Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance

by Roxeanne Rolling

  I pull it all off, so that she’s completely naked now. I disposed of her shirt a long time ago…well, more like a minute ago. Like I said, it’s a fast paced session. But that’s just because we want each other so much.

  I lick around her, and then move on to the outer lips.

  Hey, can you blame me if I’ve had a bit of practice in my day?

  I like to think I really know what I’m doing down here, and I have to say that most of the ladies like to agree.

  Soon I’m doing my whole routine, although it’s not exactly like I have a crib sheet or something. I know what I’m doing, and I know all the right moves, but I go more by feeling. I time my motions to correspond with how her body is reacting.

  I reach my hands up towards her breast, fondling them, and feeling for her rock hard nipples.

  She tastes amazing. I love this taste, and wish I could bathe in it.

  “I’m going to come,” she says. “You have to stop.”

  “I want you to come,” I say, turning my head up for a moment to look at her, a wicked smile on my face.

  “Damnit!” she says, and starts swearing with a string of words that would make the most hardened prison guard blush.

  “You swear like a fucking sailor,” I say, pausing again for a moment. “And I like it.”

  “You love it,” she says, moaning. “Now keep going.”

  “I thought you wanted me to stop? You were scared of coming, it seemed like.”

  “Back at it,” she says, pushing my head back down.

  It only takes another couple moments before she’s coming, and fuck is it fucking hot.

  She’s arching her back and crying out and moaning. I keep going, but I’m also trying to pick my head up to get a better view. I love the way her body moves when her back arches, and I love the way she squirms and thrashes.

  Her thighs are clamping against my head.

  I have to press them apart with my hands to finally get out of her grasp.

  “You like it?” I say.

  “Fuck me,” she says.

  I don’t need to be told twice.

  That’s what I had in mind anyway.

  I pull my shirt off, my last piece of clothing, and throw it in the pile with the other clothes. Well, there’s not really a pile. It’s like a small tornado hit us and threw our clothes in every direction.

  I’m kissing her again, on the mouth, on the neck, on her breasts. I’m sucking on her nipples, and running my hands through her hair and all along her body in long swift slow motions.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I simply have to have her. It feels like my cock is going to explode if I wait another moment.

  “Do I need a condom?” I say, recalling that earlier today we didn’t use one. For a moment, it gives me pause for concern. But I know Lauren’s too responsible to let something like birth control slip her mind.

  “I’m on the pill,” she says.

  There’s a weird look coming across her face.

  “What is it?” I say.

  “Nothing. Let’s do it. Fuck me.”

  I don’t need to be told thrice.

  I push my cock in, just a little ways inside.

  Lauren moans like crazy.

  “Doesn’t take much?” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything. She’s too overcome with ecstasy.

  And a moment later, I am too.

  Even though it’s just been a few hours since our last session, I’ve somehow forgotten how amazing it feels being inside her. This isn’t just having sex, or amazing sex, but there’s something incredible about being so close to Lauren.

  My Lauren.

  Well, not quite my Lauren yet.

  But I’m going to change that.

  I’m pumping my hips, slowly at first, but with a good amount of force.

  It feels like complete ecstasy. Nothing has ever felt so good.

  The thought that I just got her off, got her to orgasm, makes the whole thing seem that much hotter—the idea that I can give her pleasure with my body, that she wants me, that this beautiful creature on the bed below me really wants me and my body.

  Lauren’s pulling me closer down on top of her, and our bodies are not pushed together. It’s never felt hotter to be so close to someone, to hear her breathing and moaning, and to feel her naked soft skin against mine.

  It doesn’t take long. Lauren’s moaning already. “I’m going to come,” she says.

  “Good,” I say. “I can’t hold out much longer. Not with you.”

  After that, we’re both unable to talk.

  As I come, it’s like a tidal wave is released inside of me. The most pleasurable tidal wave I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling.

  This is better than winning a game. This is better than winning the championship. This is the best feeling in the world.

  We come together, both of us making a hell of a lot of noise as we do so.

  Sometimes I’m self conscious about making noise during sex. It may sound weird, but it’s always felt like women are supposed to be noisy, and men are supposed to just silently pound away. But with Lauren I lose all of that. I’m grunting like there’s no tomorrow.

  Not that I’m paying much attention. It’s just happening automatically.

  We’re both exhausted, and I fall down on the bed beside her.

  I put my arm around her, and pull her in close. She nestles her head in the crook under my shoulder, just like she used to do in college.

  “This feels so nice,” I say, after our breathing has finally returned to normal.

  “Just like in college,” she says.

  I’m surprised. This is the first time she’s mentioned something about college. I can hear her mind spinning, her gears turning, as she realizes she’s getting dangerously close to talking about the time she left me—and never called me for six years.

  I used to be angry about it, but not anymore.

  Right now, I couldn’t care less, except that it would have made all those years go by easier.

  Now I’m just happy to be with her. Happy to have her back.

  We drift off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  Right before I fall asleep, I vaguely remember that I have a game tomorrow. Not just any game, but a big game. My career is essentially on the line.

  If I can’t carry The Rabbits through as quarterback, that’s it for me.

  I’m a great player, and I’m not being self-aggrandizing. It’s just that I’m realizing that pro football isn’t the game I thought it was.

  Or maybe in a way I realized it, and that’s why I had started to distance myself from the Twilmore team in my senior year, focusing more on poetry, and, eventually, Lauren.

  I can’t remember falling asleep, as usual.

  A bit of light is coming in, now that it’s morning.

  Lauren is lying curled up, without any covers up, looking insanely beautiful with her arm draped across her body.

  Getting out of bed as quietly as I can, I pull the sheets gently up over her, since she looks just a little cold.

  I grab my jeans and tip toe towards the door, opening and closing it slowly.

  It’s early, but I need to be back at the hotel in just a few hours, so that they don’t send the search and rescue party for me. After all, we have to get changed, listen to our pep talk, and warm up—all before the big game against Baltimore.

  But I have a little time to spare. It’s not going to be any trouble if I spend a little more time here.

  What if I make Lauren breakfast? What’s the harm in that? I’ll still get back to the hotel in time.

  If coach asks me where I’ve been, I’m going to tell him to shove it. It’s none of his business. I’ve got a right to my own time, and I can do with it what I want.

  The kitchen is a little run down just like the rest of the apartment, but it’s clean and tidy. I can tell Lauren does a lot of cooking here, probably to save mon
ey.

  I never knew her as a big cooker in college, but then again there was only about one half-functioning kitchen per dorm room floor, which about fifty students all shared. So you can imagine it was a huge a mess.

  There are frying pans, a gas stove, and eggs in the fridge.

  I’m not much of a cook myself, but I can whip up some really good scrambled eggs that pretty much everyone says are the best eggs they’ve ever tasted. My secret is to add ketchup (just a little), salt, pepper, and a dash of sugar before putting the eggs into the pan. I just scramble them up like that, with milk of course.

  I’m in the middle of mixing up the eggs when someone comes in.

  Well, I can’t see him at first.

  But I hear the noise of the roommate’s door opening and closing.

  The kitchen opens up into the living room, and it’s still a little dark in here. Not a lot of light gets in. I guess this is the side of the house that lines up with the next house over. There aren’t many windows.

  These Baltimore row homes weren’t built with sunlight or comfort for the occupants in mind.

  “Someone there?” I say.

  I’m half worried that this roommate is going to think I’ve broken into the apartment or something.

  “Hey,” I say, still unable to see the roommate. But he’s got to be in here somewhere. After all, I’m pretty sure I heard some footsteps. This is weird. Where is he? “I’m Dylan. I’m a friend of Lauren’s.”

  “Who are you?” says someone. It surprises the hell out of me. It’s a child’s voice.

  Who has a child for a roommate?

  “I’m Dylan,” I say. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sam,” says the boy.

  Now I see him. He’s standing on the other side of the kitchen island, and he’s short enough, as all kids his age are, that I couldn’t see him from where I was standing. After all, I was looking for an adult roommate, not a child.

  For some reason, he looks kind of familiar. I wonder why? I haven’t met many children playing pro football.

  “Hey, Sam,” I say. I really don’t know what to say. I’ve never spent much time around children before. Are you just supposed to talk to them like adults, or as if they’re like really stupid adults or something? After all, they haven’t been in the world that long, and there’s a ton of stuff they don’t know at all.

  “Are you a friend of my mom’s?” says Sam, looking up at me.

  The burner is already on, but the eggs aren’t in the pan yet. Just the oil is, and the pan is starting to smoke.

  “Shit,” I say, scrambling to take the pan off the burner.

  “You’re not supposed to say words like that,” says Sam.

  “Well I’m an adult,” I say. “I can say what I want.”

  “That’s not what my mom says,” says Sam.

  “Who’s your mom?” I say, but I think I already know the answer.

  “Lauren,” says Sam, pointing to Lauren’s room.

  Wow.

  Holy shit.

  Lauren has a kid?

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  Well, at least this explains the weird behavior—how she didn’t want to wake up her roommate and all that.

  But…shit…does this mean she has a husband or a boyfriend?

  “And who’s your dad, Sam?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” says Sam. “I’ve never met him.”

  I breathe an internal sigh of relief.

  Although maybe I shouldn’t feel so glad. I immediately feel guilty about feeling relieved that this poor kid doesn’t know who is dad is. That’s not something that a kid should have to go through, especially a kid his age.

  Like I said, I’ve never considered myself good with kids. But there’s something about Sam that’s kind of interesting.

  Maybe part of it is this guilty feeling that he doesn’t know who is dad is, but I think a lot of it is just that he’s actually kind of fun not to mention interesting. So anyway I start talking to him, asking him all the kinds of questions I imagine that adults ask kids.

  I ask him his age, what his favorite color is, where he goes to school, how much he likes it, who his teachers are, and whether or not he likes them. Everything I can think of, basically.

  He answers all the questions politely, but finally he says, “this is boring.”

  Shit. I knew I was bad with kids.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I say.

  “I’m hungry. I want breakfast.”

  “Your mom used to get cranky when she didn’t eat sometimes. Does that happen to you too?”

  Sam nods his head. “I think so,” he says. “It still happens to my mom.”

  I nod my head sympathetically. “That happens to me sometimes too,” I say. “Why don’t we fix up some eggs? Do you know how to cook eggs?”

  Sam shakes his head.

  “Why don’t I show you?” I say.

  Sam looks excited when I show him how to light the stove. Now I let him do it himself, and his whole face lights up when the flame comes on.

  “I guess your mom doesn’t let you play with fire?” I say.

  “No,” Sam says.

  I think he’s a little shy around me. That makes sense, though, since I’m just some adult man who showed up in his kitchen all of a sudden.

  He seems like a really sharp kid, and more mature than normal for his age. I watch as he diligently follows my instructions, dumping the scrambled eggs into the pan after it’s hot enough.

  I show him how to stir the eggs so they don’t stick to the bottom.

  Lauren doesn’t even have a not stick pan, and it’s been a while since I used a regular aluminum one. The eggs really want to stick to the bottom, but with me and Sam working together, the eggs turn out pretty well.

  After only a couple bites, Sam really starts to liven up. All of a sudden, he’s telling me about all the things he’s learning on his own, all the book she’s reading, and about how he’s discovering how all sorts of things work.

  I was wrong. He’s not just sharp. He might be a genius or something.

  All I know is he’s a hell of a lot smarter than I was at that age.

  15

  Lauren

  I wake up and Dylan’s not there. Shit, was this just a one-night stand?

  Is he trying to get me back for the time I left him in college?

  Well, I could almost understand that. But, still, it doesn’t feel good to be on the other end of that dirty trick.

  His clothes and watch are all gone.

  But there’s some noise coming from the kitchen. Maybe Sam’s up.

  I don’t have any time to feel sorry for myself. I’ve got to get up and feed Sam.

  Sam’s what’s gotten me through the difficult times. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to work so many jobs. But I’m doing it all for him, so it makes it all worth while.

  I open my door, and I’m greeted by a huge surprise.

  Dylan didn’t leave me. He’s sitting there with Sam, and they’re both chatting away.

  Both of them seem excited about something, and Sam in particular is looking really energized and full of life.

  Sometimes I worry about Sam. He’s such a smart kid with so much potential, but I worry that he doesn’t have anybody to talk to. He’s got a couple friends in school, but I think he gets frustrated with them. Because of his intelligence, he’d rather talk to grown ups, but by the time I get home from my two jobs, I’m usually too burned out to hold even the simplest conversation.

  And anyway, Sam spends a lot of his time with the babysitters, and they’re usually not up to Sam’s level of inquisitiveness and intellectual exploration. They ask me in a confused way why a young kid is interested in all these complicated science things, how the solar system works, and all that kind of stuff. They’d rather babysit a kid who just is content to watch TV or play videogames.

  But
I’m glad Sam is different.

  “You two look like you’re having fun,” I say.

  “Want some eggs, mom?” says Sam. “We left you some.”

  “That’d be great.” I dig into the eggs without a second thought. “These are delicious, “I say.

  “Dylan taught me how to make them,” says Sam.

  “But Sam did all the heavy lifting,” says Dylan, giving me a wink. “He’s really going to be quite the cook some day.”

  “I’m proud of you, Sam. But…what’d you put in these?” I say, looking down at the eggs. “I’ve never tasted anything this good.”

  “A good chef never reveals his secret recipe,” says Dylan. “We’re like magicians that way.”

  “I never pegged you for being a chef. I thought throwing a ball was your talent.”

  “What do you mean throwing a ball. Are you a baseball player or something?” That’s Sam, always wanting to know what the scoop is.

  “Football player,” says Dylan. “I’m the quarterback for a new team called The Rabbits.”

  “Oh, you’re that Dylan,” says Sam. “Dylan Knight. Wow, I didn’t recognize you. You look different on TV.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re a lot smaller on TV,” says Sam, laughing at his own joke. It’s almost not a joke. Our TV is pretty small.

  Dylan laughs too, and now I do too.

  I can tell already that Dylan and Sam are getting along really great, and it makes my heart feel really warm. They look just like father and son making a big mess in the kitchen. It’s just such a perfect picture that I forget for a moment I’m the only one of the three of us that knows they’re even related.

  “You’re my mom’s favorite player,” says Sam. “We’ve been watching almost all your games. That is, when mom’s not at work.”

  “Is that so?” says Dylan, giving me a quizzical look. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Does he suspect that Sam is his kid?

  I don’t think so. That would just seem too strange to him, probably.

  We spend another twenty minutes chatting and laughing, all three of us, and it just feels wonderful and convivial here in the kitchen. I make some coffee, and Dylan and I drink a couple cups.