Halo Violation: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Daphne Swan

  And while we’re on the subject, what’s he going to say when he finds out about the baby? Will he fly into a rage and try to convince me to terminate the pregnancy? Or will he go all alpha male territorial and insist on being involved? I don’t know which scenario would be worse. I’ve been envisioning the baby and me as a single unit, and there’s no room for anyone else—certainly not Eric Wenzel who, even though he’s a few years older than me, is a party boy, a bro, someone who won’t be ready to be a father for at least another five years. Probably more like ten years.

  Of course there’s always the possibility that Eric will respect my wishes and stay out of the baby’s life, and out of mine, too. It may be too much to hope for, but at this point, I have to have faith in something. Otherwise the future is just too bleak.

  It’s pretty fucking bleak anyway. I can just picture it now: Dad will find himself unable to be in the same room with me and with the grandchild he will never warm to. Mom will be torn between loyalty to Dad and love for the baby and me. She’ll mean well, but things will always be strained. Tricia and Beth will analyze every move I make as a mother, comparing my mothering skills to theirs and deciding they’d be doing a far superior job at raising my child.

  And then we have Eric. Will he question every decision I make that concerns the baby and fill me with self-doubt? Will he muscle in and try to impose his own beliefs and wishes on the child, discounting mine entirely? Or will he insist on being a part of the baby’s life, but only out of a sense of obligation? Will my child grow up knowing that his or her father is only involved because he feels duty-bound to do so?

  I am such an idiot. What was I thinking, coming here tonight? I should have had the sense to stay far, far away from any sort of event that involved my dad’s team—as long as there was the faintest sliver of a chance that I could run into Eric, I should have steered clear. I must have been out of my mind to agree to be Dad’s date to the event.

  The sense of utter hopelessness slams into me hard, sparking up a fresh batch of sobs.

  “Aw, come on, Molly,” Alex says. “This isn’t the end of the world.”

  Easy for him to say.

  “My...my...” I struggle to speak through my tears. “My dad...he hates...he hates me.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” Ryan says with a smile and a pat on the shoulder to take the edge off his words—I guess. “He just needs a little time to let it sink in.”

  “And what’s...what’s...what’s Eric going to say when he...when he finds out?”

  Ryan’s smile falters a bit. He and Alex exchange a brief glance before they both turn back to me.

  “You don’t need to worry about Eric. He’s a stand-up guy. He’ll come around,” Alex says.

  “Definitely,” Ryan agrees. “And so will your dad.”

  This is so not what I want to hear—the part about Eric coming around, that is. I succumb to my sorrow and let my tears flow freely. I’m grateful that Ryan and Alex quit trying to cheer me up. Sometimes you just need a little release.

  And after another ten minutes or so, I am totally spent. My eyes burn from all the tears I’ve shed, and I’m sure my face is puffed up like some disfigured creature from some low budget horror film.

  Like I give a shit.

  Once it’s clear that I’m all cried out, Alex pats me on the arm and says, “So, what do you think? Do you want to head on in to the banquet room? You can sit at our table.”

  Despite the emotional hell I’ve just been through, I can’t help but laugh.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Maybe you should get in touch with that girl you told your dad you’d be spending the night with?” Ryan suggests.

  Now, that’s an excellent idea. I look up at him with a grateful smile and a nod, and then I grab my phone and start texting Nina.

  I don’t bother to share all the gory details with her. There will be plenty of time for that later when we’re together. And so I keep it simple:

  Hey, last minute change of plans.

  Can I crash at your house tonight?

  She texts back right away:

  Absolutely!

  Come over whenever. I’m home.

  Cool.

  I take a deep breath and look up at Alex and Ryan, both of whom have gentle smiles on their faces. This is getting to be a habit—being treated with kid gloves, I mean. I am definitely becoming someone who needs to be handled.

  Ugh. I straighten my shoulders and take a deep, calming breath in the hopes of regaining at least a small shred of dignity.

  “Sorry you guys had to witness all that,” I tell them. “Bet you didn’t count on being dragged into the biggest scandal the O’Neil family has ever had to deal with.”

  “Girl, don’t even worry about it,” Alex says.

  “Yeah, it’s all good,” Ryan says. “We’ve all got our baggage.”

  I guess.

  Alex ducks out into the hall to find out where the ladies’ room is, and returns moments later with directions. I apologize again to the guys for freaking out on them before heading out of the room. Thankfully, the ladies’ room is empty because I’ve never looked worse with my puffy face, swollen lips, beady little red eyes. I splash some cold water in my face in the hopes of doing a little damage control. It helps a little, but I’m still a wreck.

  With a slightly less puffy face and slightly less beady eyes, I slip out of the ladies’ room and head down the hall to the exit. I am not looking forward to passing by the reporters again, but I take comfort in the fact that they don’t know who I am. Why would they? Even so, I keep my face angled down as I hurry past them.

  I can’t even deal with the Lyft app right now, so I hail a taxi, old school style. After giving the driver Nina’s address in Carroll Gardens, I lean back against the car seat and close my eyes. Compared to what I just went through, conference week is a walk in the park. I have never felt so weary in my entire life.

  15. ERIC

  I’m still walking around in a daze. Three days have passed since Coach went postal on me. I’ve had three days to process the fact that I’m going to be a father.

  Fuck.

  I’m going to be a father.

  It still sounds completely insane. It’s hard to believe it’s true.

  Of course I didn’t believe it for a second when I first found out. When I read that text from Ryan, I rejected the idea immediately.

  “Well...” I blinked hard and handed Charlotte her phone back. “Well, that sucks for Margaret. Molly. Fuck. But that baby isn’t mine.”

  She frowned. “You just told me you slept with her over Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “Yeah, but I wore a condom.”

  “You know perfectly well that condoms can break,” she said with a gently reproving look. “That’s like Sex Ed 101.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Molly fucked some other guy that weekend. Maybe she fucked him bareback. Maybe she fucked a whole fleet of guys right around the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised. That girl was gagging for it.”

  “Eric,” she said with a stern look on her face. “Come on. Don’t be that guy.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Charlotte to go fuck herself and left her on the corner of 5th and 57th. I headed uptown on foot, the cold wind lashing my battered and bloodied face.

  Coach wasn’t at practice the next day, and no explanation was offered for his absence. When we got there that morning, his assistant announced that Coach Romano, the offensive coordinator, would be overseeing practice for the day. This, I have to say, was a huge relief.

  Nobody said a word about my mangled face. I was covered with cuts and bruises and my left eye was swollen half shut. You’d think the guys would hit me with a barrage of questions. Who did I piss off? What did the other guy look like?

  The fact that my teammates remained silent on the matter was a sure sign they’d been briefed ahead of time. I don’t know how much they were told. I don’t know if they knew that my battered face involved Coa
ch somehow. I don’t know what—if anything—the other coaches knew. I don’t know what—if anything—Ryan and Alex had said to the guys. All these uncertainties were driving me up a fucking wall. I did my best to focus on the task at hand, which was another fucking Viper win. It was difficult to find the ability to multitask.

  As I made my way home after practice, my head was plagued with a whole different slew of questions. After giving it some thought, I’d come to accept the fact that I was probably the only guy Molly slept with. I was probably the father of her baby. And having accepted that probability, I wanted answers.

  What did she intend to do? For all I knew, she was planning on having an abortion. If not, was she considering adoption? Or did she intend to raise the kid on her own? If so, where did I fit into the equation? Was she ever planning on fucking clueing me in?

  Alone in my apartment, going batshit crazy with all the questions flying through my head, I knew I needed to talk to someone about this. Since she was the one I was with when I heard the news, I really wanted to talk to Charlotte, so I called Ryan up and got her number from him. To my relief, she was available for a chat.

  After apologizing for telling her to fuck off the previous night, I got right into it.

  “I need to know what she’s planning on doing,” I said. “She can’t just drop a bombshell like this on me and then run off and leave me in the dark.”

  “Well, she didn’t exactly drop a bombshell on you,” Charlotte pointed out. “Ryan and I both fumbled. He shouldn’t have texted me the news, and I shouldn’t have let you see that text. We’re both really sorry.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “That’s fine. But now I know, and I want to be involved, for fuck’s sake. Unless she’s planning on having an abortion, there’s going to be a child out there. My child.”

  My child.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. I still can’t believe it.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m almost positive Molly won’t be having an abortion,” Charlotte said. “Girls don’t tell their fathers about pregnancies they plan to terminate.”

  Yeah. I had to admit she was probably right. And to be honest, that came as a relief. Let me make it clear right now that I was not happy with the thought of fatherhood being forced upon me, but once I knew there was a baby on the way, the main thing I wanted was for it to arrive safely.

  After that, who the fuck knows?

  “Okay, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need to know what she’s planning on doing,” I told Charlotte. “I know it’s her body and everything, but...fuck. It concerns me, too.”

  “I know it does,” she said. “I understand how you feel, Eric, but I really think you need to give it a little time. Molly is so young. Imagine how overwhelmed she must be feeling. And Coach O’Neil is obviously not dealing very well with the news. The last thing Molly needs right now is you coming into the picture to make things even tenser than they already are. Give it a few days for the dust to settle before you start trying to involve yourself, okay?”

  I could appreciate the wisdom of her advice, so I reluctantly agreed.

  The next day at practice, we were informed that Coach would be taking a couple more days off. We wouldn’t see him again until the game on New Year’s Day.

  I went through the motions, practicing hard and giving it my all. Although there was definitely a part of me that felt like going out and getting wasted after practice, I managed not to do so. Things were bad enough. If I didn’t bring it on the field because I was struggling with a hangover, that would give Coach even more reason to hate me. And so I spent my evenings alone in my apartment, dying to get in touch with Molly and demand to know what she was planning on doing.

  Day 1 and Day 2 were bad enough, but it’s Day 3 now, and I am coming apart at the fucking seams. I can’t stand not knowing one second longer. If I had Molly’s number, I’d call her up without hesitation, but unfortunately for me, I don’t.

  I hate this shit. I hate feeling helpless and impotent, but that’s exactly how I feel. For fuck’s sake, what options do I have? Call the coach and ask to speak to his daughter? Show up at their house in Brooklyn?

  Standing at the bay window in my living room, staring out at the cold, gray afternoon, I rack my brains, trying to figure out some way to get in touch with Molly. I’m pretty sure she’s never been close with any of the players, so it’s unlikely any of my teammates would have her number. She’s always had such an attitude about us. She’s this fancy ass, private school educated little princess and we’re a bunch of dumb jocks.

  And then it hits me. I hurry into my home office and switch my computer on. Ten minutes later, I’m searching for her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat. Bingo. She’s active on all the sites. Or to be more accurate she was active on the sites. She hasn’t posted anything new in the past few weeks. Go figure. The girl’s dealing with some pretty major shit right now.

  I almost feel sorry for her.

  Almost.

  Unfortunately for me, she hasn’t posted her phone number on Facebook or anywhere else. As disappointed as I am, it’s a relief to know that despite being so young, the chick who’s carrying my baby has some common sense.

  Well, this is getting me nowhere. I guess I was hoping to find a recent post from her, checking in at a café somewhere, or talking about where she was going to be to ring in the New Year or something.

  Leaning back in my chair, I cup my chin and think hard. Who do I know that would know how to get in touch with Molly?

  Oh, hang on a second.

  I think one of Coach’s daughters has some kind of shop on the Upper West side. Is it Beth? Or is it Tricia?

  I have no idea what the shop sells, much less what the name of the place is, but I go ahead and Google “Beth,” “shop,” “Vipers” and “Martin O’Neil.”

  Not much comes up. I replace “Beth” with “Tricia” and give a victory whistle when a hefty number of results appear on the screen. I don’t even need to click any of the articles about how Coach O’Neil’s daughter, Patricia, launched a jewelry line three years ago and opened a flagship store earlier this year to know I’m on the right track.

  I reach for my phone and dial the number of the jewelry store, praying it’s still open. It’s after 3:00 on New Year’s Eve. It might be closed.

  “Sparkletta Hand Crafted Creations,” says the woman who answers.

  “Hey, what time are you closing?”

  “We close tonight at six o’clock.”

  Sweet.

  I thank her and power off my phone. It takes me all of three minutes to get my boots on, grab my coat, wallet and keys and head out the door. I know there’s a good chance that Tricia won’t actually be at the shop—it’s New Year’s Eve after all, and it’s not like she can’t afford help—but I have to at least give this a shot.

  The Lyft comes within couple of minutes, thank god, and it’s a straight shot through the park to the jewelry store on Amsterdam Ave. I jump out of the car and hurry inside. The shop is very beautiful. It’s done up with crystal chandeliers, delicate wallpaper and antique furniture covered in plum velvet. There are display cases along the walls, showcasing intricate, sparkly things that cost a pretty penny, no doubt.

  “Hello there,” says a pale blonde in a long black dress.

  I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t recognize me as a Viper, which kind of sucks. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to get people to bend the rules and go the extra mile, at least when it comes to the fans.

  “Hi. Is Tricia here today?”

  She frowns.

  “May I ask why you want to know?”

  Okay, I’ve got to play this one carefully.

  With a sheepish smile, I say, “Sorry. I should have introduced myself first. I’m Eric Wenzel, a friend of the family. I really need to speak to Tricia. ASAP. Is she here?”

  The girl eyes me for a few seconds longer than necessary and then she says, “Tricia stopped by to
day, yes. She’s in the office upstairs, doing paperwork. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Score!

  “Thank you.”

  She nods and goes back behind the long glass display case and picks up a phone.

  “Tricia, hi. I’ve got an Eric Wenzel in the shop and he says he needs to speak to you urgently.”

  I can hardly breathe. Is Tricia freaking out on the other end of the line or what? Maybe she doesn’t even know that I’m the one who got her sister pregnant. Maybe she doesn’t even know her sister is pregnant!

  Oh, shit. What have I done?

  “I’ll tell him,” the girl says before ending the call and turning to me. “She says she’ll be right down.”

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief and thank the girl.

  A couple minutes later, Tricia enters the shop from a discreet door behind a freestanding display case. It’s been a couple years since I’ve seen her, and I’m struck by how much she resembles Molly. They have the same long limbs and bow lips. But while Molly’s hair is ebony black, Tricia’s is a striking auburn color. It may even be natural. You never can tell these days, but the O’Neils are like 100% Irish, so it’s certainly possible.

  “Hi, Eric,” she says with a sigh as she walks across the shop to join me.

  Yeah. She definitely knows.

  “Hi, Tricia. Have you got a minute to talk?”

  She nods and motions for me to follow her back out of the shop. She leads me through a storage area with tons of cardboard boxes nestled on shelves that reach all the way up to the ceiling and to a circular metal staircase. Upstairs, there’s a workshop with a long table in the center and more shelves filled with more cardboard boxes and an impressive tool display. I follow her through the workshop to a small office.

  Tricia takes a seat behind her desk and gestures for me to take the one opposite.

  “Okay,” she says, leaning wearily back in her chair. “What do you want?”