The Cad and the Co-Ed

by Penny Reid

  I’d texted him on Monday evening, just a quick note letting him know I was thinking about him.

  * * *

  Eilish: Missing you today.

  Bryan: Are you free for lunch tomorrow? We should talk.

  Eilish: Not tomorrow, we have the roundup. Wednesday?

  Bryan: Wednesday works.

  Eilish: Good. I’ll miss you until then.

  * * *

  He hadn’t texted back.

  I missed him every second of every day we weren’t together. I missed how grumpy he became around teenagers at the park and how particular he was about his tea. I missed how books about birds got him excited and how proud he’d looked giving Patrick a kid-sized housecoat and fur lined slippers.

  It disconcerted me. We hadn’t been physically intimate, yet I still felt out of control, but in a different way. Instead of sex, seeing him was my new drug. Seeing him, talking to him, learning about him, laughing with him, and taking care of him eased the ache, but his light kisses and thoughtless touches had been torture.

  Things weren’t getting better, they were worse. Much worse.

  Maybe you do love him, you loon. Maybe this is love. Maybe you should trust him and yourself.

  And then this.

  “Certainly,” the woman said. “I’m Bryan Leech’s solicitor, Ms. Cassidy. I’ll be representing his interests in the custody case between you and Mr. Leech.”

  “The . . . custody case?” My ears were ringing and something had invaded my chest, making it impossible for me to breathe. I rejected these sensations, convinced I was overreacting.

  There’s a perfectly good explanation for this. She’s confused.

  “That’s right. Do you have representation, Ms. Cassidy? Someone I should be calling about this matter?”

  “I still don’t understand.” I rubbed my forehead because my brain hurt. I couldn’t wrap it around this woman’s words. “There is no custody case.”

  “Yes, technically you are correct. Not until you’ve submitted the child to the court-ordered DNA testing, which is why I’m calling you now. You see . . .” she continued, but I didn’t hear her, not really. I caught snippets here and there, something about taking Patrick to a clinic so he could have his cheek swabbed.

  “Stop.” I straightened in my seat, holding my free hand out in front of me. “No. That’s not right. Bryan has Patrick’s hair. I gave it to him weeks ago for the test.”

  “Correct. But, with all due respect, Ms. Cassidy, we have no way to confirm the hair came from the child in question. In order for the child’s parentage to be independently established, a new sample must be collected in front of a witness of Mr. Leech’s choosing.”

  “Did he—?” I blurted, then stopped myself, needing a minute to gather my thoughts.

  Did he request this? I wanted to ask. And if so, when? Weeks ago?

  It must’ve been weeks ago. Over a month ago, most likely.

  “How long ago did Bryan make this request?” I asked evenly, ready to explain to his solicitor that her information was old.

  “Monday,” she said.

  I blinked.

  “Monday,” I repeated. The ringing in my ears returned as I choked out, “He requested this, this new test, on Monday? As in yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how did he get a court order so fast?” I asked and thought at the same time. Surely there was some error here. Surely I should be doubting the legitimacy of this woman’s claim.

  She’s a reporter . . . I stiffened at the new theory, a different kind of worry flooding my veins. It was only a matter of time before reporters started sniffing around. I knew this. Once word got out that Bryan had a son, there would be interest from the fans.

  “I can share with you that Mr. Leech’s father had a hand in aiding the order through the system, but no additional details will be forthcoming.” The woman sighed, as though she were losing patience. “May I suggest you find a solicitor, Ms. Cassidy? This process will be greatly expedited if you secure representation.”

  This last part gave me pause. Why would a reporter push for me to hire a solicitor? That makes no sense. Shouldn’t she be trying to pump me for information?

  She was still talking. “In my experience, it’s in the interest of both parties to communicate exclusively through their representative. It greatly increases the likelihood of an amicable agreement.”

  Amicable agreement?

  AMICABLE AGREEMENT?

  WHAT THE FUCK?

  Staring at my desk, the truth tsunami crashed over me.

  Bryan wanted a paternity test. He’d asked his father to rush it through the courts. He wanted a witness present to ensure I didn’t try to tamper with the results.

  And then, once the results came back . . . custody case.

  “Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hand as a sob escaped my lips before I could catch it, tears of panic stinging my eyes.

  Bryan was going to try to take Patrick from me. This was my every nightmare come true, just like I’d feared, just like I’d told Sean.

  Why is he doing this?

  What happened to Bryan’s profession of love? Had that just been an act?

  If so, that meant I was still the same gullible fool I’d been five years ago.

  The woman was speaking again but I didn’t hear her. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. I felt too much—anger, resolve, anger again, fear, anger a third time—and the feeling of too many emotions at once muted my other senses.

  I let the phone drop from my ear, leaving it on my desk as I fumbled to stand. Numbly, I left the physio room, stumbling into the hall and robotically walking to the locker room. He would be there. It was after drills, and he would be with his teammates.

  Or he might be with the offensive coordinator, going over notes. Or he might be at home. Or he might be off somewhere with another woman. Who knows?

  Clearly I didn’t. Clearly I didn’t know him.

  Propelled by irrational fear, I crossed the threshold, glancing at his locker. It was open. He was there, or at least close by.

  “Who you looking for?” Ronan called to me. I glanced at him. He was huddled close to Daly and Malloy, watching something on an iPad, likely game footage.

  I moved my mouth but no sound came out. Ronan frowned, his eyes flickering over me with concern.

  “Oi, are you okay?” He broke from the huddle, crossing to me and placing a brotherly hand on my shoulder. “Do you need Sean?”

  I nodded wordlessly, because I did need Sean. I needed him. I could trust Sean, but no one else.

  No one else.

  “Daly, page Cassidy. Tell him to hurry.” Ronan led me over to a bench and guided me to sit, squatting in front of me and asking gently, “Hey now, do you want to tell me what happened?”

  I didn’t know how to respond and, as it turns out, I didn’t get a chance. Bryan entered the room at just that moment, dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, toweling his hair dry.

  My eyes snagged on him immediately and my heart leapt.

  I love him. The thought burst through my mind, grabbed and seized my heart. For a fraction of a second I rejected my earlier conclusion. I rejected it completely, to the marrow of my bones.

  Trust him! He loves you. He would never do that. He would never take Patrick from me. He would never—

  But then our gazes locked and he stiffened. The lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows creased with unhappiness and resolve.

  And I knew.

  Of course you love him. You only love people who hurt you.

  Unbidden tears filled my eyes, tears I couldn’t manage or control though I made no sound. They ran down my face, rolling—fat and sloppy—to my neck. Through the blur I witnessed Bryan’s gaze shutter. His chin came up.

  Ronan glanced between us, his forehead wrinkling with confusion. “Would someone tell me what the feck is going on?”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” The question was a ragg
ed croak, my throat was dry, my tongue felt useless.

  Bryan swallowed, his eyes moving to the other people in the room as though to remind me we weren’t alone, but he said nothing.

  A burst of hysterical laughter slipped past my lips and I shook my head, wiping my nose with the back of my hand as I stood and squared my shoulders. Maybe if I didn’t love him I would’ve been able to calm down, think clearly. But the word betrayal echoed between my ears with every beat of my heart, driving me mad.

  Focusing on my rage as a mother, the insanity that is borne from the desperation for my child, finally gave me back my voice.

  “You’re not taking him away from me.”

  “I don’t want to take him from you,” Bryan countered immediately. His eyes again moved meaningfully to the crowd surrounding us, his tone and expression losing some of its aloofness.

  “Then what do you want?” I asked desperately, wanting to trust his frigid assurance, but knowing I couldn’t. My madness told me I could never trust another word out of his mouth ever again.

  “Just the test.”

  “Fine,” I readily agreed, even though wretched pain sliced straight through my heart.

  He didn’t trust me. Why else would he want the test? He thought I was lying, that I’d lied to him, that Patrick wasn’t his. He doesn’t love me.

  I swallowed with difficulty and forced myself to ask, “And when the results come back, what then?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he answered evenly, his eyes never wavering from my face.

  I stared at him, my mind racing and panic re-emerging. “You’re not taking him,” I blurted, repeating the words before I could stop myself. “You will never take him from me. He is my son, do you hear me?”

  Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe it was really there, but I thought I saw a flicker of emotion pass behind his eyes. Something resembling regret. Or guilt. Or desire. Or respect.

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t read him. I could barely see.

  “Let’s . . . let’s talk about this somewhere else.” Bryan took a step toward me, reaching out.

  I twisted away, moving quickly out of his reach. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

  He stopped, his hand dropping to his side as a frown claimed his handsome features. “Eilish . . .”

  Tangentially, I heard the door to the locker room open and close. I listened to the quick fall of footsteps, and I sensed someone stand next to me. And I knew that someone was Sean. He didn’t touch me, just stood there, at my left and close by, backing me up, showing his support.

  I felt stronger just having him there. Knowing I wouldn’t have to do this alone made me stronger. I would accept Sean’s help. Damn my pride, I would accept his money if it meant keeping my son. I would do anything.

  Clearing my throat and hastily wiping the tracks left by my tears, I straightened my spine and shot daggers at Bryan Leech, the man I loved, the man who had betrayed me.

  But I wouldn’t think about that now.

  “If you want to talk to me,” I said slowly, quietly, carefully, because I could barely control the fury singing through my veins, “you can talk to my solicitor.”

  * * *

  Bryan: Talk to me.

  Bryan: Pick up your phone.

  Bryan: You are jumping to the worst possible conclusions and you need to give me a chance to explain what this is all about.

  Bryan: Stop being so goddamn stubborn.

  * * *

  I blocked his number after the fourth text and left work early, then packed some of Patrick’s and my things so we could stay with Sean for the week.

  Patrick took the DNA test on Wednesday, and I took the entire day off. The witness Bryan had selected was a woman named Sarah. I wondered who she was to Bryan, but I didn’t ask. I couldn’t look at her without wanting to scream, so I imagined speaking to her might endanger her life.

  Afterward, I took Patrick for ice cream and tried to pretend everything was normal. He let me pretend, though I could tell he knew something was up when he offered me the last few bites of his ice cream. And then Patrick had asked about Bryan, breaking my heart into smaller pieces.

  God, I’d been so stupid.

  Word spread quickly around the office and the team. By the time I returned on Thursday, everyone knew. I couldn’t muster enough energy to care. Their stares and whispers didn’t bother me. Gossip is trivial compared to a broken heart.

  I didn’t cry again.

  Not when I lay in the dark Tuesday night, staring at the ceiling in the hotel Sean had let for us temporarily, wondering where I went wrong.

  Not when I walked into work on Thursday and was informed by Coach Brian that they’d decided to move me to a research position for the time being. I would provide literature support to Connors for the next month, take over all charting, and the older physiotherapist would handle all therapy sessions.

  Not when I received the phone call from my newly acquired solicitor—courtesy of Sean—Thursday afternoon informing me that the DNA results had come back as expected. Which meant we would be moving forward with mediation. Bryan, apparently, wanted things settled so a meeting was planned for Friday.

  Not when I spotted Bryan walking off the lift on the admin floor. As soon as I saw him, I turned on my heel and walked into the women’s locker room, texting Alice and asking her to let me know when he left.

  I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I ignored Josey’s calls. Sean and I sat up together Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night in the hotel suite, but we didn’t discuss it. Instead, we chatted about insignificant things, or watched a movie. He seemed to intuitively know that I couldn’t—I physically could not—talk about what had happened.

  But then Friday morning brought a reprieve.

  My solicitor emailed me a copy of Bryan’s suggested custody agreement, and I almost fell off my chair with relief.

  Fridays and weekends during the off season, Tuesday through Thursdays during the season.

  Every other Christmas and major holiday.

  Medical decisions would require his approval, which was normal.

  And we would discuss schooling and other matters on an as-needed basis, but all day-to-day decisions would continue to be mine.

  That was it.

  I read it ten times to be sure, then let my face fall to my hands, needing the darkness to process my deliverance from despair.

  “Thank you,” I said to no one, to God, to the empty room, to my absent cousin, to the solicitor who had sent me the email. “Thank you so much.”

  I dwelled with my thanks and gratitude, immersing myself in it for a long time, before lifting my head and reading the rest of the message.

  * * *

  And that’s when I saw the suggested child support payment. I gaped at my screen, feeling intense irritation.

  The number was too big.

  It was so big, it felt like . . .

  Like . . .

  Like a payoff.

  Like an assuaging of guilt.

  Like something his father had done to his mother, or something my father would do to my mother.

  And I didn’t want it.

  Riding high on the wings of righteous indignation, I typed a quick reply to my solicitor, giving him my edits to the agreement:

  * * *

  Mr. Temple,

  Please pass along the following:

  Terms of custody are acceptable. Mr. Leech should pick up Patrick from school Friday nights and take him to school Monday mornings so as to limit unnecessary interactions between parents.

  Disciplinary procedures must be agreed upon in writing prior to the first weekend visitation.

  Patrick should have his own bedroom and space at Mr. Leech’s home.

  Non-emergent decisions requiring discussion are to be handled through solicitors.

  Mr. Leech can take his money and shove it up his arse.

  Sincerely, Eilish Cassidy

  25


  @THEBryanLeech: Life is shit and a bird just crapped on me and we’re all screwed and everything is pointless.

  @WillthebrickhouseMoore to @THEBryanLeech: So…is this the title of your new self-help book?

  *Bryan*

  Running drills was a fantastic way to burn off anger.

  More specifically, it was a great way to kick the living shit out of Sean Cassidy without getting arrested.

  I’d been gunning for him ever since he’d pulled Eilish out of the locker rooms. Afterward, he told me in no unspoken terms I was to leave her alone unless she came to me. No calls, no home visits, not until she decided she wanted to see me. The fucker.

  He’d told me to pursue her. He’d told me she needed to be cared for, so why the sudden one-eighty?

  Of course, I hadn’t listened. I stopped by her place, but she never answered the door.

  “Leech, take it easy. We don’t want you ruining Cassidy’s pretty face. He needs it for all those magazine spreads he likes to pose for,” Coach Brian called from the side of the pitch. A couple lads chuckled.

  “Yeah, take it easy on me,” Sean agreed, out of breath. “I don’t want to get cut from shooting the cover of Men’s Health next month.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, eyes flashing at him viciously. “A month’s more than enough time to heal.” And then I tackled him to the ground. We scuffled, and I heard Coach Brian yelling again for me to ease up. Fuck that. Sean was the wall between Eilish and me, why I hadn’t been able to explain myself. He was lucky I hadn’t slashed his tires and replaced all his favorite lotions with foot cream. Or God forbid, generic-brand equivalents.

  “I’m not your enemy,” he grunted when my elbow made contact with his trapezius.

  “Oh yeah? Then—” I sucked in a breath when the big bastard dug his heel into my shin. “Five bloody minutes to explain myself.”

  “It’s not up to me,” he grunted. “It’s up to Eilish.”