Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  “She knows,” Sierra says, shooting him a look herself.

  Rowan’s brows arch up as he winces. “You saw him?”

  “First thing off the ferry,” I mumble, taking a large sip of the beer in front of me.

  “Thanks for the heads up, by the way.”

  He gives me a rueful look. “You wouldn’t have come to Dad’s thing if I had.”

  “Nope.”

  “Sorry, Ives,” he mumbles, twisting the bar towel in his hands.

  “Forget it, I’m over it,” I say quickly, shrugging nonchalantly. I look up to see both siblings looking at me dubiously and I roll my eyes.

  “Guys, it was eight years ago.”

  And I’m still hanging onto it, as much as I’ll deny it if you ask me again.

  “You guys were close, Iv-”

  “Rowan,” I shrug again, taking another big gulp of cold beer. “It’s not a big deal. He was my high school boyfriend. And I’m very happy with Blaine now.”

  Rowan holds my gaze another moment before he nods slowly. “Okay, okay, fine. No harm no foul then?”

  I sigh, grinning at him. “No harm no foul.”

  “Whiskey to celebrate?” He beams at me as he holds up the bottle again and I make a face.

  “I’m in,” Sierra pipes up.

  “Adults only, kid.”

  She flips our brother off as he and I crack up.

  “You guys go ahead, I’m going to call Blaine.”

  “Yeah where is that guy anyways?” Rowan looks up from the two shots he’s pouring for Sierra and himself.

  “Long story,” I wave my hand, frowning at the shitty signal on my phone.

  “The back office actually has the best service,” Rowan says, raising his shot and clinking it against Sierra’s. “Quieter too.”

  I leave my siblings to their whiskey as I push my way through the crowded bar towards the back hallway - past the “Yankees Piss Off” sign on the men’s room towards Rowan’s office. It’s quiet after I shut the door, and I’m dialing Blaine as I sit in my brother’s desk chair.

  Straight to voicemail.

  I frown and send a quick “Miss you!” text with a stupid little kissy-face emoji, and then sit back to stare at the phone. I perk up for a second at the little blinking dots that alert me that he’s typing something back, but after a minute, they disappear.

  I scowl, my shoulders slumping as I get up from Rowan’s desk.

  The door slams open.

  “Alright asshole I fixed that keg line for-”

  Silas pauses, halfway through the door to the office, and about a foot away from me, wiping the grease off his hands as his eyes lock onto me.

  “-You.”

  10

  Silas

  Well, so much for clearing my head.

  This town’s too small, cause here she is all over again.

  I’m wiping the grease and the grime off my hands from fixing the tap line I took it upon myself to fix when I first pulled up behind O’Donnell’s.

  Ivy’s glaring at me, shaking her head. “I should get going.”

  “Didn’t know you’d be here,” I mutter, my eyes locked on hers, dipping down over the swell of those lips, the curve of her jaw, the pulse in the hollow of her neck.

  “It’s my brother’s bar, Silas. What are you doing here?”

  Her brow wrinkles as she looks at dirty towel in my stained hands - this new clean, primped and manicured version of the small-town girl I used to know with skinned knees and torn jeans.

  “Just fixing some stuff for Rowan is all.” I shrug. “Least I could do for him putting me-”

  My mouth snaps shut the second I see the dawning realization on her face, but it’s too late.

  Oops.

  “You’re staying with my brother?” Her jaw drops, her look accusatory.

  I shake my head. “No, not at his place with the whole Sarah thing going on.” I jerk my head behind me. “He’s got a cot in the back store room here I’ve been posting up at.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re living at O’Donnell’s?”

  There’s something cutting about the words that makes my jaw tense. “I’m not living anywhere in this fucking town,” I growl out. “I told you, I’m just here for-”

  “Yeah, no, got it.”

  She grabs her bag and the beer off of Rowan’s desk. “Well, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow for the website,” she waves her hand absently as she glances at her phone. “Shoot for Instagram, some calls to make.” She pushes past me into the hallway, but I turn and snag her arm.

  “Look, hang out for one-”

  She whips her hair back as she whirls at me, her eyes pulling back to mine, her look fierce. “I don’t have time for grimy dives like this.”

  “Hey, you used to love it here.”

  We both used to love it here when she and I used to sneak beers up on the roof. And later, when we’d forget all about the damn beers when we’d get lost in each other’s lips.

  Except that Ivy is gone, I can see that now. That Ivy wore ripped jeans and my old Sox t-shirts. This one’s wearing fucking heels in a place like this, and that skirt that looks entirely too good on that ass and those legs, with glamorous, bangly jewelry, makeup, and a scowl.

  I never saw any of those things on the girl I used to know.

  The girl I married.

  That girl’s moved on.

  “Yeah, well,” she waves her hand again dismissively, in this ridiculous “New York” way.

  And then it hits me.

  She hasn’t just gotten over me, she’s gotten over this whole damn town- all of it.

  She thinks she’s better than all this now, with her stupid fashion crap, her insta-whatever, and all her fake online “friends” and “followers.” She’s forgotten all about the small-town girl I fell in love with all those years ago.

  And it digs at me.

  Because whatever happened with us, and that night, and then me leaving, this town is still home. This is the home that raised her, and this new big city social media queen version of Ivy is actually starting to piss me off.

  “So are we going to do this every time we bump into each other?” I glare at her.

  Ivy sighs dramatically. “Well I can’t imagine that’ll happen many more times since I’m leaving this town directly after Dad’s dedication.”

  I roll my eyes. “I just figured we should at least talk like normal fucking people, Ivy.”

  Her mouth goes tight, her eyes flaring. “About what, Silas? What do we have to talk about?”

  “I would think a fair amount.”

  “I already told you, I’ve moved past it,” she says, shrugging flippantly. “Yeah, it sucked when you left, but that was eight years ago, and believe me, I’ve moved on.” She holds my gaze a moment longer before she looks away. “I found someone else.”

  She says it like it’s meant to cut.

  It’s working.

  It’s a thought that’s stabbed at me for years, knowing there’d be someone else after me. It was knowing she’d move on eventually and find someone who saw how incredible she was and loved her. And even if they didn’t love her as much as me, hell, they’d at least fucking stay.

  At least they wouldn’t turn out to be exactly the criminal she never wanted to be with and live up to every shit expectation the rest of this fucking town had for them.

  And I’m no saint. It’s not like I’ve been some sort of celibate monk for the last eight damn years. But none of the others ever meant a damn thing. Basic needs were met, some nice words spoken, some fun times had, and that’s it.

  I never let a single damn one of them inside. Because no one ever came fucking close to holding a candle to what I had here all those years ago with this girl standing in front of me, glaring at me while Journey belts out over the bar stereo.

  “Right, the surfer.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “What, are you stalking me?”

  I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got like a mil
lion fucking strangers who follow your shit online, and you’re worried about someone you actually know seeing your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not a surfer,” she mutters. “He’s more of a digital nomad.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sounds very romantic.”

  “It is.”

  I shut up.

  “Good,” I finally say, my words crisp and my teeth grinding at the thought of her having something like that with whoever this prick is. “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, good for me, Silas.”

  The women’s bathroom door suddenly swings open, and two girls who I recognize from trying to run wingman for Rowan the other night tumble out, giggling. The brunette catches my eye, grinning as she recognizes me.

  “Hey stranger!” She gushes with this annoying wink, stepping right up to me and running a finger up my arm before giving Ivy a stink eye.

  “I didn’t even know you were here!”

  I frown. “Yeah, I’m- look, I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

  “Come dance!” The friend who Rowan was trying to charm the other night says with a booze-soaked smile on her face.

  “Maybe later.”

  I ignore them as they giggle and trip their way back around the corner to the bar.

  Ivy’s lips go tight as her brows shoot up.

  “It’s not like that,” I mutter.

  She smiles thinly, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure its not.”

  “Ivy-“

  “Silas, it’s exactly what it looks like because you became exactly what everyone said you’d be.”

  I can feel my brow furrow. “Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

  “A townie.”

  She spits it out like it’s this dirty word and I snort. “Got news for you, Ivy. We’re both townies.”

  “I left.”

  “Yeah, so did-”

  I snap my mouth shut, but Ivy barks out a mirthless laugh.

  “Doesn’t look like it helped though. Here you are, right back in this fucking bar.” She nods at the backwards baseball hat on my head that I borrowed from Rowan. “You’ve got the townie Sox hat on and everything. Oh and picking up girls like that?”

  She jerks her head at the bathroom door.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “You done?”

  “Hardly.”

  I take a step towards her and she moves back, her back against the hallway wall behind her.

  “Please, continue. What other wonderful stereotypes have I managed to live up to?”

  “Being the thieving liar you were always going to be.”

  “I never lied.”

  “So is that a ‘yes’ on thieving?”

  I say nothing.

  Dead on the money.

  It was petty shit here, back when we were kids. It was lifting candy from Conlin’s drug store, a bottle of warm beer or two from the loading dock of this place. That all changed with the heist that night, eight years ago.

  That’s the night I went from junior varsity to the big leagues in the blink of an eye and the flash of a gun. And I’ve been playing the game ever since, working all sorts of jobs for Declan’s people over in Dublin.

  The thing is, I’ve only been great - truly great - at two things in this world.

  Taking things that don’t belong to me, and loving Ivy Hammond.

  …You could maybe lump that second one into the first.

  Ivy snorts at my silence. “Yeah, exactly what I thought.”

  “I never lied to you,” I growl, feeling my pulse jump up a notch.

  Her eyes dart across mine, her teeth rake across her lip.

  “You told me you loved me, Silas.”

  Her words are quiet, but icy.

  “You told me forever.”

  The color rushes into her cheeks, as if she’s embarrassed to admit she remembers that.

  I sure as fuck have.

  “You told me ‘I do,’” she almost whispers.

  I step into her suddenly, pushing her right back into the wall behind her as my hands land on either side of her.

  Fuck.

  It’s both totally different and exactly the same, being this close to her.

  It’s her scent.

  She’s got new shampoo, new perfume, and new clothes. But people just smell a certain way, even if you can’t explain it.

  And she smells like home.

  She always has, and goddamnit, she always will.

  She bristles as I close the distance between us, a shiver visibly running through her. Her pupils go wide, her sweet, soft lips part.

  And I’m right back to being a kid again.

  I’m right back to kissing her on the pier, in my truck, on the roof of this damn bar.

  “Step back,” she whispers, her lip trembling and her eyes locked on mine.

  “Excuse me?”

  She slowly shakes her head. “Step away from me, Silas.”

  No fucking way.

  Because as much as she’s getting under my skin, and as much as I want to call her this uppity city girl who’s left this small town her rearview mirror, I’m drawn to her like a fucking magnet. I’m glued to those eyes and dying to taste those lips. Being this close to her is like being starving and coming across the best meal you could ever imagine.

  Being this close to her is like coming home.

  “I need to go,” she says quickly.

  “Where.”

  She swallows thickly. “I need to call my boyfriend.”

  I grin. “Now is he aware that you’re a married woman?”

  Her eyes glare daggers at me.

  “Don’t think I won’t throw this beer in your face, because I will.”

  I wag my brow. “Beer, huh? I thought you were this big health nut yogi now.”

  “I’m going for a run tomorrow.”

  I laugh. “Jesus, I was kidding, Slimy.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Do not call me that,” she snaps. “And I’m not your wife.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  There’s a crash as her beer smashes to the floor. Ands suddenly, she’s shoving me back, turning the tables as I go tripping into the wall behind me with her finger right in my face.

  “You. Gave. That. Up.” she hisses through clenched teeth.

  She steps back, her shoulders dropping as if barking at me deflated her a little. She shakes her head at the broken glass and beer on the floor. “I- I need to go.”

  “Ivy-”

  But she’s ignoring me as she storms off back around the corner to the bar, leaving me alone in the dingy, dark dive-bar hallways with spilled beer on my shoes.

  Yeah, great to be home.

  11

  Ivy

  It started with locks.

  I was ten, he was twelve. It was a rainy afternoon, and he showed me how to use a paperclip to open doors in our house that we weren’t supposed to open.

  That sort of became our thing - going where we shouldn’t go and opening doors that we shouldn’t have opened. And that theme continued, until the whole thing blew apart.

  From locks, it was petty theft like pulling candy bars from Conlin’s down on Main Street. First me keeping a lookout by pretending to peruse magazines by the counter while Silas stuffed Milky Ways and Snickers down his shorts. But then it was me, and the thrill of my first “pull” - a can of Coca Cola.

  Carbonated sugar had never tasted as good as it did that day.

  And that was the thrill and the allure of Silas - the boy from across town, the boy I never should’ve gotten involved with. It was knowing deep down that he was trouble, and being powerless to say no to it.

  My parents had known his from church; that’s how he and Rowan got to be friends in the first place. I was young the night he stayed at our house to watch movies - the night the truck driver on interstate 93 topped off a forty-hour long-haul with half a bottle of tequila and drove right through his parents’ car at the Milton toll booth.

  Technically after that, he lived with his uncle, Declan.
But there wasn’t a day that he didn’t spend at least partly at the Hammond household - basically just another brother to all of us.

  Well, not all of us.

  Because to me he became something more - something much more. Stolen sodas turned to stolen beer on the roof of O’Donnell’s, which turned to stolen kisses.

  Places we never should have gone.

  And then I fell, in the stupid, silly way you only do when you’re young and think you understand the world. He showed me things I’d never known - how to open doors, the illicit thrill of taking what you shouldn’t.

  And then the thief stole my heart.

  * * *

  Back home in my old bedroom, I pull off my heels, the skirt, the top, letting the air out slowly as I poke through my old chest of drawers for a t-shirt or something to sleep in.

  I pause in the full-length mirror, my eyes dropping to the small little mark on my left ribcage.

  I always make sure this is covered in pictures. Sport bras cover it, and I photograph the other side in bathing suits. Nothing on Instagram or anywhere else shows the ink I doubt anyone outside a few know I even have.

  The delicate outline of a key.

  It’s stupid, and I should have covered it up years ago. I’m sure he has.

  The boy with the matching one.

  I stop in the mirror, running my finger over it, tracing the lines and pretending I can actually feel the ink beneath the pad of my finger. I’ve always thought about getting another one - something else, anything else, if only just to diminish the weight this ONE tattoo carries.

  Except I never have.

  So instead, it’s just became one more piece of that picture of my past that I can’t seem to let go of. Another stupid thing from back then that I’ve hung onto for all these years.

  And it’s not the only thing.

  My hand moves from the tiny tattoo to the thin chain that hangs around my neck, to the small pendent that hangs delicately between my breasts.

  I had the ring itself destroyed after he left. I couldn’t wear it, not after that and not after everything that happened and everything that was said. But I couldn’t throw it away. It was ingrained too deep, too much a part of me. So I had the stone and part of the setting reformed onto the thin metal chain, and there it’s been.