Football Dick: A Sports Romance (Big Girls, Bad Boys, and Babies)

by Violet Blaze

I feel an extra pang of frustration. Watching football on Thanksgiving with my mom was the highlight of my childhood holiday memories. Plus, I was kind of looking forward to seeing Rhoden. I've been watching all of the games since I last saw him, tracking his movements across the field.

  I'm pretty sure I don't hate him anymore, even if he is avoiding me.

  “Della.” I set Wisdom down on the floor near the front door and tug LD close with his leash. The way Walter grabbed me in the parking garage was disturbing to say the least. I feel better having the dog with me.

  “Dad.” We stare at each other across—God, I don't know—5,000 square feet of space? Okay, I'm exaggerating. He's standing near the TV to the left of the door, hung in the corner and tilted at an angle so as not to cover any of the windows on either wall beside it. My stepmother is with him, while Reagan and Emery emerge from the back door, wet from the pool and wearing strings and pasties instead of bikinis. I glare at them and they return the favor.

  Other than a few employees cooking and preparing the meal, I realize that … this is it.

  “Where's Anise?” I ask, hoping and praying that Walter's sister is here. She might be the stereotypical party girl heiress type, but I've always kind of liked her. I was hoping for a little back up here.

  “In Venice with her new boyfriend,” Hal says as she gives her mother a dark look. “And Walt's parents are at their place in the Hamptons.” My chest feels suddenly tight. Of course they are. Of course. All of my hopes of escaping this place seem to disintegrate into ash right in front of my eyes.

  I feel trapped in an impossibility, a stifling surreal sort of nightmare.

  My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket.

  Scottie says he can have five hundred members of his anti-fracking group together and ready to march within the hour. Let me know, 'kay? Love you.

  I text Ariana back and then slip my phone in my pocket.

  You're invited here for dinner. Please come! I need you and Scottie to back me up.

  “Does anybody care that I'm here against my will?” I ask loudly, trying to catch a few of the employees' attentions. Nobody looks at me. “I've been kidnapped,” I say again and my stepmother scoffs, reaching up to pat at her carefully styled blond locks.

  “Don't be dramatic, Della,” she says as she comes over to smile at me. “How's the baby?”

  “I don't know,” I say, again as loudly as I possibly can. “I slept with so many men that I'm not sure who the father is. Honestly, it could be any member of the Arcata Adders or the San Francisco 49ers.”

  Walter's back stiffens as he pauses in the kitchen and speaks to one of the women there. Good. Glad he heard me because this is the rumor I'm going to spread if he doesn't let all of this stupid crap go. I'll tell every news media outlet I can get ahold of that I slept with everyone but him. How would his shareholders like that? Some future politician's wife I would make, huh?

  “Della!” Verna exclaims, touching a hand to her pearl necklace. I almost laugh at that. My stepmother in a pearl necklace. Get it? “Don't be vulgar.”

  “That's exactly what I'm going to do if you don't leave me alone. Look, this is ridiculous. We all know that I don't want to marry Walter. Why am I even here?”

  There's a long, awkward pause where everyone just turns to stare at me like I'm the crazy one here. Hal stands next to me in companionable solidarity.

  “Could I have a moment alone with Della, please?” my father asks, coming over to take hold of my elbow. I'm sick and tired of having people grab onto me, so I jerk my arm from his touch and follow him outside.

  As soon as the door slams shut behind us, I storm down the steps and stand in the misty half-dark, looking up at the gentle layer of fog settling over the trees. When I drop my chin and turn to face him, I feel the anger swirl up hot and wild inside of me.

  “How can you do this? Support some crazy man stalking your daughter?”

  “Della, this is about more than just you,” he says as I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. “I have the company to think about, my employees. What about your sisters? What do you think will happen to them if I go bankrupt?”

  “Stop being dramatic,” I say as I glare at him. “There are a lot worse things than just not being filthy rich. We were happy before, me, you, Mom. You're smart, Dad. You'll do something else great, even if Garland Enterprises goes out of business.”

  “Walter has given me so much, Della. He's done a lot for this family. We're not turning our back on him now.”

  “Turning our back on him? Not selling me off to him like prized cattle is turning our back? If he's really our friend, this shouldn't matter.”

  “What is it that you want, Della, that Walter can't give you? Is it that footballer? Is that what this is about?”

  “There is no footballer, Dad,” I say, my voice sounding far too sad for my own liking. There really isn't one though. No Rhoden anywhere to be seen. “Tell Walter that for me, please. Nobody else should have to suffer this craziness.”

  We stand there in silence for a few moments before a car's headlights sweep across the front of the house, pausing outside of the gates. My dad looks over at them with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Who on earth is that?” He stares at Scottie's tiny electric car like it should be obliterated from existence. I glance casually over my shoulder.

  “Ariana and her fiancé, Scottie.” I look back at my dad with a grim half-smile. Scottie plus Walter equals serious trouble. This should be fun. “They're my family; I invited them. Tell Walter to buzz them in.”

  “How can your company continue to produce the Round-Down pesticide line for use on commercial, food grade crops when it's a known carcinogen? The runoff alone is poisoning our waters, contaminating our air. How do you sleep at night knowing that the price of your wealth is the health and well-being of the general populace?”

  I cough into my napkin to stifle a laugh as Walter sits at the head of the table and snaps his fingers for a refill on his wine. One of the employees—because I refuse to call them servants or whatever else—appears to pour him a generous helping.

  Dinner is delicious because, well, it's probably a Michelin starred chef cooking it, but it hardly resembles the usual Thanksgiving fare. Instead of turkey, we have goose and duck, and instead of cranberry sauce, we have cranberry compote. It's certainly … elevated.

  “I don't discuss business at the dinner table,” Walter tells Scottie for the fiftieth time. I'm so glad I invited my best friends over. This is actually kind of … bearable.

  “And why lie to consumers and tell them that labelling genetically modified foods would increase prices? Clearly if the opposition can create their own non-GMO verified label and put it on their products without bringing the costs to consumers, surely Donsanto, a multinational multibillion dollar company, could handle the same?”

  Walter slams his fork down on the table and gives me a scathing look.

  “I won't be harassed in my own home,” he says, his voice like ice. “I'd like you to ask your friend to leave.”

  Scottie stands up, fully incensed and boiling with righteous rage.

  “Of course you do, because you know everything that I've said is the truth.” Scottie shoves his glasses up his face. “And I know I said I wouldn't do this, but—”

  “Scottie,” Ariana and I both warn.

  “What you're doing here to Della is the most despicable thing of all—and the most illegal. Taking away her right to free speech? Kidnapping? Corrupt influence and coercion?”

  “I did not take away her right to free speech,” Walter says, and this time he's smiling with his wide, thin lips, like this is a game. “I purchased the hosting company that she was using and had them remove any sites that violated the new terms and conditions.”

  My skin gets cold and chilly and I feel like I'm going to puke. What. A. Creeper.

  “Please leave my house before I call the police and have you removed.”

&nbs
p; I stand up, too, watching Walter's face as I follow Ariana to the door … and then grab my purse, my bunny, and my dog. What's he going to do now with my friends here? Have us all assassinated and buried in unmarked graves?

  The most disturbing part of that, is that I really believe he could do it. He's rich enough, has the police in his pocket. Why not?

  Hal gets up and joins us as Verna starts into a raging bitch session, standing up from her chair and shouting across the gaping warehouse of a palace.

  Without another word, I head out the front door and squeeze myself into Scottie's mini clown car with the puppy on my lap, the bunny beneath my feet, and a hundred bumper stickers clogging the window behind my head.

  I've never been happier in all my life.

  The rest of my Thanksgiving is significantly better—even if the food is … tempeh and tofu? But the Adders game is really hard to watch. Rhoden plays well while he's on the field, but clearly, he's in a temper because he almost gets into a fight with one of his own teammates, right there at the thirty yard line.

  I rewatch the game later in Ariana's living room with Hal sleeping on the floor next to me, pausing on a zoomed in shot of Rhoden's face and sighing. Our date is the day after tomorrow, and I'm prearranged to be picked up in a limo at my place. That is, of course, if Walter hasn't already pulled some strings and screwed that up. Honestly, I'm shocked that I haven't heard anything about it.

  I sigh and drop the remote in my lap, leaning back into the down-alternative pillows that Ariana put out for me and tucking my hands behind my head. I can't decide if I should be pissed at Rhoden's avoidance of me, saddened by it … or maybe if I should feel anything at all?

  He's just a stranger that I had a few one-night stands with. Aaaaaand the father of my kid.

  And I have a gigantic, monstrous crush on him. I've been trying to deny it, but I do.

  I groan and snatch a pillow up, covering my face with it. In two days, I'll (hopefully) be face to face with the guy and that warm gaze of his, the one that makes me want to tell him everything.

  The thought alone makes my insides twist painfully—it hurts almost as badly as when LD gets up and slaps me in the face with his muscular tail. The damn dog is too big for his age, like a child in a giant's body. And he doesn't listen to me for crap.

  I sigh and pet his side anyway, praising him for biting Walter on the ankle. Now, if he could just take the guy out for me permanently …

  I force myself to take a deep breath and relax into the couch.

  But I don't turn off the TV.

  I fall asleep to the sight of Rhoden Richards' beautiful half-smile.

  I manage to get through the next day by hiding out at Ariana's place and watching news specials about crazy people fighting over discount TVs during their black Friday shopping. We sit curled on her couch eating yesterday's vegan feast and petting Wisdom's long, silky ears while Hal texts back and forth with her new tight end(ed) boyfriend. When Scottie gets home from his shift at the hospital, we play some weird board game about medieval ghosts and then fall into food comas.

  As far as days go, that one ranks up there among the best.

  Today? The violent stomachache of baby/nerves that I'm feeling right now makes me think it might be one of the worst. I got a text this morning from Walter that said enjoy your date, Della. What does that even mean? Is that a threat? How do I even respond to that?

  I take a deep breath and shake out my hands, writing a faux blog post in my head since, you know, I apparently can't put one online

  Okay, guys. Today is the day! I'm heading out on a date with Rhoden Richards, the incredibly gorgeous but admittedly kind of annoying quarterback for the NFL's Arcata Adders. He averages three touchdown passes a game, but he doesn't call me and clearly, he's stopped going to the dog park.

  By the way, my outfit today is beyond fabulous. I've got on the promised rainbow dress! As you can see from the photos, this gorgeous above-the-knee dress is made of white silk crepe de chine with a curved rainbow printed vertically down the right side. Sweetheart neckline and … no sleeves! Yep, I'm showing off those arms again today.

  Sorry I can't give away the signed football like I promised, but the crazy rich guy I said no to marrying bought the web host my blog was on and had it removed. Don't forget to subscribe to the RSS feed of my brain for more fun news from Della Garland—I still need to share that special surprise with you. Winky face!

  I roll my eyes and reach up to check on my hair. It's coiffed into an intricate style that Hal calls the twisty sweet bun which I'm pretty sure she made up. It's basically a bunch of braids interwoven together to make a kind of piecrust-esque tapestry. Several curls have already jumped ship and are bouncing around the sides of my face.

  I pucker my lips and hope the vibrant pink matte lipstick I put on is still in place, wondering if I look sexy or just childish with the dress, the overblown makeup, and the classic red pumps.

  My hands twist together in front of me as I wait outside the apartment, looking down the one-way street for any sign of a limo—Hummer fronted or otherwise.

  Five minutes later, I see it. It's a white Cadillac limousine and it glides to a stop directly in front of me, its tinted windows reflecting back the lines of my nervous face. I stand there, trying not to throw up as the driver gets out and comes around to open the door.

  “Miss Garland,” he says as he steps back and I stare at the warm, dark interior of the limo. At first I think that Rhoden's not in there, that maybe it's someone else from the team standing in for him at Walter's behest, but then I duck my head and plop my butt on the leather seat, trying to pretend that the sweaty skin on the back of my thighs isn't sticking to the chair. I don't usually sweat this much, but God I'm so damn nervous.

  “Hey, Della,” Rhoden says from the seat kitty-corner to mine. He's sitting all the way at the opposite end with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted slightly to the side. “Long time, no see.”

  I stare at him, but I can't think of anything witty or clever to say.

  “You left your number, but you didn't bother to answer any of my calls or texts. That's messed up, Rhoden.” I notice the way he blinks at me, a painstakingly slow movement that gives his half-lidded gaze an extra burst of sexiness. I notice some champagne in a bucket and a stack of NFL and Adders merch, but I don't touch any of it.

  “Della,” Rhoden starts, glancing up at the window that separates us from the driver. When he turns back to me, he looks pissed. “I was warned by your fiancé that if I called or came over here again, that I wouldn't set foot on the field another day in my life.”

  “He …” Oh crap. “Oh my God,” I whisper as I put my hands over my face. I mean, I figured that Walter would go there, I just didn't … wow. “I can't believe this is happening.”

  “Was that your extra special news?” Rhoden asks when I lift my face to look up at him. He's scanning me in that way he does, the one that says he likes what he sees but this time he looks like he'll be damned if he'll do anything about that. “That you and Walter are having a baby?”

  “I …” I start, but then I feel like I'm going to puke for real this time, clamping a hand over my mouth as I struggle to control my breathing. Rhoden pinches his brows like he's concerned, scooting a little closer to me, but he makes no effort to touch me.

  “Do you need to pull over?” he asks, but I shake my head, dropping my hand into my lap and breathing out long and easy and slow.

  “Rhoden,” I start as I look back at him, study the red hoodie and black jacket combo he's rocking over his NFL emblazoned t-shirt. I want to crawl into his lap and kiss his stubbled face off. WHY DOES HE HAVE TO BE SO FREAKING HOT?! I smooth my skirt across my lap as I try to find the words I should've said a few weeks ago. Instead, I start off with this gem, “so you know about condoms?”

  That's what I say. So you know about condoms.

  What? WHAT?! Like, what?

  Rhoden raises his brows at me and cocks his head
to the side.

  “I'm familiar with the device, sure,” he says, and I detect a note of amusement in his voice. The sound, and the look that went with it, fades immediately and he glaces sharply away. “Why? What does that have to do with your creepy fiancé's threats?”

  “He's not my fiancé,” I say, trying not to get frustrated. I try to run my fingers through my hair, but they get caught in the bun instead and I curse as I try to untangle myself. This is so not going the way I'd planned.

  Here's what I'd thought could theoretically happen:

  Me: Rhoden, Walter's blackmailing me into marrying him, but … but I want you. I'm carrying your baby. I know it seems impossible, but the condom broke and well, we should get to know each other, see if this thing is worth fighting for.

  Him: Oh my God, Della. I didn't want to say anything because it's too soon, but … I'm falling in love with you and I want to be a father to my child. I have some contacts in the CIA or the FBI or something, so we can talk to them and get Walter arrested for being a creepy stalker. Now, let's make love, quickly, before we get to the arts center.

  Guess that's a bit of a pipe dream.

  “He's not your fiancé?” Rhoden asks with a raised brow. “It's all over the internet.” A long pause. “And I noticed you got rid of your blog?”

  “See!” I point at him and then blush from head to toe, dropping my hand into my lap. “I didn't get rid of my blog.” The words come out in a whisper. I try to fight back tears, but something about Rhoden makes them want to come out. I guess I just like the guy, even though I don't know him for shit. I look up as tears start to stream down my face.

  “Oh God, don't cry, Della,” Rhoden says, his deep voice like a soothing balm against my skin. “I'm a serious sucker for the whole damsel in distress thing. If you do that, I'll have to beat the crap out of somebody.”

  He's trying to smile at me, but it's not working. Everything just comes bubbling up all at once.

  “He bought the web host,” I say and then am suddenly glad I didn't go to the cops with this. Listen to how it sounds when I tell Rhoden: “I told Walter I didn't want to marry him, so he bought the web host my blog was with and deleted it. I think he's having his IT guys stalk me or something because every time I try to start a new one, it gets deleted, too. He's certifiably insane, Rhoden.”