Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance

by Roxeanne Rolling

  “The same one!” he says. “I guess she’s been doing porn on the side.”

  “Is she even a student?” I say, giving him an incredulous look, like I can’t believe he hooked up with her.

  “Dunno,” he says, and goes back to watching the video.

  “At least I know what you’ll be doing when I’m warming up,” I say, referring the fact that I know he can’t hold himself back from jacking off to her. Unfortunately, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to be bragging for the rest of the semester about how he banged a porn star, although whether or not she’s a star is certainly in doubt. I take a look at the screen, and she doesn’t look too good on the video, with all the bright lights, and without the beer goggles of the night of the party. “You going to at least come to the meet to watch?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  As I close the door behind me, I can already hear him unzipping his pants. How disgusting, I think to myself.

  Coach greets me right when I enter the swim building.

  “You haven’t gotten up to any funny business with that reporter student, have you?” he says, gruff as always.

  “Of course not,” I say. “I’m not going to risk a chance at the Olympics.”

  “Hmmph,” he grunts. “Glad to see you’ve got your head on straight for once. And you sound a little less cocky. I’m glad to hear you say, ‘chance.’ That’s good. Maybe you’ll make it after all. The scout is here, and I want to introduce you to him.”

  He calls over the scout, a man who looks out of place, wearing a full suit, carrying a bag like a journalist, along with a video recorder.

  I was feeling nervous about the race but seeing the scout somehow brings me back to my old self. I feel sure of myself and cocky again. After all, I know I’m going to do well. I’m going to win the relay race, and the freestyle 100 M. I’ve been waiting for this day for four years, and there’s no way I’m going to fuck it up.

  “I want to present to you Anchor, I mean Matt,” says the Coach, looking at the scout with more respect than I’ve ever seen him look at anyone.

  “Nice to meet you,” says the scout, shaking my hand.

  “Likewise,” I say, giving him a big grin. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get changed and warm up.”

  “Good kid,” says the coach to the scout, as I’m leaving.

  In the locker room, I strip down and put on my goggles and swim briefs. I step into the shower for a moment, turning the heat all the way up, feeling my muscles relaxing as the hot water hits them hard. This is something I do before every meet. I look down at my body, and take a survey of my muscles, how they look and how they feel.

  I’m ready.

  I’m going to race in the Olympics.

  Warm up goes smoothly. Coach is barking commands at us like normal.

  I eye the other team. They look strong and fast, but not fast enough to beat us.

  Time is flying by. Somehow, the meet has already started, and I’m standing on deck waiting to swim the 100 M freestyle.

  As I put my goggles down around my eyes, I happen to look up into the stands. I see her. She’s sitting there. It’s Allison, with her hair flowing around her, looking beautiful, looking more than beautiful. She looks like the one. The one for me, and my self-doubt all feels like a distant memory. Seeing her again, I know I’m in love with her, and was in love with her that first night of the party that we hooked up. I realize now I was in love with her when we crawled through the air conditioning ducts, running away from coach, who almost caught us.

  She looks down at me, and our eyes meet for a moment. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, and then she smiles and waves.

  My heart swells.

  This is just what I needed to swim the race of my life… so far, at least, since there’s no doubt in my mind that once I reach the Olympic team, I’ll be shattering world records in no time.

  14

  Allison

  “Glad to see you’re here,” says Professor Beaumont, sitting down next to me. “I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I got a view of the meet myself. Can you believe it, I’ve been a professor here for so long I’m practically furniture, but I’ve never been to a single sporting event?”

  “I can believe it, knowing you, Professor Beaumont,” I say.

  He cracks a smile. He knows I’ve never been to one of these things either.

  “You’re that reporter chick, aren’t you?” says someone.

  I look up, and it’s Dave, Anchor’s bosom buddy, or whatever the swimming bros call it. I doubt it’s, “bosom buddy.”

  He’s teetering as he stands, trying to balance himself on some crutches.

  “Let me help you with that,” says Beaumont, always being the gentleman, standing up, and helping Dave sit down.

  “For an athlete, you don’t seem too coordinated,” I say.

  Beaumont laughs nervously.

  “I guess you remember me from that night at the statue?” says Dave. I’m a little surprised to see that he acts a little bashful, as if he’s ashamed of himself.

  “I’m surprised you remember me, considering how drunk you were.”

  “I see you two already know each other,” says Beaumont, looking from me to Dave. I can tell he’s wondering if Dave is my inside source. But I know he knows the pieces don’t quite fit.

  “Who’s that down there?” I say, trying to change the subject, so Anchor doesn’t come into the conversation. I’m pointing to a man in the first row, who looks out of place in a suit and tie, holding an expensive looking video camera.

  “I think it’s the Olympic scout,” says Dave. “You know, for Anchor?”

  So much for avoiding talking about Anchor.

  “Wait, so he’s not just being cocky and full of himself?” I say. “He’s really got a shot at the Olympics?

  “Yup,” says Dave, turning away from me to watch the meet.

  I get the feeling there’s never a lot going on in Dave’s head.

  “It’s about to start,” says Beaumont.

  “It’s already started,” says Dave, still looking straight ahead and down, towards the pool.

  It’s true. The meet is already underway. While we were talking, a couple races have already passed.

  I may not know much about sports, but Beaumont knows even less than I do. He’s looking around, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  “Who’s winning then?” he says, nudging Dave gently on his arm. “What’s the score?”

  “It’s not that simple,” says Dave, pointing to the scoreboard.

  I don’t know why, but I was expecting the scoreboard to look like the board for any other sport, where there’s a clock and just two numbers. Each team has a score, and the one that has the higher score wins. But swimming isn’t that simple.

  Dave starts explaining how the scoring works, but I find myself tuning out.

  Or tuning in.

  I see Anchor standing there, looking incredibly sexy.

  He’s taller and more muscular than all the other racers. I watch him with complete fascination as he looks so determined standing there, swinging his arms back and forth, and doing little stretches here and there.

  I’m instantly thrown back into the time we shared together in my bed, when he was on top of me, kissing my neck, his hands all over my body in the sexiest way imaginable.

  “Hey, Anchor’s about to race,” says Dave, interrupting my little sexual fantasy reverie.

  “Is that him, there?” says Beaumont, but I’m not paying him any attention. I’m vaguely aware that Dave is telling him something about Anchor, and pointing out what type of race it is.

  I know that it’s a 100 M freestyle, which I think is about one length of the pool but I’m not sure.

  The pool is shimmering an amazing blue, and the plastic lane buoys are red and white, and seem to be shimmering. But maybe the shimmering is just in me, just in my perception. Every time I look at Anc
hor, it seems like there’s a magical sort of aura glowing around him. Everyone else, all the other swimmers, seem absolutely dull in comparison. They seem like nothing. I know Anchor’s going to win.

  Anchor is now up on the blocks, the little stands that the swimmers dive from at the start of the race. Even bending down, with his fingers gently against the block, he seems to be taller than everyone else. His body looks great bent over like this.

  The Olympic scout in front of us in the stands is fumbling with his camera. I wonder what his job really is. If he’s just going to record the race, what’s the point of sending a so-called expert here? I realized that I’m already assuming Anchor is the best of the best, and that there’s little point in even testing him for the Olympics—he should just get a spot on the team automatically. How silly I’ve become! Have I just fallen in love with him again? Wait, love? Was I in love with him before?

  The gun goes off before I know it, and Anchor’s flying through the air.

  He lands in the pool gracefully, somehow hardly making any splash at all. He’s jumped farther than any of the other swimmers, and is about a head’s length in front them from the start.

  He’s at the front, and his arms are moving like a machine, pulling his streamlined body through the water like a front-mounted motor on a jet ski.

  “He’s going to win,” I scream, forgetting myself, and forgetting that I’m in the presence of Beaumont.

  “No doubt! Way to go, dude!” screams Dave, trying to get to his feet to stand up, forgetting that he’s injured, and nearly toppling over completely in the process.

  But there’s another swimmer coming up next to him. He’s in the lane right next to Anchor, who’s in what might be called the middle lane.

  Shit, he’s beating Anchor now by about a full body length.

  The edge of the other side of the pool is approaching fast, as they all zoom towards it.

  This can’t be! Anchor is going to lose.

  But at the last moment, Anchor pulls ahead of the other swimmer. He’s going so fast it seems like he’s going to simply crash into the side of the pool and seriously injure himself, but he hits the wall gracefully somehow. Now he’s holding onto the side of the pool, pushing his goggles above his eyes, and looking up at the scoreboard.

  “Did he win?” I say, looking anxiously over at Dave.

  “Of course,” says Dave, clapping his hands, and letting out a very bro-like whooping noise.

  “He did well,” says Beaumont, somewhat stiffly. He gives me a quizzical look. I know he’s wondering why I’m cheering so much for Anchor.

  “Does Anchor have another event?” I ask Dave.

  “Yeah, he’s still got the relay, you know?”

  “Ah, that’s how he got such an unusual nick name,” says Beaumont, instantly deriving the meaning of the word Anchor. He isn’t a professor for nothing, after all.

  Dave just nods his head, as if this should be obvious. And maybe it should. I realize I think it should be obvious too, even though it had to be explained to me the first time I heard it. I can’t believe I’m essentially siding in my head with the swim bros, rather than with Professor Beaumont, who has always been my best friend on campus.

  “How much time does he have before the relay?” I say.

  “About twenty minutes,” says Dave. “Why?”

  “I just want to go say ‘hi’ to him,” I say.

  Dave gives me a wicked grin, as if he knows exactly what I’m up to. I wonder how much Anchor told him about our night together. It makes me mad that Anchor would have been telling his swimming buddies about our night together, but the anger is soon overcome by sheer lust for Anchor. I just can’t help myself. I need to have him and his body. And I need it right now, or at least within the next twenty minutes.

  Beaumont gives me a confused look, and I realize my excuse isn’t nearly good enough.

  “Oh, I need to get some notes from him, quotes you know? If he’s going to the Olympics, this is going to be a big part of the story,” I say. I grab my pen and journalist pad and hold them up, as if they are proof I’m telling the truth.

  “Good luck, then,” says Dave. “Remember, he’s only got twenty minutes.” Dave gives me a gross wink.

  “Yeah,” says Beaumont, not seeing Dave’s face. “Good luck then, get some good quotes.”

  I rush off, practically running down the stairs to the main deck.

  15

  Anchor

  I’m flush from the success of the race. I wasn’t sure I’d won until I looked up at the scoreboard.

  In the stands, I could see Dave sitting with Allison.

  She looked so beautiful sitting up there, sitting so prim and proper.

  I didn’t see the Olympics scout in the stands, but with that suit he was wearing when I shook his hand, he’s bound to blend into the wall or something. That’s about how exciting he appeared to me.

  Some winners say they can’t believe they won a race, but I can believe it all right. After all, I’m going to be on the Olympics next year, no matter what, so how would it look if I was beaten in my prime event?

  The relay is coming up, and I know we’re going to get a record time. One of the reasons the Olympics is interested in me is precisely because of my ability to pull the team to victory no matter what. But, shit, Dave is injured. I forgot for a moment, and now I realize that Spellman is racing instead. Shit, that asshole Spellman. He always ruins everything, no matter what.

  I’m in the locker room, taking a bit of a breather. It helps me to get away from the crowds and the other swimmers and take solace in the empty locker room between events.

  This is what I’ve always done.

  I turn on the shower, letting the steam from the hot water pile up around me as I stand here in my swim briefs, with my goggles on my forehead.

  Suddenly, the door bursts open.

  I catch a glimpse of long hair. What’s going on? Is someone lost?

  Shit! It’s Allison. It’s Allison!

  She’s running towards me, with a look I’ve never seen before in her eyes. It’s like seeing pure animal lust.

  She basically attacks me, pushing her body against mine, not seeming to care that I’m completely soaked. I haven’t even dried off.

  My cock springs up, and I’ve got a huge erection in about one second flat, threatening to burst my swim briefs at the seams.

  “You were so hot racing,” she says, breathing the words heavily in my ear. She’s breathing heavy too, and her body is rising and falling with her breaths.

  “Look,” I say. “I’ve decided I’m not mad at you for not texting me back.”

  “I’m the one who was mad at you. How could you just leave me like that? I mean, I’m risking everything, too. If I’m caught sleeping with you, there’s no way I’ll be able to work for The Journal next year. I’m supposed to be a professional, already, and professionals don’t sleep with their sources.”

  We’re having this conversation in the middle of making out heavily, taking short breaks from kissing in order to spill out the words at top speed. Her hands are all over me, and mine are all over her, grabbing at every curve I can find.

  “I’m your what…you’re inside source? Anyway, if coach catches me with you, he’s going to kick me off the team. He told me you’re completely off limits. I’m on thin ice as it is, stealing the statue, and a shit load of other stuff. There goes my shot at the Olympics, if that happens.”

  “So we can’t hook up any more then, that’s that,” says Allison, with her tongue still half way down my throat.

  “Yet here you are in the locker room trying to bang me during a meet,” I say.

  “That’s exactly what I want to do,” she says.

  “Well, at least we got the heavy stuff out of the way before we go at it,” I say. “I’ve only got twenty minutes, and people could come in here any second. It’s the men’s locker room, and everyone shares it.”

&n
bsp; She doesn’t say anything, but for a response, she pulls down my swim briefs.

  She grabs my cock like no one’s ever grabbed it before.

  Before I know what’s happening, she’s down on her knees, with my cock in her mouth.

  I gently grab her head, without trying to dictate her movements, caressing her scalp, and running my hands through her luscious hair.

  “Do you have a condom?” she says, pulling her mouth away from me for a minute, before going back at it.

  “You really know what you want,” I say. “I like that.” It’s hard for me to say anything more intelligent or witty with the amount of pleasure I’m receiving. She’s acting so different from the shy, reserved girl the other night, and that dichotomy makes all the difference, it makes the whole thing so much hotter. And the fact that we could be caught at any moment, and lose everything—somehow that only makes it hotter as well.

  She gives me a look, like she’s still waiting for an answer.

  “I don’t have one,” I say.

  Shit! How could I be so stupid? I’m going to miss possibly some of the best sex of my life, and I’ve had a lot of hot sex already, just because I don’t have a stupid condom.

  She pulls my cock out of her mouth, and for a second I think it’s all over, that she’s going to leave and go back up to the balcony to watch the rest of the meet. How will I race with a boner like this, sticking straight up? There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate, and the drag alone will slow me down like nothing else.

  “Fortunately I brought one,” she says.

  “Thank God!” I say, not realizing how loud I’m talking.

  “Quiet,” she says, putting a finger to her mouth, as she pulls a condom out of her little journalist bag. “Don’t ask,” she says, as I give her a quizzical look. Why does she have condoms in her bag, after all? Did she bring them just for me? Was she expecting this? It certainly doesn’t feel planned. “This isn’t planned,” she says. “But I have to admit I was only thinking of you when I packed these.”