Jock's Baby Page 5

  I nod my head.

  “Good God,” says Joanne. “The timing would be about right, wouldn’t it? From when you were with Jeff? Please tell me you used a condom.”

  I nod. But, wait…

  “Well, we used a condom every time, except…”

  “Except!” Joanne sounds alarmed. “You didn’t use a condom with that guy? Who knows where he’s been! Lexi, I thought you were…”

  “It was just the first time,” I say. “I hadn’t had any sex in so long, and he was so hot.”

  “But aren’t you on the pill, just like everyone else?”

  I nod.

  “But…”

  “But!” says Joanne, sounding even more alarmed.

  “I might have… I don’t know, there’s a slight chance that I didn’t take it regularly. After all, it’s been really stressful at work…”

  “OK,” says Joanne, sounding like she’s trying to calm herself down. “We can handle this. All isn’t lost yet, Lexi. I’m going to run out and get you some test kits. I have some in my purse.”

  “In your purse?” Despite the gravity of the situation, this just sounds strange to me.

  “We’re trying to get pregnant,” she says. “Me and Jason.”

  I nod.

  “You stay right here,” she says. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”

  She returns less than a minute later. I’m sitting with my knees clutched in my arms, my chin resting on them. I’m practically shaking. The nausea has returned, a new type, a nausea of intense nerves and anxiety. Fuck, this can’t be happening. I’ve always been so responsible, always so careful to have safe sex. What in the world was I thinking?

  Joanne hands me the plastic wrapped-test kids, and I head into the stall.

  I pee on them.

  “Pink is good right?” I say, staring down at the test tube, which is rapidly turning a deep shade of pink.

  “I don’t think so,” says Joanne, slowly, obviously not sure how to deliver the news.

  “Fuck…” I say.

  It all feels like a dream as Joanne hands me test kit after test kit. They all come back positive.

  I can’t believe this is happening, and it seems so strange and absolutely surreal, that I simply pat Joanne strangely on her back, and go back to sit at my office desk.

  I’m just starting at my computer, lost in a heavy daze, not doing a single ounce of work, when Fred, the new guy, comes by.

  “Wanted to make sure you’re OK,” he says. “Seemed like you weren’t feeling too hot earlier. The whole office heard you throwing up into your trash can.”

  “Oh…” I say, not even looking up at him.

  “I hope this doesn’t interfere with your plan to become partner,” says Fred, giving me a very brief but very nasty look, as I finally look up at his disgusting smile and his disgusting arrogant face.

  Does he know I’m pregnant?

  He turns and leaves without another word.

  “Why don’t you take a personal day, Lexi?” says Joanne, appearing again next to me, and putting her hand on my shoulder, giving me a half hug.

  “I’ve got work to do,” I say, sounding like a robot.

  “It’s no big deal if you take a personal day,” whispers Joanne. “No one’s going to know that you’re pregnant. You’ve got to confront this issue.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “No, really, Lexi. Look, we all make mistakes, and it can happen to the best of us.”

  Suddenly, the feelings come washing through me. I feel completely overwhelmed, not sure what to do, what to say, which way to look. My whole world is coming crashing down around me, and I feel like I’m hyperventilating, my breath going ragged and shallow.

  I get up without realizing what I’m doing, the chair scooting along on its wheels behind me, bumping into the desk.

  Tears are streaming down my face, and I cover it with my hands. I take off in a sprint, not knowing where I’m going.

  “Lexi, wait!” cries Joanne behind me.

  I’m at the elevator, looking around wildly. There’s no one in sight.

  I mash the elevator button frantically, but the elevator’s not coming.

  Someone’s walking down the hall from the end of the building that has all the senior partner offices. I catch a glimpse of a suit.

  Oh shit, it’s one of the partners, one of the men who makes the decision about whether I will become a partner or not. I can’t let him see me like this, with tears ruining my makeup, totally frantic, totally freaking out.

  I abandon my idea of the elevator and rush to where I think the fire escape stairs are.

  John Selvedge’s (the partner’s) footsteps are getting louder in the hallway.

  I can’t find the stairs. Where the hell are they?

  OK, only one place left to turn. I run into the bathroom, the very same bathroom that Joanne and I were in not too long ago.

  I get inside, completely out of breath, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My clothes are all rumpled, my hair in disarray, and I’m a complete mess. My makeup is even worse than I ever could have imagined.

  Someone’s knocking on the door.

  “Lexi,” yells Joanne. “Open up.”

  My back is flat to the door, holding it back.

  “Come on, Lexi,” yells Joanne.

  Finally, I release the pressure, stepping back, to allow the door to open.

  Joanne rushes in and locks the door behind her.

  “It’s OK, Lexi,” she says. “This is an understandable reaction. We’re going to work this all out.”

  “I can’t have that asshole’s kid,” I say, my head in my hands, crying.

  “It’s OK, Lexi. I’m going to help you with this. We’re going to get through this. Jason and I will do whatever we have to do to help you.”

  9.

  Jeff

  ONE YEAR LATER

  “How’s Tom hanging in?” says coach, coming up to me in the middle of practice. I’ve got some down time. The guys are all running drills, and as the captain I’m just supervising from the sidelines. They’re all looking pretty good with their footwork, but there’s a lot of room for improvement.

  “Not sure,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t seen him since he went to rehab.”

  “I thought you were visiting him? You’re his best friend, aren’t you?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I didn’t realize he couldn’t hold his liquor like that, but you know… I mean, we’ve always hung out a lot. But I think he was always just chasing my slopping seconds, if you pardon my language, coach.”

  Coach is an older man in his early 60s, with dignified grey hair and a slender build. He looks like he could be someone’s grandfather, and for all I know, he is. But I never like to pry too much into the personal lives of my teammates. They leave me alone and I leave them alone. That’s the deal. Why can’t we all just leave Tom alone?

  “You think I haven’t heard that kind of language before, kid?” says coach. “Fucking hell.”

  I’ve never heard him so much as swear before.

  “I ain’t no kid, coach,” I say, grabbing my crotch in a joking manner to show him I’ve got the full package. Of course, I’m really just grabbing my jock strap and my cup. I had to order an extra large cup, just so it could contain my cock.

  “You’re just a kid emotionally if you can’t even go visit your friend in rehab,” says coach. “Sounds to me like he’s got a serious problem, and he could use someone like you.”

  “Yeah…” I say. “I don’t know…”

  “Well, I know,” says coach. “I went through the same thing when I was younger. The pressure of playing, the games, the victories, not to mention the losses. It was so much.”

  I knew coach played in his youth, for The Tanks, too, but I never knew he had a drug or alcohol problem. He was quite the quarterback in his youth, and h
e often gives me pointers about my throw, my spiral, my stance—all of which I promptly ignore, of course. I don’t need anyone telling me how to throw a ball. It’s just something that comes naturally to me.

  “I’ll give him a call,” I say, hoping that’s going to end the conversation. With just about anyone else on the planet, I’d have told them to shove it at this point in the conversation, but it’s coach, and even I don’t have that kind of power over him.

  “You know,” says coach, somewhat casually. “If you were to become Tom’s sobriety mentor, it might help your impending legal case. It could be a kind of character testimony.”

  Oh, shit, I think he’s right.

  The case isn’t looking good right now.

  They all think that I had a knife and pulled it on those punk Seattle fans. I’m not in prison…not yet, at least. But it’s not looking good. The case keeps getting pushed back farther and father by our team’s lawyer, mostly so that I can keep playing and I can be a good investment for the team. But also because the lawyer’s still looking for some good evidence that he can defend me with.

  Right now, the security camera footage inexplicably only has images of me holding the knife that the guy rushed me with, holding it high in the air, right before I threw it. To me, it seems like someone’s selectively editing the tape to make it look like I’m guilty as hell. I know I was only trying to defend myself, though. What could I have done any differently?

  Because I’m a big celebrity and have a lot of money, the legal case has gotten a lot more complicated recently. Not only is the public prosecutor attacking me, but the bar itself realized they could make a pretty penny on me, and they decided to hire their own lawyers and sue me for some shit…I forget the name of the trumped up charges they’re using against me.

  The law firm the bar’s got is some big shot firm named Cremway and Posh. And they’re basically trying to sue the shit out of me.

  Fuck, coach is right.

  I don’t have a lot going on for my case right now. If I help Tom out a little, or make it look like I’m helping him out, maybe things could go better for me.

  “All right,” I say, after what I realize is a very long pause. “I’ll go see him in rehab. I just hope he doesn’t cry or try to hug me or some shit.”

  Coach claps me on the back.

  “You’re a good quarterback,” he says. “I’d hate to lose you to jail.”

  He tosses me a football and goes walking towards the rest of the team, who are still doing drills, blowing his whistle fiercely, and waving his hands wildly.

  A good quarterback? Is that all he has to say? I’m not just a good quarterback. I’m probably the best in the whole league right now. The only guy who might compete with me is Dylan Knight, on the Seattle Rabbits. He fucking beat us last year, knocking us out of the playoffs. That fucker. This year I’m going to show him what I’m made of…so long as I’m not kicked off the team for legal problems.

  I turn my back to the coach and the team, who are doing some silly drills. It’s not like I need drills. I barely even need to practice. Football is in my bones and my blood.

  Walking off the field, coach calls after me.

  “Where you headed, kid?” he hollers.

  I flick him off without looking behind me.

  I don’t need practice. I don’t need coach.

  But I do need football.

  The address for Tom’s rehab place is in my phone, and driving over there, I put the windows down and crank the radio, blaring some heavy metal with a killer bass line. I’m going to need to get seriously pumped up for this meeting with Tom. I haven’t seen him since he went to rehab.

  “I’m here to see Tom Weatherweaks,” I say to the receptionist.

  “Oh,” she says. “I recognize you from somewhere.”

  “You might have seen me on TV,” I say.

  She’s got a nice set of tits on her, and her hair is enticingly framing her face.

  But still, even a year later, I still can’t get the image out of my head of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes on…not to mention fucked. And that’s Lexi Bells. I can’t believe she said she didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

  Well, I can believe that. Plenty of women have said that to me before. But they always come crawling back, or try to come crawling back, that is.

  Lexi didn’t, though, even though I was sure she would.

  I don’t bother flirting with the receptionist, and just get the number to Tom’s room.

  His room is empty when I stop by, so I wander down a long hallway with florescent lighting and gleaming linoleum floors.

  Finally, I come to a room with ten people sitting around in a circle.

  I walk in.

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just looking for my friend.”

  “Jeff!” calls out Tom, standing up so suddenly and enthusiastically that he knocks over his thin plastic chair.

  “Hey, Tom,” I say, somewhat uncomfortable, since there are nine other eyes staring at me, sizing me up.

  “You can go see your friend, if you like,” says a grey-haired man who I presume to be the sponsor or the therapist or whatever you call it.

  “Great,” says Tom. “Come on, Jeff,” he says, practically sprinting out of the place.

  We walk down the hallway, and Tom’s talking a mile a minute, telling me all about the place, about the treatment, about his sobriety. Wow, sobriety has really opened the guy up, and he’s a real chatterbox. Fuck, I think I liked him better when he was drunk all the time.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever come to see me, Jeff,” says Tom.

  “Yeah, well,” I say. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  “It just means a lot to me, Jeff,” says Tom.

  “The thing is, man,” I say. “I never even knew you had any issues with, you know…”

  “Yeah,” says Tom. “I was pretty much plastered all the time.”

  “I guess that makes a little sense,” I say. “I mean sometimes you seemed to get drunk incredibly fast at the bar. It still doesn’t add up to me, since if you were always such a drunk I’d think you could hold your liquor better.”

  “Well, Jeff,” says Tom.

  It’s kind of annoying how he talks now, like he’s better than everyone else. But I guess I shouldn’t be thinking this. After all, the guy’s doing a good thing, I guess, by trying to get sober.

  “I was always buzzed, pretty much, like I said… And a couple extra drinks at the bar could really send me over the edge.”

  I nod my head slowly.

  We’re walking through the garden outside now. It’s an expensive rehab facility, so the garden is immaculately maintained. The sun is shining and the day is beautiful. I find myself thinking about Lexi Bells for a moment before I snap out of it. Why does she keep popping up in my mind? It’s been a year, after all.

  “What are you thinking about?” says Tom. “You seem quiet all of a sudden.”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say.

  “You can tell me, Jeff,” says Tom, smiling at me. “I’ve learned how to open up in therapy, and I want to encourage you to do the same.”

  I shrug. “I’m just thinking about that chick I hooked up with a year ago. Lexi, you remember her?”

  “Sure,” says Tom, nodding. “She was really beautiful.”

  “Dude, she was fucking smoking hot. Why are you talking so differently now?”

  Tom laughs. “I don’t know,” he says. “But why don’t you contact this Lexi if you’re still thinking about her so much?”

  “She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, especially after that bar fight. I’m a bad guy and all that, I guess.”

  “You’re not a bad guy,” says Tom. “Maybe you’ve just made some bad decisions.”

  “Dude, what the hell was I supposed to do? That wasn’t my fault. The guy had a knife and I disarmed him.”

&
nbsp; Tom nods sagely. “True,” he says. “But, and forgive me if my memory is a little hazy from the alcohol, but I think we were out there destroying their car?”

  I’m silent. He has a point. Still, that isn’t a good enough reason to attack someone with a knife.

  “How’s the case going, anyway?” says Tom.

  “Oh, you know, our lawyers are delaying it as long as they can. The public case that is. I don’t even really understand it all. But the bar’s suing me too. I’m not sure what’s going on with that case. I’m supposed to find out soon, though.”

  Just as I finish talking, my phone beeps at me, meaning I’ve got an email.

  I take out my phone and the email pops up. The subject line says that a court date has been scheduled.

  I open the email and scan through it briefly. It doesn’t interest me much. I’m going to have to go to court no matter what.

  But there’s the name of the principal prosecutor.

  It’s Lexi Bells, attorney at law.

  Lexi Bells.

  My Lexi Bells.

  10.

  Lexi

  “You sure you’re OK watching Mia tonight, Joanne?”

  “No problem,” says Joanne, who’s rushing around with a thousand diapers and baby bottles.

  “I really owe you a big one,” I say.

  “Hey,” says Joanne. “I know how stressful being a new partner is.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes I think it’s worse than actually trying to get to be partner.”

  “You’re telling me,” says Joanne.

  I don’t know exactly what that means, since Joanne’s not a partner. In fact, she quit her job as a secretary at the law firm so that she could take care of her baby daughter.

  Joanne got pregnant about a month after me, so she’s taking care of a two month old. She frequently takes care of my 3 month old daughter, Mia. Mia tends to split her time between my mother and Joanne.

  “Thanks again, Joanne,” I say, leaving Joanne and Jason’s house, and getting into my car, heading to the law firm, of course, as usual.