Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance

by Roxeanne Rolling

  I push my way through the crowd of journalists. I know I’m supposed to give ten minutes or something like that, but I’ve had enough of their bullshit. And at least I’m self aware enough to realize when I’m about to reach my snapping point.

  The last thing I need is a scandal where I’m yelling at some reporters.

  That’d be a disaster, and might end my career.

  There are already enough stories, apparently, of my womanizing ways. The reporters love that kind of shit. What can I say though?

  I have needs. It’s not like I can be a celibate monk just because I’m on TV.

  And it’s not like I have a wife or a girlfriend to share my life with. And how is it my fault if I haven’t found the one person yet? What’s wrong with playing the field a bit?

  The thing that really gets me is that I already have found that one person to share my life with.

  Her name is Lauren. Or it was Lauren. I don’t have the slightest idea what happened to her. Even after all these years, there hasn’t been a single word from her. Not a fucking word. Not a text, a phone call, a letter. Not even a fucking postcard.

  I’ve gone through phases where I’m angry with her, and phases where I just want to see her again.

  I don’t know what phase I’m in right now.

  The one thing that’s remained constant is that I’ve never stopped thinking about her. Not for a single day.

  Not a single fucking day.

  “You coming out with us tonight, Dylan?” says one of the guys. I think it’s Bill, but I’m not much in the mood to pay attention.

  I’m thinking about Lauren again. Fucking Lauren. I just can’t get her out of my mind.

  I know it’s not normal.

  But I also know that she’s the one. So how can I stop thinking about her?

  “Don’t think so, boys,” I say. “Going to call it an early night. Just get some rest, you know?”

  My voice is on autopilot, and I’m just saying generic lines, so they’ll get off my back.

  “Man,” says someone else. “I don’t know how the fuck you get so many fucking girls if you never come out with us. You just stay at home and they come to you?”

  “Pretty much,” I mumble.

  “That’s the reason he gets so much, you know? He’s not hanging out with a bunch of sweaty dudes every night.”

  “I’m not sweaty. I just took a fucking shower.”

  They fall into an impromptu wrestling match, their towels falling to the floor.

  This is not what I need right now—two huge muscular naked men wrestling each other.

  Sorry, not for me.

  “Later, guys,” I say, as I head out of the locker room.

  11

  Lauren

  “Mom, when are we going to eat?”

  “Soon, honey,” I say. “As soon as the game’s over.”

  “It’s already over mom. The Rabbits one. I know they’re your favorite team.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I guess I just fell asleep for a moment.”

  “You were snoring,” says Sam. “Dylan was on the TV talking.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say.

  Somehow I haven’t managed to hide the fact from my son that Dylan is my favorite player. I guess it’s pretty obvious, since I have a little book where I write down his statistics. Not that Sam knows how to read statistics yet. He’s only in kindergarten.

  But he’s really smart for his age. They tested him at school and found that he’s not only gifted, but working at the same intellectual level as a second grader.

  Did I mention he’s really cute?

  He inherited his father’s beautiful eyes, and his hair.

  I think he got the rest from me. All in all, not a bad combination. I got constant comments on how cute he was when he was an infant and toddler—people were always stopping us on the street. “He could be a model or a child actor,” strangers would tell me.

  “No thanks,” I’d say. “I don’t want him to grow up so fucked up.”

  That usually shut them up. They’d give me weird looks and walk away without saying another word.

  So it worked. I don’t need people bothering me all the time. I don’t need anyone. All I need is Sam, and Sam only needs me.

  “You know Dylan is my favorite player, don’t you Sam?”

  Sam nods his head. His mop of hair just looks so cute, I can’t resist giving him a hug. “He’s my favorite player, too,” says Sam.

  “Why’s that?” I say. I guess I’m really rubbing off on him.

  “He seems really nice,” says Sam.

  I nod my head.

  “Well,” I say. “I think it’s time for bed. You’ve got school tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Yup,” says Sam. “Can’t I stay up with you and watch TV?”

  “The game’s already over, Sam. I’m going to turn the TV off. I think it’d be better if you got to bed.”

  Sam eventually agrees. He’s really a great kid. He’s not disagreeable or difficult, although I certainly hear that other people’s kids are little devils. Sam’s nothing like that. He’s polite and well-mannered.

  What can I say? I taught him well, and he turned out well. Well, he’s still turning out well, I guess. Each day is like a new little surprise. He’s always telling me new things he’s learned.

  I’ve been teaching him how to use my computer, and he loves trying to read the Wikipedia articles online. He just loves learning. He’s going to turn out smarter than either me or Dylan.

  I put Sam to bed and come back to my computer.

  Dylan… I try not to think about him.

  Do I have regrets about the way I handled the situation? Sure, and almost every day I wonder whether I should contact him and tell him. I mean, I have some kind of obligation, don’t I?

  It’s not like Dylan did anything wrong. No, but I did. I’m mature enough now to realize that I made a mistake. I feel guilty as hell about it, but I try to remind myself that six years ago I was really nothing more than a kid. I was in college, and I was 22 years old, but I was still not the mature woman I’ve developed into.

  I was probably a lot more mature than my peers, but that kind of maturity only convinced me that I had to do everything by myself, that I had no other option than to raise Sam myself. As to why I didn’t want to tell Dylan, I’m still cloudy on this myself.

  I know that at that time, that week that I ran away, skipping graduation, everything was a cloudy mess for me. I was so confused, worried, and terrified.

  I knew that my parents wouldn’t help me, and I knew I had my student loans to repay. I knew I had to get a job, and I wanted to do everything myself. I didn’t want to end up relying on Dylan for everything, even though he surely could have paid for me to stay at home and raise Sam with his salary.

  I was too independent to rely on someone like that, even if was Dylan, who I’m pretty sure now I was in love with at the time, even though neither one of us admitted it to the other. I was also scared that Dylan wasn’t as serious about me as I was about him.

  Even though he invited me to live with him, I had my doubts, and I was worried he would find someone else and ditch me and Sam. And at the time I thought that’d be worse than just never giving it a try.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  Sure, having and raising Sam has been the best thing that ever happened to me.

  But it’s been a tough road.

  I’m still in Baltimore, where that haphazardly chosen bus ride first took me.

  I had to get the first job I could, since I barely had any money. I’m still working at the same massage center that I started working at six years ago.

  I’ve had plenty of other side jobs on and off, but my most consistent current job is waitressing at a diner for the extra money.

  Oh shit, that reminds me. I’ve got to call the sitter for tomorrow.

  I grab my phone. It’s a little late, but Sara’s probably stil
l up.

  “Hey, Sara,” I say, when she picks up. “You think you could watch Sam tomorrow. I forgot that I’m picking up another shift at the diner.”

  “Sure,” says Sara. “Can I bring my boyfriend over though?”

  “You mean Ted?”

  “Ted? Gross. I dumped him last week. I mean Jerry.”

  Jerry. I don’t like the sound of him one bit, just from his name. Sara’s a good kid, but she’s just starting community college here in Baltimore, and she’s certainly not even at your average emotional maturity level of most college kids. But what I like about her is that she is almost always available, and the most important thing is that I know I can trust her with Sam, no matter what.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Sara says. “I don’t know if I’m going to keep seeing him anyway.”

  “So you might dump him just because you can’t bring him tomorrow?”

  “Meh, I guess.”

  I laugh. I have to laugh at the kids these days. I was so much different in college, so much more serious. But then again I wasn’t exactly your typical college kid.

  Now that Sam’s in bed, I’ve got at least an hour before I need to go to bed. I’ve got to get up really early for my shift at the massage center, but I can’t resist, and I pull out my laptop computer.

  I open up a private browser window, so that my history won’t be stored, because I’m starting to suspect that Sam is so smart he already knows how to check my search history.

  I just can’t help myself.

  I pull up a video of Dylan Knight, yes, my Dylan. Sam’s father. That Dylan.

  It’s an interview from today’s game already online.

  I can still read his expressions well. It’s obvious to me that he’s getting pissed, starting to lose his temper, and I can’t blame him. After all, the reporter is obviously just trying to get a rise out of him.

  Dylan looks the same, in a way. He still has the same spark to his eyes, and the same infectious smile that made me fall for him back in college.

  He still looks the same, but his face has matured, as has his body. He was always muscular, but now he is a little bulkier, perhaps, and more sinewy looking.

  His face has a certain type of sadness to it that I like to think that only I can detect.

  I find myself staring at pictures of Dylan for another hour, before I finally shut the computer and go to bed. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.

  12

  Dylan

  If there’s one part of the job that I hate, it’s traveling.

  But at least we get to fly, and don’t have to take the bus everywhere, like they used to way back in the old days of football.

  We’re playing Baltimore. It’s our third game of the season, and right now we’re 1 for 1. An even record isn’t bad for a new team, but if we want to make a name for ourselves, for The Rabbits, we’ve got to win this one.

  More importantly, if I want to make a name for myself as a quarterback, I’ve got to play like I’ve never played before.

  Everyone else on the team is joking and rowdy on the plane, but I’m sitting in the back by myself, studying up on the plays we might use for tomorrow’s game.

  I’ve already got everything memorized, but it doesn’t help to review strategy before a game.

  “Yo, Dylan,” calls out someone from the front of the plane. “What you up to?”

  “Studying,” I say.

  “What’s that?” He can’t hear me, so he gets up and starts walking down the aisle towards me.

  It’s Gary, a good guy, but a bit of a knucklehead. He’s on the defensive line, so his job is to be as big and strong as he can possibly be so that he can knock the living shit out of the other guy.

  Gary’s munching on a bag of chips as usual, his mouth full, when he gets back to my seat.

  “So when you going to show us the pictures you got of all these ladies you sleep with?” says Gary, still chomping away.

  “I don’t have any pictures,” I say.

  “Come on, man, you’re doing it all wrong. You got to get them to send you hot pictures. You’re the quarterback. That’s like one of your jobs on the teams. Unofficial role ,of course. You just got to distribute these pictures to us. You know, we all can’t be quarterbacks.”

  “Don’t think I’m going to do that, Gary,” I say, picking up one of my poetry books that I have with me. It works as a break from football, and helps me think.

  “What’s that?” says Gary, pointing a chip at the book.

  “Poetry by a guy name Roethke.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s pretty good. You should check him out.”

  “What’s going on back here?” says coach, suddenly appearing in the aisle, behind Gary.

  “I was telling Gary about Roethke,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. The situation seems funny to me because Gary no doubt has never read a piece of poetry in his life. I doubt coach has either.

  “Is he on the opposing team?” says coach in a practiced growl.

  I shake my head. “Roethke? No, don’t think so.”

  “Then I don’t want to hear about him.”

  “Got it,” say Gary and I together.

  We haven’t spent much time with coach so far, but we’ve learned that it’s best to agree to whatever he says. After all, he’s a serious veteran of the game. He played himself about forty years ago, and he’s seen it all at this point. He’s also determined to take The Rabbits as far as we can possibly go.

  “You took a serious hit out there today,” says coach. “I want you to get it worked on as soon as we get to Baltimore. We’ve got a day before the game.”

  “I think it’s fine, coach,” I say. I’ve never been able to have massages after Lauren left. It just reminds me too much of her, although I sometimes fantasize about that first time I met her, in the massage center.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer, Dylan. I’ll set up someone good when we get to Baltimore.”

  I just nod my head. I can see there’s no point in saying no.

  “Good man,” says coach.

  We check into the hotel. Fortunately, I’ve got a room to myself. The last team I was on, I wasn’t starting, and I often had to share a hotel room.

  You wouldn’t believe the kind of animals football can attract.

  And sometimes I’m one of them, not that I like the reputation I get from it.

  It was a mess. They’d all be trying to bring women back to the hotel room at the same time.

  The phone rings.

  “Dylan, I got the appointment all set up for you.” He reads me the address. “Take a cab, and make sure you ask for Lauren. I got the recommendation from an old friend who’s also in the business.” By business he means football. “She’s supposed to be the best at preventing injuries from turning into something worse.”

  “I really think I’m fine, coach,” making one last attempt to get out of it.

  Massages just remind me too much of Lauren.

  But he’s not having any of it. “You’re not playing if you don’t see her.”

  Well, that’s that.

  Shit, I think to myself, hanging up the phone.

  It isn’t until the taxi ride (I might as well get the appointment over with) that I realize the massage therapist’s name is Lauren.

  But surely she’s not my Lauren.

  I mean, what would be the chances?

  I don’t think my Lauren ever mentioned Baltimore once. What the hell would she be doing here, and why would she still be working as a massage therapist. She has so much potential, after all. I’m sure she went on to do something great.

  It just would have been nice to fucking hear from her once. Just to know what the hell happened.

  “I’m here to see, Lauren,” I say, to the secretary, who appears to be a college student.

  It’s f
unny how much younger they seem to me now. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in college myself. It wasn’t that long ago that I met Lauren at a massage center much like this one.

  But now I must look ancient to this secretary, like a real adult.

  My beard has gotten darker, my stubble thicker and bristlier.

  “She’s with another client right now, but you get head to the room all the way at the end of the hall and get ready.”

  “Get into a towel, the whole drill?”

  She nods her head.

  She’s looking at me intently, with a kind of a funny look on her face.

  “You’re not…Dylan Knight,” she says, shyly, as if she’s afraid to ask me.

  I nod.

  “Oh wow,” she says. “That’s so crazy. I saw you on TV the other day.”

  “Against Seattle?” I say. I know I didn’t play Seattle. Hell, I play for Seattle. I’m just testing her. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know anything about football, and I have to get my amusement out of these situations somehow. It’s been happening to me more and more—getting recognized, that is.

  “Yeah,” she says, her eyes wide at the memory of seeing me on TV.

  She’s sticking out her chest, arching her back, and batting her eyelashes. One hand moves her hair back behind her ear, toying with it a bit.

  Shit, this always happens.

  It’s not that I don’t have needs, and don’t take advantage of opportunities once in a while. But I’m not looking for a relationship.

  I had a relationship with Lauren six years ago, and I haven’t had another one since. I don’t think I could handle it.

  “Not interested, honey,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, flushing a deep red. “I…”

  She’s stuttering for her words.

  I just walk down the hall, to save her the embarrassment.

  I get in the room and close the door. I know the drill.

  I pull off my jeans and shirt, and lie down, draping the towel around me.

  The door opens.

  “Hi,” says the therapist. “My name’s Lauren, and I hear you have a soccer injury. Is it your leg?”

  “Football injury,” I say, my eyes closed.