Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance Page 6

  “Well,” says my mom, giving me a curious look. “We’re just really anxious to meet the lucky girl. What did you say her name was, again?”

  “Lauren,” I say. “I think that’d be OK. Let me just give her a call first so we don’t surprise her in her room.”

  We pile into my old SUV and start driving towards the campus.

  I take out my cell phone and hit Lauren’s number. It rings ten times, then goes to voicemail.

  “That’s weird,” I say.

  “What’s up, son?”

  “She’s not answering.”

  “She’s probably just busy.”

  It is strange though. She’s never not answered the phone in the two weeks we’ve been together. Then again, we really haven’t spent much time apart, except during final exams—time apart when I’d need to call her.

  I try to call her two more times, but the call never goes through.

  “Let’s just head to her dorm,” I say. “I’m sure she’s not busy. Maybe she’s hanging out with her roommate or something.”

  But inside, I know there’s something up. I don’t know how I know it, but I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  But what could have happened?

  Everything was fine yesterday.

  “Why don’t you guys wait out there and check out the quad?” I say to my parents, as we get out of the car in the student parking lot, which is right up against the quad.

  “Sure,” says my mom. I can tell she’s trying to be polite. She probably thinks Lauren and I had some type of argument or something.

  But I don’t have time to worry about that now.

  For some strange reason, I’m entering panic mode. I know I shouldn’t be this worried about Lauren right now.

  But never the less, my heart is pounding in my chest as I rush down the hall to her dorm room, the room I’ve spent so much time in during the last two weeks.

  I knock on the door.

  No one answers.

  I knock again, and now I’m pounding on it.

  “Lauren?” I cry out.

  I can’t figure out why I’m so panicked.

  “Yes?” says someone, answering the door.

  Oh, it’s Lauren’s roommate. I think her name is Tasha or something.

  “Hi, it’s Tasha, right? Is Lauren here?”

  “No…” she says. She looks confused, or perhaps like she doesn’t know what to say.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I don’t, Dylan. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s going on? What happened? Is Lauren OK?”

  “Why don’t you come in, Dylan,” she says.

  Shit, this isn’t good. I don’t like the looks of this one bit.

  “Can you just tell me where she is? My parents are waiting outside on the quad, and they’re looking forward to meeting her. I couldn’t get her on the phone, but we’re supposed to all go out to dinner tonight.”

  A thousand possibilities are racing through my head. Is there someone else she’s seeing? Is she injured, maybe in the hospital? I can’t even keep track of all the possibilities.

  Finally, Lauren’s roommate convinces me to come into the room.

  “What the hell is this?” I say.

  I scan the room, and it’s a total mess.

  The sheets are still on Lauren’s bed, but most of her things are gone, completely missing.

  But it’s not like she was never here. She’s left behind plenty of things, her school books and computer speakers included. It looks like a hurricane hit her side of the room, like she packed up as fast as she possibly could.

  “Lauren’s not here, Dylan,” says Tasha.

  “I know she’s not here. But where the hell is all her stuff? Look, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m really sorry Dylan. I’d really like to tell you. But I swore to Lauren I wouldn’t tell you where she is.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “I told her I wouldn’t tell you anything, no matter what. She made me swear on my future children.”

  “She’s already left college? Did she leave a message or anything for me? I just can’t understand this.”

  “Look, Dylan, I’m really sorry. And trust me, I hate to be the one to tell you this. And I don’t agree with how Lauren’s handling this. But she told me the only thing I could tell you is that Lauren’s gone. She’s already left Twilmore, and she’s not going to be attending graduation.”

  “What? Is she crazy?”

  “I think so.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Holy shit is right. I don’t know what to think. I don’t even know how I feel right now. I’m in a state of emotional shock or something. I thought she was the one.

  I can’t think of how many times I held off telling her that I love her. Maybe if I had told her, maybe if I had been able to say the words, she wouldn’t have left me.

  But there’s got to be a way to get her back. There’s just no way she’s gone forever.

  “There’s no way she’s going to leave me without even talking to me,” I say.

  Tasha just looks at me sadly.

  My parents are waiting outside the building, no doubt wondering what the hell’s going on, but I can’t deal with that situation right now.

  Instead of getting up and going to meet them, I flop face down on Lauren’s bed. I can still smell her presence here.

  I can still see where the indent of her is pressed into the sheets. It wasn’t long ago that we slept on this bed together. Fortunately, her roommate had been at her boyfriend’s.

  I grab my phone and try to call Lauren again. This time her phone is completely shut off. The call goes right to voicemail.

  9

  Lauren

  I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I still feel a little frantic, but I’ve calmed down significantly since I got away from campus.

  I got as much of my stuff as I could and through it into my old duffel bag. I walked to the bus station and took the first bus out of the city, no matter where it was headed.

  I’m watching the scenery move by, and tears are coming slowly out of my eyes.

  “You OK, miss?” an older woman sitting next to me says.

  “Yeah,” I say, whipping some of the tears from my eyes. “Do you know where this bus is going?”

  “Why, we’re headed all the way to Baltimore,” she says, looking startled at my question. “You didn’t know that?”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I wanted to go to Baltimore. That’s where I’m from, actually. I was just checking to make sure I’m on the right bus. It’s just been a rough week with finals and everything.”

  I don’t quite know why I’m lying to this woman, except for the fact that I can’t possibly tell her the whole story. Anyway, how would I explain that I abandoned Dylan, just because I’m pregnant with his kid?

  I don’t think I can even explain this one to myself.

  I’m feeling a little stronger, now, though, and not quite as weepy. I cried my eyes out all the way to the bus station, after making Tasha swear that she wouldn’t tell Dylan or anybody else anything about the baby.

  I can do this. I can take care of the baby on my own. This is what I have to do. After all, I’ve done everything else in my life on my own, and I’m going to make it work, just like I’ve made everything else work.

  “It’s great you graduated from college,” says the woman, trying to be pleasant. She can tell I’m upset, and I’m not quite sure she believes my little story about being stressed with finals.

  “Just costs me one hundred thousand dollars is all,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like the whole thing is a scam. I mean, I don’t have a job lined up yet after college or anything. And it’s not like I didn’t try. I’m always the pragmatic one, you know? I always plan everything out. But no one would even hire me, or respond to my resumes, which were absolutely perfect.”

  The
woman nods politely.

  Soon, I’m telling her all about my problems, just babbling on and on—everything, that is, except the baby and Dylan. I don’t mention either one. The woman listens politely for the next hour, before she excuses herself to go sit in another seat.

  Why can’t I just shut up? Now I’ve scared off the only person in the world who wants to talk to me.

  My parents aren’t going to be any help. I think the last thing they said to me was that I couldn’t’ come home after college, not even for a visit. They were very insistent that I make my own way in the world, without their help.

  Well, that’s going to be just what I do. I don’t need anyone’s help. I don’t need my parents’ help, and I don’t need Dylan’s.

  Inside, I know I’m not confronting something, some deep dark fear that has been hanging over my entire life.

  What if I move to Seattle with him, have the baby, and then things don’t work out?

  No, that wouldn’t be good. It would be harder that way.

  It’s much easier, much safer, to do everything on my own. I don’t need to complicate things by telling him about the baby.

  I’m going to raise it myself, and I’m going to be the best damn parent anyone ever has been. I’m going to be so good the baby won’t need a father.

  But a part of me does feel guilty. Will I ever tell Dylan he has a kid with me?

  I push these doubts to the back of my mind, wipe the final tears from my eyes, and, taking out my notebook, I start making a list of things I need to do when I get to Baltimore.

  I chose Baltimore by accident, but I don’t think I can afford spending the money on a ticket to go somewhere else, so Baltimore is it. Baltimore is going to be my new home, and I might as well make the best of it.

  I make little lists of potential job opportunities in Baltimore. I have a checklist of chores to do when I arrive. The first one is find an apartment, and the second is find a job.

  Soon, I somehow manage to push Dylan out of my mind completely. I think I’m so focused on being self sufficient, that I can’t even believe that someone would help me with a situation, even if he did half the work, half the work of making the baby, that is.

  10

  Dylan

  I know she’s gone, but I don’t know why. I just don’t understand it.

  During graduation, I can’t keep myself from continuing to look for her.

  Even when I’m standing with my parents, holding my diploma, dressed in the silly black robes and hat, I’m swinging my head around anxiously trying to catch a glimpse of her.

  “How’s this one?” says the professor who my dad corralled to take our picture.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Thanks, professor.”

  He nods his head and walks away.

  I hand the camera to my dad, who starts looking through the pictures.

  “Dylan, there isn’t a single picture where you aren’t turning your head around.”

  “You’re still looking for her, aren’t you?” says my mom.

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I just don’t know what to say.

  “She’s gone, son,” says my dad. “Sometimes these things happen. Maybe she didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Tell me what? That she doesn’t’ want to be with me? We already have the plane tickets and everything.”

  “Son, sometimes you’ve got to let them go.”

  “But…”

  “Look, you’re starting your career this summer. You’ve got to concentrate on training camp. Plus, this is a great moment. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. I mean, finishing college, that’s a big accomplishment on its own, not to mention getting drafted to the pros.”

  “They’ll be other nice girls in Washington, I’m sure of it,” says my mom, trying to hug me, but I pull away.

  I can’t talk to them about this. How can they understand how much Lauren means to me? Or meant to me. I guess now she’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t even know where her parents live, although given what she’s told me, there’s no way she’s headed home to her parents’ house.

  I can barely concentrate at all at the nice restaurant that my parents take me to celebrate my graduate. I drink slowly from a bottle of beer, and pick at the Ethiopian food I’m supposed to be enjoying. I can’t help but remembering that this was one of the places I wanted to take Lauren with my parents.

  I had told Lauren all about how much she’d like Ethiopian food, and it became a little joke between us—that I was so insistent on her trying it. I had told her all about how you eat the spongy bread with your hands, gripping the food between the bread.

  I don’t know why I’m stuck on this point about the Ethiopian food.

  “I was going to take Lauren here with us,” I say, my eyes downcast towards the table.

  “I know it’s hard now, Dylan,” says my dad, putting his arm on my shoulder. “But you’ll get over her in time. There’s always someone that gets away, and sometimes we never know what happened.”

  He’ll never understand, but then again how could he?

  “And who got away from you?” says my mom, giving him a little playful hit on the back of his head.

  “Oh, no one,” says my dad. “I mean, it didn’t happen to me personally. You were always the only one for me.”

  I wonder briefly if he’s trying to cover his tracks. Understandably, he might not want to admit to my mom that there was someone else he was in love with at one point. But I can’t even concentrate on that thought pattern right now. I’m too busy thinking about Lauren, about her lips, her hair, about the massage where we first met, when I was erect as I’ve ever been, my cock making a tent in the white towel.

  SIX YEARS LATER

  I scan the field rapidly, the way I’ve been trained. My arm is cocked back, the football in my hand, my fingers wrapped around the lacing. Everything is just perfect. I just need an opening.

  Donovan looks like he might be open. He’s holding his hands up, trying to signal. But I can read the situation better than he can. There’s someone from the other team running right towards him.

  A moment later, he’ll be plastered, flat on his back on the ground. He’ll certainly be in no condition to do anything with the ball, should I throw it to him.

  I’ve developed a great sense of timing for these things, during games.

  Decisions have to be made rapidly, in the blink of an eye.

  Time seems to slow down for me during plays. The sports announcers say that happens to be the best athletes. I don’t know if I’m quite there, but I’m not doing too badly.

  I’m the Quarterback for Seattle’s new team, The Rabbits.

  There were nothing but jokes in the newspapers and sports channels about the name. Jokes about how we’d play like rabbits—ineffectively, I guess. Or about how we’d be fucking like rabbits with all the fans.

  They weren’t great jokes.

  It’s a silly name, sure, but what can I say? I’m the fucking quarterback. That’s not a bad position.

  I’m about to take a hit.

  My brain is calculating rapidly, analyzing angles and seconds left. And all these processes are going on completely automatically. It’s all second nature to me right now.

  But I still need an opening.

  The field seems silent to me, but I know behind the artificial ‘in the zone’ silence, there’s a deafening roar. The noise from the stands alone is loud enough to make an amateur lose their cool.

  But I’m not amateur. I make serious money doing this, even though The Rabbits might not have the same funding as some of the other major teams.

  There!

  There’s a fucking opening.

  Without thinking, my whole body shifts, and just before I get hit, I throw the ball, my arm whizzing through the air, the ball spiraling off my fingers, apparently in slow motion.

  As soon as the ball leaves my fingers, my �
��in the zone’ slow motion ceases, and the world around me speeds up as if someone is fast-forwarding a video.

  He tackles me. I take the hit hard, and crash into the ground. Everything goes blurry for a moment.

  But I get up. I always do. There hasn’t been a hit yet that I can’t take and walk off the field.

  The pass is completed, and Robinson scores a touchdown.

  We win.

  I’m just trying to get off the field and into the locker-room, but the reporters are all around me. I think it’s in my contract that I have to talk to the reporters. Football is a business after all, and there has to be something after the commercials to keep the viewers fixed to their TVs.

  “Yeah, it was a great game,” I say, trying to keep everything I say vague. I have to be careful not to reveal anything about the plays we used or the strategy. “We were all playing as hard as we could. And I just feel lucky to be on such a great team with such a great coach.”

  Of course the journalists who are pushing their microphones right into my face know the drill. They know we’re not suppose dot reveal much about the inner workings of the team, but they still need some spicy facts and juicy details to create the headlines, to create the killer stories.

  “What’s it like being on such an unproven team?” says one of the reporters, giving me a nasty look. “Aren’t you upset that you weren’t traded from your original draft team to a more establish team, perhaps one of the East Coast teams? Don’t you think The Rabbits are going to hold your career back somewhat?”

  I know he’s saying all this just to try to get a rise out of me. I’ve seen him on TV before, and I’ve seen him at the games interviewing other players.

  “The Rabbits is an excellent team,” I say, making sure to keep my voice as even-keeled as I can make it. “It’s a great group of guys. And I’m happy to be the quarterback. It’s always been my position, and I love doing what I do best.”

  “So you’re thinking that you aren’t good enough to be quarterback on one of the better teams?”

  “I’m not saying that at all,” I say. “No more questions.”