The Goal

by Elle Kennedy

  My dick twitches against my zipper. The idea of her playing with herself makes me light-headed, and I have to wait a moment until some of the blood migrates back up to my brain.

  “What about you? Did you date a lot in high school? Were you homecoming king?” she teases.

  “Nope. I dated three girls. And homecoming kings in Texas are always football players.”

  “You didn’t play football?”

  “Not after ninth grade. I played hockey year round. Coach Death’s rink was an hour north and I’d drive there pretty much every day.”

  “So tell me about these three girls.”

  “You’re that desperate for a distraction?”

  “Yes,” she says eagerly.

  I tap my fingers against the wheel, pulling up my dusty memories. “I dated Emma Hopkins in seventh grade until she got asked to the homecoming dance by a ninth grader. After that, she was only interested in older men.”

  “This is fascinating. Tell me more.”

  I grin. I can suffer a little personal embarrassment if it keeps her from worrying about meeting Mom.

  “June Anderson was my ninth grade crush. We had nearly all of our classes together, but the clincher was that she could tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. At ninth grade, that was up there with a tightrope walk across the Grand Canyon.”

  Sabrina laughs. “I think for some guys it still ranks as one of humanity’s greatest achievements. I bet Brody lists it as a requirement for hooking up with him.”

  Her scornful tone doesn’t go unnoticed. The first time that Sabrina and Brody had met didn’t go well. It started with him suggesting that her pussy would be destroyed by childbirth and ended with her telling him that regardless of the state of her lady garden, he’d still never be invited to see it.

  “That guy is such a douche,” she grumbles. “Is it terrible living with him?”

  Yep.

  “I’ve had better roommates.” Glumly, I think about the awesome time I had in college with Dean, Logan, and Garrett.

  My problem with Brody isn’t that he’s a horndog who chases skirts from the moment he gets up until he passes out at night. I mean, my old roommates slept around regularly. Hell, even I had my share of shenanigans, including a booze-soaked foursome one crazy New Year’s Eve. It’s hard not to go a little nuts when you’re playing hockey at the level we were playing. There was a non-stop stream of girls in the house.

  And yet even having experienced three sets of tits rubbing up against me and three tongues on my dick, I’d still pick Sabrina over a drunken orgy any day. That’s not really a thing I can tell a girl, though. Not even Hallmark can make a greeting card that conveys the message that you once banged three chicks at the same time, but none of them are as good as her.

  Brody’s problem is that he has zero respect for the opposite sex.

  “Does he really refuse to take selfies with a girl, or was he making that up to toy with me?” Sabrina asks.

  “No, that’s a real thing for him. He thinks that any pictures of him with a girl pressed up to his side would drive other potential hookups away. Selfies are a sign of commitment.” He’d expounded on this topic at some length after instructing me to keep my Tinder account active and to not tell anyone I was having a kid.

  “Ugh. He’s so gross.”

  “I signed up for a fake Instagram account so I can troll him. When he posts something, I’ll wait a day or so and then pop on to comment about how cool it is that he and my grandpa are rocking the same shirt. I’ve done that twice now and each time, I’ve seen him shoving the shirt down the apartment’s trash compactor.”

  Sabrina throws back her head and cackles. “You do not.”

  “Hey, we all have to get our jollies somewhere, right? For me, it’s negging Brody on Instagram and choking my baby mama in breathing classes.”

  She laughs even harder, her belly bouncing up and down. I reach over and stroke the curve myself. It feels good to see her laughing again.

  “Mom’s going to love you,” I assure her. “You’ll see.”

  *

  Mom hates her.

  Or at least, she’s doing a good job of hiding her love. The initial meeting wasn’t so bad. We picked Mom up at the Holiday Inn and drove her back to my apartment, which is thankfully free of Brody at the moment. He and Hollis are celebrating the Fourth in New Hampshire with their family.

  On the ride over, Mom and Sabrina had chatted awkwardly, but the tension had been manageable.

  Now, that tension is damn near suffocating me.

  “Where do you live, Sabrina?” Mom asks as she surveys my two-bedroom apartment.

  “With my nana and stepfather.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Sabrina winces at this obvious lack of approval.

  I shoot Mom an irritated glance. “Sabrina’s saving money so her debt won’t be too big when she gets out of law school.”

  Mom raises a brow. “And how much debt will that be?”

  “Too much,” Sabrina jokes.

  “I hope you don’t expect John to pay it off for you.”

  “Of course not,” Sabrina exclaims.

  “Mom!” I say at the same time.

  “What? I’m looking out for you, baby. Just as you’ll be tasked with looking out for your daughter.” She tips her head toward Sabrina’s belly.

  Sabrina smiles tightly and decides to change the subject. “I wish we’d been able to come to Patterson. I bet it’s a great place to raise children. You certainly did an amazing job with Tucker.”

  Sincerity bleeds out of every word, and even my mother can hear it. Thankfully, she softens slightly. “Yes, it’s a wonderful place. And they have a delightful Fourth of July picnic. This year, Emma Hopkins was the organizer.”

  “Your old girlfriend, Tuck,” Sabrina teases on her way to the refrigerator. “We should’ve tried harder to fly down.”

  “The airline wouldn’t let us. Besides, we can get drunk and shoot off bottle rockets here, and it’ll be just like we were there,” I say dryly. “Speaking of drinking—Mom, you want a glass of wine?”

  “Red, please,” she says, settling into a stool at the counter.

  Sabrina pulls out the beef patties she’d carefully constructed earlier today. I’m more than capable of cooking, but she wouldn’t allow me to lift a finger. Everything from the potato salad to the baked beans had been prepared by her.

  We manage to make it halfway through dinner without any hostility, as Sabrina asks Mom a ton of questions about Patterson, Mom’s salon business, and even Dad. It’s the stuff about my father that really gets my mother talking.

  “He said his car broke down, but I don’t believe him,” she declares between bites of her burger.

  Sabrina’s eyes widen. “You think he faked it so he could stay there and get to know you?”

  My mother smirks. “I don’t think so. I know so.”

  I’ve heard the story a thousand times, but it’s as entertaining this time as it ever was. More so, actually, because this time Sabrina’s the audience and she doesn’t believe in love. But Mom’s devotion to my father is unmistakable.

  “John Senior, Tucker’s dad, admitted to it when I got pregnant with Tucker. He said he pulled the spark plug out of the car and that he got the idea from watching The Sound of Music with his mama. I even asked Bill—he’s the local mechanic—who confirmed that the only thing wrong with John’s car was a missing plug.”

  “That’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

  I don’t miss the way Sabrina is pushing the salad around on her plate. For the most part, she’s done a good job of hiding her ongoing nervousness, but her lack of appetite is a dead giveaway. I make a mental note to fix up a plate for her after I take care of the dishes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sabrina adds, her tone soft with sympathy.

  “Thank you, sweetie.”

  I smile to myself. Mom’s definitely thawed.

  Sabrina turns to me. “How
old were you when your father passed? Was it three or four?”

  “Three,” I confirm, popping a potato chunk in my mouth.

  “That’s so young.” She makes an absent pass of her hand along her stomach.

  “You didn’t know?” Mom interjects, the chill back in her voice.

  “No, I knew,” Sabrina fumbles. “I just forgot the exact age.”

  “Have the two of you talked about anything important, or is it simply a physical thing? Because you certainly can’t raise a child on lust alone.”

  “Mom,” I say sharply. “We’ve talked about important things.”

  “Will you be living together? How will you share finances? Who will take care of your child when you’re in class?”

  Sabrina gets a hunted look in her eyes. “I—I… My nana is helping out.”

  “John says she’s reluctant. I’m not sure a reluctant caregiver is a good one.”

  Sabrina aims a glare of betrayal in my direction.

  “I said we didn’t know what kind of help she’d offer.” I lay down my fork. “It’ll all work out.” This is directed to both of them, but neither take it well.

  “You can’t raise a child flying by the seat of your pants, John. I know you want to do the right thing. You always do, but in this case, if the two of you can’t take care of it, you should think about other options. Have you considered adoption?”

  Sabrina’s face goes ashen at the implied insult that she’s not up to being a mother.

  I reach for her. “Sabrina, it’s going to work out—”

  But she’s already darting out of the kitchen, a sob catching in her throat as she mutters something that sounds like bathroom and sorry. Her feet slap against the wood floors as she moves faster than an eight-month pregnant woman should.

  I jump out of my chair. “Sabrina—”

  “Give her some time,” Mom says behind me.

  A door slams, and I flinch at the sharp sound. I start for the doorway and then stop in the middle of the kitchen and spin around.

  “Sabrina’s a good person,” I say gruffly. “And she’s going to make a good mother. And even if she was the worst, you’d still have to accept her because that kid in her stomach is half of me.”

  This time it’s my mother’s face that blanches. “Is that a threat?” Her voice quivers.

  I drag an agitated hand through my hair. “No. But there’s no need for us to be on opposite sides of the ice here. We’re all on the same team.”

  Mom tilts her chin up defiantly. “That remains to be seen.”

  I shake my head in disappointment before heading down the hallway to see if Sabrina is still talking to me.

  Her eyes are red when she opens the bathroom door. “I’m sorry about running out like that.”

  “It’s fine, darlin’.” I push her inside and shut the door behind me. She lets me gather her close—or as close as we can get with a bowling ball between us. “You’re going to be a great mom. I believe in you.”

  Her body feels slight despite the weight she’s gained. “Don’t be mad at your mother,” she whispers against my chest. “She’s looking out for you. She wants what’s best for you. I know that.”

  “She’ll come around.” But I sound a hell of a lot more confident than I feel.

  31

  Tucker

  August

  “Oh my God! Oh my God! Brody! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Right there, baby! Oh my Godddddddddd!”

  Not even the full-blast TV volume can drown out the sex noises wafting out of Brody’s bedroom. If I had a pair of pliers on me, I’d rip my ears off so I wouldn’t have to listen to this anymore. Unfortunately, Brody doesn’t even own a toolbox—I found that out when I first moved in and looked around for tools to fix the leaky kitchen faucet with. Brody had shrugged and said, “Shit leaks, man. Life doesn’t always give you tools.”

  I’d wanted to point out that yes, life does give you tools—that’s why we have fucking Home Depot. But arguing with Brody’s logic is an exercise in futility.

  I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Hollis’ brother is impossible to live with. He has a different chick over every night, and they’re either porn stars or just very good at articulating what they like, love, and really love in bed. He leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor. His idea of cooking is throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, announcing it didn’t fill him up, and then ordering an actual pizza.

  “Oh gosh, yes! Harder, baby!”

  “This hard?”

  “Harder!”

  “Oh yeah, you dirty girl!”

  Jesus H. Christ. I hate this apartment with the fire of a thousand suns.

  I heave myself off the couch and head for the door, texting Sabrina as I slip into a pair of flip-flops.

  Me: Hey bb, want me to come over and rub ur back?

  She must have her phone handy, because she texts back right away.

  Her: Not 2nite. Ray has his poker buds over and they’re all kinda drunk.

  I frown at the screen. Damn it, I can’t stand that she’s still living in that house with that creep. But every time I bring up the idea of finding a place together, Sabrina brushes it aside. And she’s been kind of distant ever since Mom flew back to Texas.

  I love my mother to death, but I’m pissed at her, if I’m being honest. I get that she’s worried about me and thinks that having a baby at my age is a terrible idea, but I didn’t like the way she interrogated Sabrina. Not just on that first day, either. The whole visit was riddled with passive aggressive remarks and veiled criticism. I think Sabrina felt defeated by the time Mom left, and I’m not sure I blame her.

  I send another text.

  Me: Honestly? Don’t like the idea of u being around drunk dudes. Ur due date is in 4 days. U need 2 B around responsible adults.

  Her: Don’t worry. Nana’s sober as a judge. She doesn’t drink, remember?

  At least that’s something. Still, I hate not being there with her.

  “Oooooooh! I’m coooommming!”

  Okay. Enough. I can’t stay here for one more second listening to Brody Hollis get his nut off.

  Shoving my phone and wallet in my pocket, I stomp out of the apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. It’s past nine, so the August sun has already set and a nice breeze tickles my face when I step outside.

  I walk down the sidewalk with no destination in mind, other than not my apartment. With the part-time construction jobs, the visit from Mom, and driving back and forth from Sabrina’s, I haven’t had a chance to fully explore my new neighborhood yet. Now I take the time to do it, and discover that it’s not as sketchy as I originally thought.

  I pass several cafes with quaint outdoor patios, some nice low-rise office buildings, a handful of nail salons, and a barbershop that I make a mental note to visit one of these days. Eventually I find myself in front of a corner bar, admiring the redbrick facade, the small patio sectioned off by a wrought-iron railing, and the green awning over the door.

  The sign is old and dated and slightly crooked. It reads “Paddy’s Dive”, and when I step past the creaky wooden door, I find a dive, all right. The bar is bigger than it appears from outside, but everything in here looks like it was built, bought, and operated in the seventies.

  Aside from one barfly at the end of the long counter, the place is empty. On a Friday night. In Boston. I’ve never been to a bar, anywhere, that hasn’t been jam-packed on a Friday night.

  “What can I getcha?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s in his early to late sixties, with a shock of white hair, tanned wrinkled skin, and exhaustion lining his eyes.

  “I’ll have a…” I pause, realizing I’m not in the mood for alcohol. “Coffee,” I finish.

  He winks. “Living on the edge, are ya, son?”

  Chuckling, I sit on one of the tall, vinyl stools and fold my hands on the counter. Okay, wait, bad idea touching this counter. The wood is so weathered that I’m pretty sure I just got a splinter.

  I absentl
y pick the sliver of wood out of my thumb as I wait for the bartender to make my drink. When he places a cup of coffee in front of me, I accept it gratefully and glance around the room.

  “Slow night?” I ask.

  He smiles wryly. “Slow decade.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  I can see why that is, though. Everything in this bar is outdated. The jukebox is the kind that still requires quarters—who even uses coins anymore? The dartboards are all punctured with holes so big that I don’t think a dart could ever embed into the board. The booths are tattered. The tables are crooked. The floor looks like it could cave in at any second.

  And there aren’t any TVs. What kind of bar doesn’t have a TV?

  Yet, despite all its obvious flaws and drawbacks, I see potential in the place. The location is amazing, and inside are high ceilings with exposed beams and gorgeous wood paneling on the walls. A few renos and some modernizing, and the owner could totally turn this place around.

  I take a sip of coffee, studying the bartender over the rim of my cup. “Are you the owner?”

  “Sure am.”

  Hesitation has me going silent for a second. Then I set down my cup and ask, “Ever thought about selling?”

  “Actually, I’m—”

  My phone rings before he can finish. “Sorry,” I say hastily, reaching into my pocket. When I see Sabrina’s name, I’m instantly on alert. “I need to take this. It’s my girl.”

  The older man smiles knowingly and backs away. “Gotcha.”

  I press TALK and shove the phone to my ear. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”

  “No! It’s not okay!”

  Her shriek nearly shatters my eardrums. The anguish there makes my pulse kick up a panicky notch.

  “What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Did that son of a bitch Ray touch her?

  “No,” she moans, and then there’s a gasp of pain. “I’m not all right. My water just broke!”

  32

  Tucker

  There is no worse feeling in this world than seeing the woman you love in pain and being unable to do a damn thing about it.