Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  They’re giving Mateo and me both pleasure right now, his moaning filling the room when he begins rocking back and forth inside me, moaning, moaning, moaning.

  No barrier between us, not that we had one the last time we slept together.

  And as if the moment wasn’t already perfect, we come at the same time after only a short time, the tingles ebbing and flowing in my core and brimming into a massive orgasm.

  Mine.

  Then his.

  We’ve barely worked up a sweat, lying there next to each other once Mateo rolls off my body, head on the pillow beside mine, his hand grabbling for mine.

  He holds it, breathing heavy as we stare up at the ceiling.

  “Sorry about that,” he eventually says.

  “Sorry about what?” I turn to face him, rolling to my side and propping myself up on my elbow.

  “For coming so fast—what am I, sixteen?”

  My eyes get wide. “You were having sex when you were sixteen? Dang, I was like, twenty-two.”

  Three years ago. My experience in bed is less than impressive if I’m weighing it against his, apparently.

  “I wasn’t being literal, I just meant sorry I spilled my load five minutes after we started.”

  I think I’m blushing, but it’s hard to say with my heart beating this fast, cheeks already flushed. “Trust me, I don’t think I was in the mood for marathon sex—we didn’t have to do it for an hour.”

  He smiles at me, closing the gap to kiss me on the nose and brush a strand of hair from my perspiring forehead. “We have plenty of time to make up for it.”

  “Ha.” I laugh. “What, a few weeks? When do you leave town?”

  It seems as if the blood drains from his face—expression falling, mouth downturned into a sour countenance as reality sets in.

  He will not be here in a few weeks.

  “Shit. Fuck. I’m leaving for Arizona!” He abruptly rolls in the opposite direction to climb off the bed and start pacing the floor for a second time tonight. “I can’t just leave you here—what am I going to do?”

  His arms flop, and I try not to stare at his dick.

  “Leave me where? Your condo?” I’m confused, and he’s frantic, and I’m not sure I’m following his rant. “Here?”

  “Here,” he repeats, frustration lacing his tone. “In Chicago, while I’m gone. What if something happens to you or the baby?”

  Me or the baby.

  That’s the first time I’ve heard those words strung together in a sentence, and I don’t hate hearing them.

  He stares at me. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

  My head shakes. “Now you’re talking crazy.”

  Not go to spring training? Not go to work?

  Baseball is his job, not his damn hobby. What the heck is he rambling on about?

  He’d be fired if he didn’t show up.

  Or heavily fined.

  Or traded.

  Or become a laughingstock in the industry—I can see the headline now:

  JOSÉ ESPINOZA OF THE CHICAGO STEAM STAYS BEHIND TO BE FIRED BECAUSE OF THE UNPLANNED PREGNANCY OF TRUE WALLACE, OF THE WALLACE SPORTS DYNASTY.

  Sports dynasty? That thought makes me snort.

  Mateo is not staying behind in Illinois, not because of me.

  I watch him from my spot on the bed as he dramatically paces, covers pulled up past my breasts, hair falling over my bare shoulders.

  Luckily, I grew up with two overdramatic siblings, both of whom used to throw temper tantrums on the regular. For example, when Buzz was a senior in high school, he got fourteen full-ride scholarship offers to play baseball at various colleges and universities around the United States.

  The decision—which school’s offer to accept—was insurmountable. He simply could not choose.

  So he threatened that he wasn’t going to accept any of the offers—not a one. He flipped his shit, told my parents he was never going to college, was going to find a job and work and coach little league, end of story.

  Mateo pacing the carpeted bedroom floor is no big shocker, and I know just how to handle it.

  I find my most soothing voice. “Mateo, it’s fine—you won’t even be gone that long.” I speak with authority. “You’ll be back soon enough. It’s not the end of the world.”

  What is it, one month?

  Two?

  I can never remember how long my brother Buzz is gone, only that he leaves and I’ve occasionally gone to visit him to mooch on his backyard. Free pool time, free food, fun and sun and cute boys.

  Mateo isn’t listening. He gets to the end of the room and spins around, pivoting on his heels. “Come with me.”

  “Go with you? To Arizona?”

  “Yes.”

  I nibble at my bottom lip. He wants me to go to Arizona with him? I mean, technically I could; I am homeless, after all, and squatting with my brother. And yes, I can travel and take my computer for work—that’s not an issue.

  But…go with him? I hardly know him.

  “I don’t know, Mateo…”

  It’s too soon, isn’t it? Too soon to hop on a plane and follow a man to a different city?

  The bump in my stomach rolls its eyes, a not-so-subtle reminder that I wasn’t worried about knowing him when I let him have sex with me a few months ago, and I definitely wasn’t worried about not knowing him well enough when I let him go down on me just now.

  Sorry, little baby, Mommy is a hypocrite.

  “It’s only for a month. Please just think about it. I spent all this time not knowing you were pregnant, and I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you and watch the bump get bigger—is that weird? I don’t want to FaceTime you and see you in a month and lose more time. Please think about it.” He’s rambling and repeating himself. “You must think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.”

  It actually does sound like the perfect plan, and I really don’t have anything going on in my life that would prevent me from leaving Chicago. But I’ve never been impulsive—if you don’t count the one-night stand we had. Which I do not. Does sex even count as impulsive?

  Pfft.

  The poor man gives me a pathetic smile, which has me patting the bed to make room for him beside me—like a mother might do for a child.

  “Come here.”

  He comes to me, crawling back onto the mattress and settling in, head automatically going to my lap so I can stroke his hair.

  Men—they’re like grown children.

  “We’ll figure it out—it doesn’t have to be tonight. Good lord, you just found out I’m pregnant. Pump the brakes on the planning.”

  “I’m going to be a father,” he says out loud. “Everything is different now. I won’t be able to stop myself—it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done since I was un niño. A kid.”

  I get what he means. In an instant, both our lives changed forever.

  He tips his head back in my lap to look up at me. “Just think about coming with me. I have a nice little house I rent in a gated community. No one will bother us, and you can relax.”

  I’m quiet while I consider his words. “I’ll think about it.”

  In the meantime, I have doctor’s appointments and phone calls for work, and scheduling for the upcoming school year—students with athletic talent that want to be represented by our agency.

  Everything has fallen to the wayside, it seems, except for the baby stuff.

  First things first. “We have to tell our families.”

  Mateo looks solemn. Nods. “Sí. We have to tell our families.”

  Fourteen

  Mateo

  Me: We need a game plan.

  True: For what?

  Me: Telling my parents and sisters. It’s not going to be easy—it’s going to be a circus. Shit show. Loco.

  True: Don’t remind me. They’re going to HATE me when they find out.

  Me: They’re not going to hate you—they’ll be shocked, but I think my mom will be thrilled. Pop will probably be pissed, but he ge
ts mad about everything so that won’t be anything new.

  True: That doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Me: Want to get together to figure it out? Nice dinner, get dressed up? Tonight?

  True: You fed me last night—you want to spend more time with me already?

  Me: If you haven’t figured it out yet, I want to spend ALL my time with you—I’m trying to get you to move in with me, remember?

  True: Let’s just start with dinner.

  True: We can do tomorrow, that works.

  “I have something for you.”

  We’re at a nice restaurant for our official first date, seated at a quiet corner table, plenty of people gawking at us but giving us our privacy—for the most part.

  “Something for me? What?” True lifts her gaze to look at me from across the table, the dim lights making her dark eyes smokier, hair glossier, skin more radiant.

  She’s glowing—or maybe it’s just the lighting. Either way, she’s beautiful and pregnant and mine.

  Well. Not yet, but she will be.

  I hope.

  True hesitates. “Mateo…”

  She’s caught off guard by my pronouncement and clearly not sure what to say, but it’s not a gift I have for her; it’s a letter. One I wrote and want her to read when she’s alone.

  I’m impatient. The damn thing has been burning a hole in my pocket since I wrote it, so I slide it across the table in its white sealed envelope, instructing her to put it inside her purse.

  “Read that tonight when you’re in bed and it’s quiet.”

  She nods.

  Stares at the envelope a little bit longer before finally taking it, folding it in half, and sliding it into her dainty black purse.

  Once it’s tucked away, she gives me her full attention, and I give my full attention to her red painted lips. She’s done herself up (like I was hoping she would), already making the night more special than the last time we went out, even more special than the night she came to my house and we had sex again for the first time in three months.

  True is wearing an understated black dress showing off her smooth shoulders, a small freckle winking at me from across the table. It’s a tighter fitted dress, displaying the belly that’s beginning to form, not hiding anything from anyone who has the audacity to look her over. Anyone with a fully functioning set of eyes might notice she’s pregnant if they’re looking hard enough.

  Her hair is in a loose braid, falling over one shoulder—a bit messier but sexy, perfect for the outfit she has on and making me want to reach across and play with the ends of it. Roll the silky locks between my forefinger and thumb.

  I bet she smells fantastic.

  She certainly looks fantastic, good enough to eat. Unlike the bread basket that’s been placed in the center of our table. I only have an appetite for True Wallace tonight.

  After we order and everyone goes away, when the servers stop fussing and asking us if there’s anything else we need, we’re left alone—or what feels like alone, considering we’re in a room full of people. Other guests, servers, bartenders, bussers, hostesses—all of them walking back and forth, back and forth, bustling in an orchestrated dance I’m doing my best to ignore.

  I only have an appetite for True tonight.

  “So,” she begins, “I was wondering…if you’ve thought about a paternity test? I’m willing to take one if that’s what you want.”

  Say what now? “Um. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” I trust her. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like she couldn’t have her pick of men to knock her up; there wouldn’t have been a need to trap me. Plenty of bigger fish in the sea would have been proud to fuck True Wallace if she was looking to ensnare someone rich.

  “Are you sure? Because it seems like the smart thing to do.”

  “Are you purposely trying to put doubts in my mind? This isn’t a romantic conversation at all.”

  I’m beginning to pout, our evening taking a serious turn when really all I wanted to do was flirt. Maybe get her good and turned on so we can have sex again tonight, her swollen tummy more of a turn-on than I would have imagined.

  She’s so damn sexy.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” she’s saying, munching on a sliver of bread (no butter). “I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “Uh…it’s not like you wanted to tell me.” Pretty sure she was going to keep it a secret for the rest of our lives, until the day we bumped into each other, she with her child with darker skin, inky black hair, and a dimple—exactly like mine.

  Would I notice if I came face to face with my own flesh and blood?

  I like to think I would, but…

  To appease her, I give her a noncommittal, “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” But don’t hold your breath if you’re waiting for a DNA test.

  She swallows the bread in her mouth. “Have you thought about what you’re going to tell your family?”

  My, my, my, she’s a little ray of pitch-black tonight, hitting me with all the hard questions.

  “Not really.”

  True fiddles with her fork. “I’m far enough along that I’m past the period where I’m in any real danger of losing the baby. We can, um, find out if it’s a girl or a boy real soon.”

  “I remember you mentioned that the other night.”

  There’s a brief pause. “Of course, we don’t have to find out—we can be surprised when the baby is born.”

  Is she out of her mind? Why would we wait to find out?

  “What about one of those gender reveal parties? I can get a confetti cannon.”

  True blinks.

  Laughs. “First of all, that would all be fine and good if we were normal people doing this the normal way and we didn’t still have to shock the shit out of our families by telling them we got ourselves accidentally preggo. We can’t tell them during a gender reveal party—can you imagine what the video would look like? Mass chaos.”

  Crying. Lots of crying and yelling.

  Ay-yai-yai.

  “Fine. No to the confetti cannon.” Party pooper. “What about one of those balloons that explodes with…”

  “More confetti? Mateo, that’s the same thing.”

  “A giant cake?”

  She licks her lips. “I like cake.”

  My brows shoot up with optimism. “You’ll think about a cake?”

  “Cake for sure if there’s a baby shower.”

  I sit back confidently. Cocky. “Oh, there’s going to be a damn baby shower alright—try stopping me.”

  That makes her laugh all over again. “You can’t throw your own baby shower—it’s tacky!”

  “But I want presents.” I’m whining.

  “Trust me, your sisters will throw one if they don’t hate my guts.”

  “How can they hate your guts when you’re carrying my child?” I utter the sentence like it’s a no-brainer. My sisters would never be so catty as to not celebrate the impending birth of my kid.

  Never.

  I wouldn’t allow it, first of all.

  Second, they love parties. Parties with cake, parties with food, parties with snacks, any party that’s a party.

  I change the subject to lighten the mood. “Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?”

  True leans back in her seat, hands on her stomach. She begins rubbing the bump, and I swear to fucking god it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.

  What has gotten into you, bro? You used to think strippers were sexy, and here you are lusting after the pregnant mother of your kid from a one-night stand.

  “I wish I knew, but honestly, I can’t tell one way or another. You know, that intuition? Guess I’ve just been waiting for the ultrasound that will tell me. Us.”

  “Well, I think it’s a girl.” My tone is cocky and confident.

  “You sound so sure.” True giggles as the server brings over the first course, and it occurs to me that all we ever do is eat. I haven’t arranged to do anything fun—like indoor
miniature golfing or walking through the aquarium, or cooking classes. Those are all romantic and fun dates, yeah? Why do I keep inviting her to eat?

  I’m a boring, unimaginative idiot.

  Doh!

  “We call this particular brand of confidence showboating—it’s all a façade,” I explain. “But it would be cool if it’s a girl. Then again, how cute would a mini me be?” Or a mini her?

  Then it occurs to me that True isn’t the only one who’s going to be in my life forever—her brother is, too. Even if I get traded to another city, even if I retire from the game and quit altogether—I will see Buzz Wallace for the rest of my life.

  He is going to hate me so much.

  “How are you going to tell your brother? Tripp knows, right?”

  “Yes, Tripp knows. And my best girlfriends, and Molly.” She bites her lower lip. “I’m not sure what to say to Buzz. I just worry he’s not going to take it well.”

  “Because it’s me?”

  Her head shakes. “No, because it’s me. I’m his baby sister. We may only be a year apart, but in his mind, I’m the baby, his to watch over and take care of…and I think he’s going to be super dramatic about it ’cause that’s what he does.”

  “I can see that. Once when he hit a home run, he cried.”

  One of True’s eyebrows arches. “What?”

  “Yeah—I mean, it’s not really a big deal because we’ve all cried at one point or another, especially when we make it to the playoffs, but every now and again if he hits a doozy of a home run, your brother will cry.” I dip my spoon into the soup I ordered instead of a house salad.

  “He’s so emotional.”

  “It’s a shock he’s never thrown a tantrum.”

  “Newsflash: I’ve seen him throw them plenty of times. Don’t most male athletes?”

  I chuckle. “Oh yeah—yeah, we sometimes do. Throwing bats, kicking, picking up the garbage can in the dugout and tossing it, swearing so much at an umpire we get fined.”

  “How much does that cost?”

  “I don’t know, around five grand I would imagine—it’s never happened to me, but I’ve heard rumors. We’re supposed to keep the language clean, but that’s like telling a bear not to shit in the woods.”