Jock's Baby Page 4

  What the fuck did I just witness?

  I’m too stunned to say anything.

  Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.

  Well, one thing’s for sure, I’m dealing with what seems like a genuine sociopath. Or at least there’s something seriously wrong with the guy. His little evil-villain speech gave me a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  But now that I think about it, there’s no way he’s getting partner. I’ve been working my ass off here for so long and the partners know it. They know me and they know what I’m capable of. There’s no way some new creep like Fred, no matter whether he’s a sociopath or not, is going to hijack the job that I’ve worked so hard to get, the job that’s owed to me.

  7.

  Jeff

  Tom and I are at the bar, downing shots.

  “Got to keep limber before the big game, am I right?” I say, as I drain the last of my third vodka shot.

  “That’s right,” says Tom, already slurring his words.

  “Dude, don’t get so sloppy. “You’ve got to think of the team when you get wasted like that. It affects everyone.”

  “But you’re drinking,” he slurs.

  “I can handle my alcohol,” I say.

  “Shey,” says Tom.

  “What?”

  “Shey, oversh sthere,” he says, and I finally understand him as he points into the corner of the bar.

  “It’s those fuckers!” I say, almost yelling, but trying to keep my voice down.

  It’s unmistakably the same exact group of guys that yelled insults at us from their trashy car in the stadium parking lot. Those fuckers…they thought they were some hot shit out there, but let’s see what they think when I can actually talk back to them without them driving away.

  “Come on, Tom,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We’re going to teach those assholes a lesson. They can’t go messing with The Tanks like that. I just wish the rest of the team was here to see what we’re going to do. Not that you and I can’t take them on by ourselves.”

  But as I quickly survey Tom, and see him swaying obviously on his feet, I’m not sure the two of us actually can take on six healthy looking guys.

  I mean, I’m sure I could do it myself, but I’ve got to think of Tom. Not because I care about him or some shit like that, but just for the sake of the team. If he’s not playing next week, we’re going to lose. He’s not a bad player, after all. He’s first string.

  I pull Tom out the back entrance, checking over my shoulder to see if the guys see us. Fortunately, they don’t.

  I can see that two of them are wearing Seattle Rabbit’s jerseys. I wonder if they’re in town for the game, although they’d have to be pretty hardcore fans to come all the way to Boston for a game, not to mention come more than a few days early. Stranger things have happened though. People get fanatical about their teams.

  It’s not like me to be sneaking around, but I can’t help myself wanting to fuck with them, and this is the only way I can think of doing it right now, especially since I’m a little buzzed.

  “We’re going to let the air out of their tires or something?” says Tom.

  “That’s just a silly inconvenience,” I say. “No, we’re going to seriously fuck with their car. Here, hand me that cinderblock there.”

  Tom totters off to grab it for me, and I take it from him with one hand.

  I stand a little ways back from the windshield, and cock my arm and the cinderblock far behind my back. I take a step forward and swing my hips as I swing the cinderblock.

  It collides with the windshield and makes a tremendous roar. The window isn’t quite broken. I’ve always know breaking shit like that doesn’t work like it does in the movies, where every piece of glass shatters on the slightest contact.

  Tom’s standing far away, covering his face with his hands.

  “Pussy,” I say. “Come over here and help me.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know. Let the air out of the tires or something. Whatever you can think of.”

  “But you said…”

  But I don’t answer. Instead, I swing a final time, and the windshield completely shatters.

  Tom cries out and covers his face again.

  “It’s not going to hurt you,” I say. “It’s just a little glass. And don’t cry like that. They might hear us.”

  “What the hell’s going on out here?”

  I turn around to see six of the guys standing at the door. The one in front, presumably the owner of the SUV, is red in the face, looking furious.

  “I was breaking your windshield,” I say, calmly. “And my friend here was about to deflate your tires.”

  “You fucking asshole,” he yells, starting to rush towards me, but his friends hold him back. “The Tanks fucking suck, and you just can’t take it that you’re going to lose next week to The Rabbits.”

  “Want to go?” I say. “I’d love beating your ass down into the asphalt.”

  “Let’s do it,” he says, and he tells his friends to let him go.

  One of his friends in back is so drunk, he trips over a piece of piping lying in the parking lot, and falls face down on the ground.

  “That’s what’s going to happen to you,” I say. “Last chance to back out.”

  “Fuck you,” he says, trying to growl, but doing a piss poor job of it. He’s not intimidating me in the slightest.

  Even though I’m a little buzzed, I do have the awareness to realize I could get into serious legal trouble if I don’t hold back a little bit. After all, this guy’s a lot weaker than me, but then again who isn’t?

  “Get the fuck out of here,” yells Tom, who’s still tottering. Shit, he’s so drunk I’m surprised he doesn’t pass out right out. How can a guy get so wasted from so little alcohol?

  “That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Tom,” I say. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  The Seattle fan is coming at me with his hands down to his side. That’s weird, what’s he up to?

  I’m careful to keep my eyes on his hands as he approaches me. Most guys would have their hands up if they were entering a bar fight.

  “I’m going to make sure you don’t play next week,” says the guy.

  “Yeah? Cause you know I’m gong to win?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  In a split second, it happens.

  A glint of steel flashes.

  He’s pulled a knife out from his pocket.

  And it’s a big knife, a folder, that he flicks out with his thumb, the blade appearing instantly.

  “Whoa,” says Tom. “We don’t want that kind of trouble.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m just trying to analyze the situation. Remaining calm, I take a good look at his posture, looking for weakness, looking for vulnerabilities.

  “Yeah we do,” I say. “Bring the trouble, dude. Let’s see what you got. You think you can put me out of commission for the game? Cut me up real good? Come on.”

  It works and he rushes towards me.

  I dodge his obvious knife attack, a gross stabbing motion aimed at my throat.

  As I step out of the way, I grab his wrist and pull hard, forcing his arm to the ground.

  He’s on the ground now, a moment later, the knife falling and clinking on the pavement. I pick it up and throw it far, far away.

  “Thought that’d be easy?” I growl at him, pressing my boot into his stomach and digging with my heel.

  He starts couching, and I give him a good kick in the head, right as his four friends rush me. One is already down.

  And now, as they come, another falls. Too fucking drunk to even stand up and run. Pathetic, can’t even hold his liquor.

  Tom roars as he rushes into one of them, tackling him onto the ground.

  I knock another one out with a punch that connects solidly with his jaw.

  Another trips as he rushes at me, too
drunk to be an effective fighter.

  Sirens start to wail suddenly.

  We’re lit up by bright police lights. The sound of screeching tires is all around.

  I look around, and am partially blinded by the light, but all I can see our bits and pieces of cop cars—cops all around.

  Fuck.

  The last thing I need right now is another rap for fighting.

  “Freeze. Hands in the air!” the officers are shouting.

  Two of them grab me and pull my hands down to an uncomfortable position behind my back, where they cuff them tightly.

  “I was just defending myself,” I say calmly.

  “We’ll see about that,” they say.

  “Hey,” says another officer. “It’s the quarterback for The Tanks.”

  “Shit… Should we let him go? We’ve got to have him playing next week.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Fuck.”

  Sounds like at least some of them are fans. This could go better than I thought.

  “Hey,” shouts one, from far away. “Look what I found!”

  My eyes have adjusted to the lights. I look over and see him holding the knife that the punk attacked me with.

  “That guy attacked us with the knife,” shouts one of the punks, giving me an evil look.

  “We’ll figure it all out at the station,” says the officer.”

  Later, I’m sitting in a little darkened room by myself, being grilled by two detectives.

  “Your fame can’t get you out of this one,” says one of them. “So tell us what really happened.”

  “I told you,” I say, my voice calm. “One of them came at me with a knife, so I disarmed him and knocked him down. Then the rest of his friends rushed me.”

  “That’s not what they say.”

  “Of course not!” I’m starting to get angry now. These detectives seemed determine to put this knife rap on me for some reason. Unless they’re also Seattle Rabbits fans, I can’t figure it out. It doesn’t add up.

  “My friend Tom was also there. He’ll tell you what really happened.”

  “He says you had a knife.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure he just means I had the knife for a moment when I disarmed him. I threw it far away from the fight, so it wouldn’t come back into play.”

  The detectives give each other sideways looks. One of them coughs, and another adjusts the lapels on his suit.

  It seems like they’re not buying my story. But why would Tom have any reason to say anything differently? It’s the truth, after all.

  “Isn’t there video footage or something of the incident? That’ll show you what’s what.”

  “There’s footage, yes, and we’re reviewing it now.”

  The interview goes on for what seems like an insanely long time.

  Meanwhile, I’m thinking about Lexi and her hot body. Shit, I don’t think I’m going to be able to see her tonight.

  “We’re going to keep you overnight along with everyone else until we sort this all out,” says one of the detectives.

  “What? No chance for bail?”

  They shake their heads darkly.

  Shit, no chance of Lexi tonight. Definitely not.

  I’m sitting in the cell two hours later, staring at the wall. This isn’t my first time in a jail cell, but it never gets easier no matter how experienced you are.

  “Tallborne,” says a guard, coming over, swinging a big ring of keys. “Your bail has been posted.”

  “What? They told me I was spending the night here?”

  “Looks like it pays to be a professional football player,” says the guard. “Your team has some shark lawyer on retainer. Personally, I’m glad to hear it, since we can’t afford to lose next week to Seattle.”

  I nod, and follow him out to the area where we sign all the necessary papers.

  The lawyer is there waiting, a thin man with close-cropped hair. He’s not too talkative, but his eyes are scanning everything, seemingly at the same time, taking it all in.

  “Good luck next week, eh?” says the guard to me as I follow the lawyer finally out of the building.

  “What the fuck was that?” I say to the lawyer. It’s not the first time we’ve met, but I forget his name already. He’s gotten me out of some jams before, legal ones. “I was in there for hours…”

  “You’re facing serious charges,” he says. “You beat up that guy pretty badly, and they’re saying you pulled a knife on them. They want to use you as a celebrity example… You know how it goes, punish you more severely. Not that it’s not already grave. I’m lucky to have gotten you out on bail, frankly.”

  “Pfff,” I say. “I didn’t do anything no one else wouldn’t have done.”

  “This isn’t over,” says the lawyer. “You’re good to keep playing, and you’re a free man until your hearing.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  “Should be in the next few months. But you know how these things go, there can always be delays.”

  Fuck, this fucking sucks.

  But whatever.

  I’m going to see Lexi tonight. I check my phone. It’s not too late yet. Her body is shimmering in front of me in my imagination, naked and glistening, just fucking perfect, just ready to be fucked.

  I call her, but there’s no answer.

  I call again. Finally, she picks up.

  “I know you want to see me tonight,” I say.

  There’s a pause on the other end.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she finally says.

  “I know you want it,” I say.

  “No,” she says, with some finality. “I just saw the news. You’re getting into knife fights now in front of bars, fighting fans from the other teams? I knew you were arrogant, and maybe even an asshole, but I didn’t have any idea you were this bad. I can’t believe it. No, it’s better that we don’t see each other.”

  “Your call,” I say, and hang up the phone without another word.

  Shit.

  I really liked her. She’s not going to leave my mind any time soon. There’s something different about her.

  But whatever, there are going to be more fans, more groupies, more women ready to suck my fat cock for hours.

  8.

  Lexi

  The phone goes dead on the other line.

  “Did you do it?” says a text from Joanne, that’s been waiting on my phone.

  She’s the one who told me to check out the news clip, about half an hour ago. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I can’t be involved with an actual criminal. For one thing, my reputation at work could really take a hit. With this sleazy Fred character breathing down my neck, I can’t afford to make any false moves.

  We chatted by text about how I had to cut it off with Jeff. I agreed, even though all the while I was thinking about his naked body, his cock. Fuck he’s just so fucking hot.

  “Yeah,” I write back.

  Joanne sends me a smiley face emoticon paired with a crying one. I understand what she’s saying—I had to do it, and she’s glad I did, but it sucks all the same.

  “Headed to bed,” I write back, and put my phone away.

  Fuck, that was hard to do with Jeff on the phone.

  Tears well up in my eyes. Why did I think I was the kind of woman who could have a fling with a guy like Jeff? That’s just not me. I need a boyfriend, a husband, not someone who’s out doing who knows what, not to mention getting into knife fights.

  I guess I was just so dead set on his body…having diversion from work, releasing stress. It’s all coming crashing down around me.

  I hate to be a stereotype, but I grab a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and sit eating it cross-legged on the couch. I’m still wearing my sexy negligee, since earlier this evening I was expecting I’d have another tryst with Jeff. But that’s not going to happen now.

  It’s good I cut it off now. I don’t kn
ow if I’d have the strength to do it later on. And I’d just get hurt.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  “Ugggh,” I groan, leaning under my desk, pushing my office swivel chair out. I’m on my knees now, my face in the trash can.

  The vomit comes out hard and fast.

  Fuck, I feel terrible and nauseous.

  Finally, the vomit’s over, and I feel a little better. I wipe my lips with a tissue, and climb back up onto my chair.

  Maybe it was just some passing thing, a little touch of the flu.

  Or maybe it was food poisoning. I barely at anything for breakfast though. I only had a cup of coffee and a banana.

  I stare at my computer, and try to fix my eyes on the intra-office email I’m working on.

  “You alight?” says Joanne, appearing out of nowhere.

  I look up at her, and see that everyone around me is staring at me. I guess I was vomiting harder and louder than I’d thought.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a touch of the flu.”

  “You don’t look like you have the flu,” says Joanne.

  “No, I’m fine, though,” I say, turning away from her and staring at my computer again.

  “Come with me to the bathroom,” says Joanne.

  I protest, but she takes my hand and pulls me gently, leading me to the bathroom.

  She closes the door behind us, and I sit down on the one chair that’s facing the window.

  “What’s going on?” she says.

  “I’m fine, really. I just need to get back to work. I appreciate your concern, Joanne. But unless I’m pregnant…”

  Shit. Now it hits me.

  I realize now that I didn’t get my period when I should have.

  Ut-oh.

  It hits me like a slab of bricks on my head. I suddenly feel a lot more nauseous.

  I can’t be pregnant now. I just can’t. After all, that would really mess with my plans for becoming partner. Also, I don’t even have a man, a boyfriend, a husband, a fiancé, nothing. Just Jeff Tallborne, the knife fighting professional football player, who I haven’t spoken to in two weeks, and I doubt I’ll ever speak to him again.

  “Did you miss your period?” says Joanne, looking extremely concerned.