Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  I’m twenty-five yards from the end zone when I look over my shoulder and see a few teammates running five yards behind me. What the hell. I throw the ball back to one of them, but he is so stunned by my pass that it just hits him in the chest and bounces harmlessly to the floor.

  Oops.

  “What the fuck was that, redcoat?” the offensive coach yells as he storms onto the field. “You were clean through.”

  I shrug. “Figured someone else might want to score.”

  “Fucking socialist Europeans,” Coach mutters under his breath. “You’re in America now. Capitalism. Survival of the fittest. Greed. You don’t pass to a teammate to let them have a chance.”

  “Won’t happen again, boss.”

  Best to discover these little quirks in training, rather than in a game when it matters. I really should learn the rules of this game at some point.

  We continue training for another thirty minutes, and not a minute goes by without one of my teammates laughing at me for my mistake. Better they laugh at me than hate me though; this sort of thing is good for morale.

  The second that training ends, the head coach strolls up to me and demands I meet him in his office in fifteen minutes. I run to the sideline to grab my stuff when I notice for the first time that we’ve got a small audience. A group of five girls is sat a few rows up the bleachers and they’re all staring at me. I recognize the look of hunger in their eyes. It’s probably much the same way I look at Becky.

  “I thought that was really sweet,” a chesty blonde says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The pass. People should pass more in football.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be doing it again,” I admit.

  “It’s good to share,” the blonde says suggestively. “We don’t mind sharing, do we girls?”

  The other girls all smile at me. “Sharing can be fun,” one of them says.

  “We wouldn’t mind sharing you,” the blonde says. “From what we saw out there, you have more than enough energy to satisfy us all.”

  I don’t know about that. Threesomes? Yes, been there done that. Foursomes? Yes, been there, done that, left absolutely exhausted. What would this be? A sixsome? Is that even a word?

  Old me would have fucked first and looked up the dictionary definition afterwards. And when I say ‘old me,’ I mean the me from only a week ago. From before I met Becky. I’m no genius, but I don’t have to be to figure out what’s caused the change of heart.

  “Thanks, ladies, but I need to keep my mind on the game at the moment. No time for extracurriculars right now, but I’ll keep you in mind.” I give a wink for good measure which they seem to appreciate.

  Boy, that feels weird. I haven’t had sex in weeks, and I just turned down a month’s supply. That’s like a starving man turning down a $400 steak. Or should that be five $400 steaks? But this starving man has an even better meal to look forward to. So long as I get to eat before I starve.

  “You’ve chosen to major in English literature with a minor in art history?” Coach takes off his glasses and places them down on the only part of his desk not covered in books and papers. For a guy who does his job on the field, he sure has a messy office. “Do you have any idea how tough that is going to be?”

  “I’ve been to a few art galleries, and I’ve read books.”

  “There is a little more to it than that.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Well, you have to write… stuff about the books. And about paintings. Or do you have to paint things? I’m not sure, but I know that the players on the team don’t usually take classes like that.”

  “I’ll manage. I have a great tutor.”

  “She’s going to have her work cut out for her. No offense, but your performance in that entrance exam was pretty pathetic. I read the essay you wrote on Rosa Parks for question four. What the fuck was all that about?”

  “I did think it was weird to have a question on the influence of a nineties soap opera actress on modern politics. That one did throw me a bit. I doubt she’s had any influence on politics at all.”

  Coach slaps his hand to his head and massages his bald scalp. “She’s not an actress. Rosa Parks is… you know what, never mind. That’s why you have a tutor. Just work your fucking ass off. I don’t want to have to keep you out of the team just because of your grades.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I wish everyone would shut up about that entrance exam. The questions were clearly all geared towards American students. I studied a bit of American history before coming over because I figured those questions would pop up, but there were still tons of topics that were complete blanks to me. I’d like to see coach take an exam focusing on English history and politics.

  He has a point though. I’m going to have to work fucking hard. I want to be in the team week in, week out. Knowing my luck, if I have to miss one week that will be the week a scout shows up. And that’s not the only reason. I want to impress Becky, or at the very least not make a fool of myself.

  I have three hours before I’m supposed to meet Becky. It’s not long, but it’s just long enough to prepare. I head straight to the college bookstore and pull up the list of required reading on my phone. The art history textbook is heavy enough that I could use it in lieu of weights at home, but at least I only need one book for that class.

  I look down at the reading list for English literature. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I have to read at least a book a week, sometimes more. They don’t look like easy reads, either. There’s no Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings to lighten things up a bit. I thought I’d escaped Shakespeare when I left school—apparently not.

  I dump the books on the counter just as I’m about to drop them. I don’t mind a bit of heavy lifting, but that art history textbook is staying in my locker on campus, and likely never seeing the light of day.

  “Looks like someone has a busy year ahead of them,” the young female cashier says.

  “A busy year and a boring year.”

  “Yeah, this isn’t really my type of light reading either. I don’t envy you, and that’s saying something; I major in calculus.”

  “I’ve made a huge mistake, but it’s too late now.”

  “Let me guess—trying to impress someone?”

  “Got it in one,” I reply. “Although I don’t think buying the books is enough to impress her. I’m going to need to understand them as well.”

  “I think I can help with that.” She disappears and comes back a few minutes later with even more books, although these look mercifully short. “I never would have made it through my first year without study guides. These will help you understand some of the more complicated books.”

  “Sounds a bit like cheating.”

  “You care?”

  “Not in the slightest. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. She’s a lucky girl. Good luck.”

  I smile and walk out of the store with three bags of books weighing down my arms. When I get home, I pick out the Shakespeare book Becky wants to start with and flick through it before putting it back down again and picking up the study guide. This is more like it.

  “You’re late.”

  Becky reserved a small conference room on the third floor of the library, and I made it to the library on time. I know better than to keep a woman waiting. Unfortunately, once in the library I got lost.

  I walked up three flights of stairs to what I assumed was the third floor. Wrong. After ten minutes walking around looking for Becky, I realized Americans don’t have a ground floor and that I was actually on the fourth floor. Given that I’m trying to avoid looking stupid, I decide it’s better she think I’m just a bit late.

  “Sorry,” I reply. “Women kept stopping me to ask for photos.”

  “Ugh, this is a library not a sports field. I don’t know who I’m more disgusted with; you or them.”

  “Trust me, if you heard some of the things they said to me, you’d be pretty
disgusted with them. American girls ain’t shy.”

  Becky sighs and makes a space for me at the table. “Whatever. Let’s just get down to work.”

  “Fine by—”

  With impeccable timing, a girl bangs on the window excitedly and then just walk straight in.

  “Oh my God, I thought it was you,” she exclaims. “You’re the new running back from England. Please, please, please, can I get a photo?”

  I quickly put my arm around the woman and smile for her selfie. Becky stares daggers at us the entire time.

  “You quite finished?” Becky asks me after the woman has left.

  “You’re not jealous are you? Because if you are, I’m more than happy to pose for a photo with you as well.”

  Becky stares at me, breathing heavily through her nose, the noise echoing in the small room.

  “Twelfth Night,” she says sternly. “What’s it about?”

  “Hang on,” I reply with a sigh. “Let me get my notes.”

  I can tell she’s impressed that I’ve made notes; she’d be less impressed if she knew they came from a study guide.

  “Okay,” I say, pretending to refresh my memory as if I hadn’t read this just an hour ago. “Twelfth Night is a love story, and specifically a romantic comedy, however Shakespeare also reminds us that in the game of love, not everyone gets what they want.”

  “Sure,” Becky replies suspiciously. “Not a bad summary of the main thesis. But let’s go through the story act by act. That way we can really see the progression of events, because it can get quite complicated what with all the characters dressing up as different people.”

  “Great,” I reply, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Lead the way.”

  “Charles?”

  “Huh? Did you say something?”

  “You’re staring at my chest,” Becky scolds. “And I don’t think you’ve listened to anything I said in the past five minutes.”

  “I have,” I insist. “You’ve been talking about how Olivia feels the need to dress as a man to get close to the woman she’s in love with.”

  “That’s was five minutes ago.”

  “Sorry. This stuff is just so boring. Why don’t we study modern literature instead of this rubbish? It’s supposed to be a comedy, but I haven’t laughed once.”

  “That’s because the jokes are going over your head. Trust me there is at least one joke you would have laughed at if you’d noticed it.”

  “Which one?” I ask. I’ve been doing an awful job of looking intelligent in front of Becky, but I can’t help it. I hated Shakespeare in school, and I hate it now.

  Becky flips to a page in the book and points at a paragraph of speech from Marvolio. “Read that again.”

  By my life, this is my lady’s hand these be her

  very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus makes she her

  great P’s. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

  “I don’t get it,” I admit.

  “’Her very c’s, her u’s and her t’s.’ It spells ‘cut.’ That was slang for… well, you know.”

  “Shut the front door,” I exclaim. “Holy shit, I guess that is a bit rude for the seventeenth-century. Although if he’d have included a reference to ‘her n’s’ as well, I would have gotten it a bit quicker.”

  “There are very few Shakespeare plays without rude jokes.”

  “If the teachers had pointed this stuff out in school, I might have read more closely.” I laugh as I read the passage again. “Dirty old git.”

  “Did you just refer to one of the greatest literary geniuses who’s ever lived as a ‘dirty old git?’”

  “He is. If he were alive today, he’d—” I trail off as my phone vibrates loudly on the table. “Sorry,” I mutter as Becky gives me the evil eye again.

  I go to reject the call, but the number is familiar and it’s not one I can just call back. I answer the phone, making sure not to look at Becky who I know is still staring at me disapprovingly.

  “Press one to accept a call from Washington State Penitentiary,” a robotic voice says on the other end.

  I press one on my phone and there’s a click to indicate we have been connected.

  “Hi, son, it’s me.” Dad always says that when he calls, despite the fact I don’t know anyone else who would call me from prison.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How are things going? You settling in okay?”

  “Yeah, things are good. I’m actually in the library right now, so it’s kind of difficult to talk.” I recognize the silence on the other end as one of disappointment. “I’m coming to see you this weekend, though.”

  “You don’t have to,” he says. “I mean, there’s no rush.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m free, and it’s about time I came over.” Plus, that gives me a good excuse to end this call early.

  “Great, well in that case I’ll let you get back to your studying. Christ, I didn’t think I’d ever say that.”

  And I didn’t think my dad would ever call me from prison.

  “See you soon, Dad. Take care.”

  I turn my phone off and put it away in my bag. “Sorry about that. You now have my undivided attention.”

  “Sure you’re not going to stare at my breasts again?”

  “I can’t promise that, but if I do stare at them, I will be listening as well. How’s that sound?”

  Becky shakes her head, but I see a hint of a smile on her lips again. She’s warming to me. It’s taking a fucking long time, but she is warming to me.

  “I guess it will have to do,” she says. “Now, let me show you more of Shakespeare’s rude jokes.”

  Chapter 5

  Rebecca

  Just remember, Becky, you agreed to this.

  I park my rickety old car at the bottom of the driveway leading up to his huge house. This was the address. I know I’m one of the poor students, but even the rich kids tend to live in nothing more than a one or two bedroom apartment. The only people I know who live in houses this big are members of fraternities and sororities, and those houses are shared between ten or more people.

  I walk up the driveway towards the front door, while admiring the garden which he presumably paid a gardener to maintain. I’m sure Charles isn’t lazy, but there’s no way he’s spending ten hours a week in the garden.

  I shouldn’t be here at all, but we don’t have a choice. At least, that’s how I’ve justified it to myself. Charles suggested we study at my place, but there’s no way I’m letting him see the shit hole I live in. Especially not now that I’ve seen his mansion. I tried to insist we study at the library again, but Charles said there were too many distractions.

  He did have a point. We can’t study in the library for more than five minutes without a woman bursting in and asking to have a picture taken with him. He hasn’t even played a game yet, and he is already famous on campus. I’m partly to blame for that. My article was just published and in avoiding being overly critical, I’ve managed to write a piece so laden with hero worship that Peter might as well have written it.

  The library is a no go, and the same goes for other public spaces. Charles insists his place is the only option, and I can’t think of an alternative.

  So here I am. About to enter the devil’s lair.

  I ring the doorbell, and loud chimes echo throughout the house. The place is so big it takes him thirty seconds to reach the door.

  “Come in, come in,” he insists.

  His place might be the size of a frat house, but it’s a hell of a lot tidier. That had been my job once. When I was fourteen, my mom started taking me with her to work on weekends. Some of the places we cleaned were like this, but none of the owners were anything like Charles.

  “You want the tour?” Charles asks.

  “Let me guess, you’ll start by showing me the bedroom?”

  “Of course not,” Charles replies looking genuinely offended. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”

  “Sorry I
just—”

  “I wouldn’t start with the bedroom. That’s just poor form. I’d warm you up by showing the downstairs first, then take you upstairs and show you the bedroom.”

  I bite my tongue so that I don’t laugh. The last thing I can do right now is encourage him.

  “Need I remind you, you promised to behave today?”

  “No I didn’t. I promised to be on my best behavior. There’s a difference. This is my best behavior. Personally, I think I’m doing rather well. I wouldn’t usually let a young lady stay fully clothed for so long.”

  “I’m honored. I think. Come on, let’s go study.”

  Charles leads the way to his dining room where we sit down at a large and expensive looking table. My desk only has room for my laptop and one textbook. When I want to write notes, I need to balance the notepad on my lap. I would kill for this much study space. I suppose it is useful for entertaining as well, although I don’t think I have enough friends to fill the table.

  “Did you read the two plays that I assigned you?” I ask, as I take books out of my bag and place them down on the table.

  “I did,” Charles says with a little uncertainty in his voice. I don’t think he’s lying, but he might have read them quickly and relied on the study guides that he’d so clearly regurgitated from the other day. At least he’s complying with the letter of the law if not the spirit.

  “You won’t be tested on those plays until the end of the semester, but I wanted you to read them early.”

  “Why?” Charles asks.

  “The college gave me a copy of the entrance exam you sat and the answers you gave. Let’s just say the plays I asked you to read cover aspects of American history that I think you need to brush up on.”