in practice. Well, this exact situation isn’t what I train for. Not running up the stairs to my pregnant wife; I mean cardio.

  And it doesn’t fail me.

  I burst into the delivery room and see Esther bouncing on a round birthing ball. I know what it is because I’ve gone to every single fucking one of her labor and delivery classes. I even went once when she couldn’t make it because of exams.

  “Delilah!” I yell out.

  She grimaces at me as pain rockets through her body. I rush over and she squeezes my hand. Some of my knuckles pop from the pressure. “You were in labor during the pre-ga
me show, weren’t you?”

  She exhales as the contraction ends. “Football is just as important as this baby. I figured I could hold on until you got here.” She points at her belly. “And I did!”

  I kiss her on the mouth. “How dilated are you? Did you decide against the epidural? When did your water break?”

  “I ran to the bathroom when Jenny was grilling you about defensive plays. It broke when I was peeing, which is probably the best timing I’ve ever had in my entire life, to be honest.” She laughs but it turns into a groan when another contraction hits.

  I check my watch. “What was that? Ninety seconds? Have you been recording the intervals?”

  She takes my head in her hands and lowers her voice. “Look at me. This doesn’t need to be a whole big thing. Just breathe. I need you to breathe – oooooh.” Another contraction hits.

  “That’s under thirty seconds now,” I say. “Let me get you into the bed.” I nearly have to lift her into it. I hit the button for the nurse. “I can’t believe you didn’t get the epidural.”

  Esther laughs. She’s sweaty and red-faced. But she’s never looked more beautiful. “Women have been going through childbirth for thousands of years without painkillers.” The next contraction hits and I don’t know how she’s keeping it together.

  I feel like I’m going to pass out.

  The nurse arrives and hands me ice chips. I pass them to Esther but the nurse objects. “They’re for you, Mr. Williams. You might want to sit down, too. You’re looking a little pale.” She rolls her eyes at my weakness. “Now, Esther. The doctor will be in here in a minute. You’re going to have to push a little-“

  Esther is grunting. “I think something’s happening,” she yells.

  The nurse hastily checks under the blue blanket and gasps. “Alright, one more push, then!”

  The room is instantly filled with the best sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

  My baby crying.

  Esther looks at me with a tearful smile. “I told you I could wait until you got here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ESTHER

  The snow falls outside of our cozy, modern log cabin home. Saint is in the kitchen baking an apple pie, and I’m on the sofa in front of the fireplace.