Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance Read online

  Football Baby

  A Secret Baby Romance

  Roxeanne Rolling

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY AUTHOR

  Copyright © 2016 Roxeanne Rolling

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is not intended and is purely coincidental.

  All characters in this book are over the age of 18.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

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  Football Baby

  Copyright

  1. Lauren

  2. Dylan

  3. Lauren

  4. Dylan

  5. Lauren

  6. Dylan

  7. Lauren

  8. Dylan

  9. Lauren

  10. Dylan

  11. Lauren

  12. Dylan

  13. Lauren

  14. Dylan

  15. Lauren

  16. Dylan

  17. Lauren

  18. Dylan

  19. Lauren

  20. Dylan

  21. Lauren

  22. Dylan

  23. Lauren

  24. Dylan

  25. Lauren

  26. Dylan

  Mailing List

  Deep End

  1. Anchor

  2. Allison

  3. Anchor

  4. Allison

  5. Anchor

  6. Allison

  7. Anchor

  8. Allison

  9. Anchor

  10. Allison

  11. Anchor

  12. Allison

  13. Anchor

  14. Allison

  15. Anchor

  16. Allison

  17. Anchor

  18. Allison

  19. Anchor

  20. Allison

  21. Anchor

  22. Allison

  23. Anchor

  24. Allison

  25. Anchor

  26. Allison

  27. Allison

  Wild Ride

  1. Katy

  2. Colton

  3. Katy

  4. Colton

  5. Katy

  6. Colton

  7. Katy

  8. Katy

  9. Colton

  10. Katy

  11. Colton

  12. Katy

  13. Colton

  14. Katy

  15. Colton

  16. Katy

  17. Colton

  18. Katy

  19. Colton

  20. Katy

  21. Colton

  22. Katy

  23. Colton

  24. Katy

  25. Colton

  26. Katy

  27. Colton

  28. Katy

  29. Colton

  30. Katy

  1

  Lauren

  “I never get tired of jokes like that,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Come on, honey, just a quick tug,” he says, his big belly heaving. I can just barely make out the erection under the towel. It’s certainly nothing he should be showing off. At least that’s what I think.

  “Say that one more time, and your massage is done,” I say, trying to make my voice as icy cold as possible. In truth, I should just throw him out now. He’s already violated the massage parlor conduct code for customers. I’m actually contractually obligated to show him the door.

  But if I do that, I don’t get the money. And I need the money.

  He sees my expression. I’m standing with my hands on my hips. I’ve gotten good over the years at making myself seem as scary as possible, someone you don’t want to mess with.

  “Just kidding,” he says again. It’s the only thing he can say, apparently. This time, his voice is softer and subservient, like a frightened animal. “I didn’t mean any offense, seriously. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  I continue glaring at him. He’s got to feel really on guard now. After all, he’s the one who’s completely naked, except for a towel, and I’m towering above him, wearing my collard company shirt. I used to wear tight slacks, but in an effort to ward off the constant comments, I started wearing baggy military style cargo pants.

  I also think they make me look more like a badass. And they give me quite an edge over my naked subject.

  Sure, not all of the men make comments, or request hand jobs. It’s not even the majority. Most of my clients I adore. They’re polite, and they generally just need relaxation or help with a sore muscle. A lot of older guys come with back pain, and it makes my day when I can help them with their pain.

  “Let’s keep it professional from now on,” I say.

  I get back in my stance, and put my arms on him.

  “Turn over,” I say.

  He does as I say.

  Part of me likes this new power relationship, being the tough girl. But than again I’m just working in a massage parlor.

  And inside I’m not tough at all.

  I never have been, really. I’ve just never had any other option.

  My mind wanders for a moment. Daydreaming again. I guess I’m trying to distract myself from the body my hands are on.

  I recoil at his hairy back, and flabby pale skin.

  I’m not normally grossed out easily. Human bodies aren’t something I’m squeamish about. But it’s the psychological factor for me. If the client’s being a dick, then his body starts to appear disgusting to me.

  But I’ve got a job to do. I have to finish the session. After all, what’s another twenty minutes or so?

  But the clock’s moving so slowly it looks like it’s going backwards. I try to stop looking at it.

  I try to go back into my daydreaming. But there’s nothing pleasant there. All I can think about is my childhood.

  My parents weren’t exactly the loving types. I don’t’ know why they didn’t just get a divorce. I don’t think they knew either.

  They’d speak to me about finances, maybe, if I was lucky, or about my future career. But we never talked about feelings. We never hugged. I never even knew it was different, until I got here to college and started making new friends. I saw them hug their parents when they were dropped off that first day in their dorm rooms.

  My parents didn’t even wave. They didn’t help me set up my dorm room. They actually didn’t even get out of the car. They simply pulled up in the line with the other cars.

  I just did what I always do: I did it all myself. After all, who else was going to help me?

  I got out and unloaded the trunk while my parents waited with the engine running and the radio playing. I hauled everything up to my new dorm room myself.

  Well, at least they weren’t “helicopter parents,” although I’m not quite sure what they were.

  I do know that my roommate freshman year was talking on the phone all day to her parents. As the semester wore on, she talked to her mom at a minimum of once each evening.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t even go home for winter break.

  Whatever, I can deal with it.

  I look down. I’m still massaging the client. Supposedly he’s got as sore hamstring, and I’m working on it. While my mind was wandering, my hands were on autopilot, doing what they do best, giving massages.

  “Times up,” I say.

  Finally.

  “Thanks,” he says, not looking me in the eye, as I wa
lk out of the room, leaving him to get changed back into his clothes.

  “How was that one, Lauren?” says Cindy, the receptionist.

  Cindy’s about twice my age, and I can tell she feels a bit of motherly instinct for me. My problem is I just don’t know how to respond to it.

  “Pretty good,” I say. “Except when he asked me to jerk him off.”

  “Fucking gross,” says Cindy.

  She’s got a bit of a mouth to her. I like that about her. She doesn’t take shit from any clients, but she’s also not opposed to bending the rules a little. I can safely tell her what a gross client says to me, without having to worry that she’s going to tell the boss, who’s a hell of a lot stricter about this sort of stuff.

  I’d love to kick these sorts of clients out, and Cindy knows that well. But she also knows I can’t afford to lose the money for the session.

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “Well, that’s the end of my shift. I got classes to study for. The semester’s coming to an end soon.”

  “You have, what, a couple weeks left of school?” says Cindy.

  “About,” I say. “I only have one week until finals. And some of my papers are due this week.”

  “Wow, I hope you’re holding up OK,” says Cindy.

  “I’ll do fine,” I say.

  I’ve always been like this. I say goodbye, and walk out the door, swinging my backpack full of books across my shoulder. The strap cuts between my breasts, but I don’t mind.

  “See you later,” calls out Cindy.

  The door slams behind me. Shit, I didn’t mean to let it slam. Why am I like this? Why can’t I accept Cindy’s friendship? I mean, sure, we talk, and she’s nice to me.

  But I’m not nice to her, even though I want to be. I mean, it’s not like I’m rude. It’s just that I don’t now how to be open and friendly—it’s something that seems to come so easy to everyone else. For them, it’s something natural.

  2

  Dylan

  “Good work out there, Dylan.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” I say, pulling off my helmet, wiping my forehead with my towel. The sweat is all over me.

  “Nice one, Dylan,” says Tom, slapping me on the ass, in a joking way.

  “Cut the shit,” I say. “You weren’t half bad yourself out there.”

  “Hell, I can’t always let you be the best on the field,” says Tom.

  We both laugh, and start stripping down in the locker room. The room is filled with sweat, jokes, and dirty football pads.

  It’s not even football season. This is just one final practice before the season college is over forever. It’s a tradition here at Twilmore College. It’s more like a scrimmage game than a practice. The seniors and the coaches play against all the underclassman.

  “I can’t believe we lost,” says Coach, coming into the locker-room. It’s weird to see him in here, undressing, puling off his pads with everyone else. During the season, he only came in here to yell at us. But, today, he was one of us.

  “No shame in losing if we put up a good fight, right Coach?” I say.

  “Cut the shit,” says Coach. “I wanted to wipe the smirks off their faces for once. Fucking freshman.”

  Coach has got a bit of a mouth on him. Normally he holds back during practice though. But today, he’s on the team. He can say whatever he wants.

  “I would have too, to tell you the truth,” I say.

  “Me too,” says Tom, standing buck naked, about to head off to the showers.

  “You’re the one who’s going pro next year,” says Coach. “Don’t you have any shame? You can’t lose to a bunch of Freshman.”

  “Freshman, sophomores, and juniors,” I say, correcting him.

  “You really have too much of a positive attitude,” growls Coach.

  “I thought that’s what you were always trying to drill into our heads?”

  “That was just talk,” he says.

  “Good to know that now,” I say. “I would have played a lot differently had I known you were just bullshitting us.”

  “But look where it got you, right? You’re headed to the pros.”

  “Whatever,” I say, pulling on my jeans and my t-shirt.

  I grab my back, ready to get out of here. I hate to say it, but I’ve had my fill of football for this year. This game was fun in a way, but honestly I just want to get the hell out of this school.

  I need to be studying to pass finals, and then I’m done. Then I have a month free before training camp starts.

  It’s not that I don’t love football, it’s just that I know I’m going to be spending the next ten years, at the very least, playing it professionally. That is, if everything goes well.

  I’ve talked to a couple pros who told me the game lost its fun once they started getting paid for it. In a way, I feel like that’s already happened to me, even though I haven’t played a pro game yet, let alone been to practice. It happened the moment I was drafted.

  “Hey, Dylan, what you limping for? Johnson hit you too hard, or something?”

  “No, man, I’m fine.”

  “Looks like he got you good,” says Coach, coming over.

  I just want to get out of here.

  Coach is standing stark naked. It’s a sight I don’t want to see.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to brush them off.

  “Here,” says Coach. “Get a massage, man. Take this card. Here,” he shoves the card in my face.

  He must have kept the card in his towel or something. That…or I don’t want to think where he kept it.

  I take the card gingerly.

  “You giving Dylan the number to a tug job place or something, Coach?” says Tom, back from the shower, thankfully wrapped in a towel, at least.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” says Coach, giving Tom a hefty whack on the back of his head. “It’s the best damn massage I ever got. She’ll fix you right up. You’re headed to the pros, kid. You’ve got to take care of your body.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking the card into my duffel bag.

  I’m halfway out the door of the locker-room, when Coach calls out. “Dylan, make sure you ask for Lauren. She’s the only one who has the skills.”

  “Thanks,” I say again, and head out the door.

  Finally.

  I feel like I’m free.

  Sure, I feel free on the field sometimes. But right now, all I want to do is get the hell away from the field and that locker-room.

  I spend the evening quietly, just studying in my dorm room. I’ve actually gotten really into a couple of my classes this semester, and I’m sorry to see them end. For my Literature class, for instance, I’ve read not only the assigned books, but all the books written by all the authors on that list.

  I’d get hell from the team if they knew how studious I’d become this year. That’s why I don’t hang out with them that much, or let on too much about what I’m up to.

  The last three years, from Freshman year up to Junior year, were basically nothing but a huge party for me. Partying and girls—lots of girls, many more than I can remember.

  They seem to have a thing for quarterbacks, for some reason.

  I’m reading this Dostoyevsky book, lying on my back on my dorm room bed. Thankfully, my roommate spends most of his time in the library. He’s just a random guy that the roommate office chose for me.

  Most of the rest of the team live together in a couple houses that are next to each other off of campus, and I lived with them for the first three years I was here, but this year I just needed a break.

  Shit, this really hurts. It’s my leg. I guess I really did get bashed up pretty good. I try to straighten my leg out, but something in the thigh seizes up immediately, and I can barely move my leg.

  “Oh shit,” I say. This is a lot worse than I’d thought.

  Whatever, I think. I’m sure it’ll be gone by tomorrow. Anyway, I’ve taken much worse hits in my career here.r />
  I fall asleep eventually, but I toss and turn throughout the night.

  Next morning, the pain is still there. Actually, it’s worse now than yesterday. Shit. I take out a book, and try to read it. I’ve got to finish this thing if I’m going to be able to intelligently answer the essay questions for my Lit final. But I can’t read.

  The pain is too distracting, no matter how much I try to change positions, shifting around as much as I can.

  I’m unpacking my duffel bag, when the massage therapist card falls out. What was the name of that massage therapist that Coach recommended? Maybe I should give her a call after all.

  I grab my cell phone and make the call. “Hi, my name’s Dylan Knight. I’ve got some kind of injury from football. My coach recommended someone. I think her name was Laurie, or maybe Laura.”

  “Isn’t football season over, hon?” says the voice on the other end of the phone.

  “It was a scrimmage game,” I say. “I play for Twilmore College. Or, I did, but I’m graduating this year.”

  “Oh, what a coincidence. I think you’re looking for Lauren. She’s the best we have, the absolute best. She’ll have you fixed up in no time. And the crazy thing is she’s a senior at Twilmore, too.”

  “Oh,” I say, not knowing what to say. I’ve known, not to mention slept with, quite a few Laurens here at Twilmore, but I don’t’ think any of them were massage therapists. What luck, the last thing I want to do is go get a massage from some college girl who’s still mad at me for not texting her back from our junior year or something. “Do you think I could get an appointment this week? Maybe in the next couple days? I really need some help with this.”

  “Sure, hon. How’s today sound to you?”

  “Great,” I say.

  We agree on five o’clock, and I settle back down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the pain. Shit, I hope this doesn’t interfere with training camp. I really cant’ afford to not become a pro player.

  After all, my major’s English Literature. What kind of job could I get with that? I don’t have any practical skills at all, unless you count football as a practical skill. And, somehow, by some strange stroke of luck, they’ll actually pay you to play football, provided you’re good enough. And I am good enough.