Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  Brag away, Peter, I’m coming for you.

  I only need one picture of Peter in ski gear on the slopes with a location tag to get a good idea where I can find him. A second photo of him posed in front of the ski lodge gives me the exact address.

  It’s a five hour drive, but what the hell else am I going to do? If I stay here, I’ll drive myself mad, or end up going to see Becky. If I do the latter, we’ll end up getting into a fight, and who knows how that will end. I’m going to fix this mess the only way I know how.

  Long drives in America can be quite relaxing. Especially compared to Britain, where the roads tend to be narrow and crowded. The journey to Peter’s ski lodge is quick and relatively painless, although every time I see even a hint of traffic or have to slow down for a stop sign, my fingers grip the wheel tightly until I’m able to speed up and make progress again.

  I make it to the ski lodge in just over four hours instead of the five predicted by Google Maps. A good job too, because when I see Peter it looks like his evening is winding down. He’s sat with his family outside the lodge as they share a few bottles of wine while laughing and joking about whatever it is rich people laugh and joke about. Probably poor people.

  I stand a hundred yards from the lodge where Peter can see me. I consider strolling up to him, but he’ll just go on the defensive if I confront him in front of his family. I want a confession, even if I’m the only one to hear it. Eventually he spots me and walks over nervously. I walk behind a small cabin that is functioning as a gift shop, and he follows.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

  I’m a little taken back. I expect him to say something like that, but I don’t expect the genuine anger and surprise in his voice. He’s not expecting to see me. If he is the one who printed that poem, he should be looking over his shoulder every second just waiting for me to appear.

  “You know why I’m here.” I step forward and close the gap between us until I can feel his cold breath on my face. I don’t touch him. I want him to be afraid, wondering when I’m going to lay my hands on him. “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t play the fucking innocent with me. You printed that poem in today’s edition of the newspaper and now Becky’s career is over.”

  “I’ve been here all day,” he replies. He’s shaking, even though it’s not that cold and he’s dressed in layers. I’m scaring him; he can see from the look in my eyes that I’m going to destroy him. “I haven’t even seen today’s edition.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that? You live and die for that paper.”

  Peter scoffs. “No, Becky lives and dies for the paper. I don’t give a shit about it. It’s a means to an end. Do you really think I’m reading the college newspaper while I’m on vacation? Look around you, I have better things to do.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter whether you read it or not. The fact is you were the one who stole that poem from my phone and arranged for it to be on the front page of the paper.”

  “How did I do that from here?”

  “I don’t know. You signed in remotely.”

  “The editing software is all off-line. I can’t access it just by signing on to the college intranet.”

  He’s relaxing, picking up on the doubt spreading across my face. He has to have done it. He has to been the one to betray Becky. But… but something’s bothering me. Knowing someone like Peter, if he’d done this he would want to be around to see the outcome. He’d want to watch and revel in her misfortune.

  “What happened?” Peter asks. “What made you drive all the way here to threaten me in front of my family?”

  “You know what happened,” I snarl.

  “Humor me.”

  “Becky wrote a poem addressed to me and it somehow ended up on the front page of the paper. This conveniently happened just as she got some interviews lined up for jobs.”

  “You’re kidding,” Peter exclaims. “Fuck, she is screwed.”

  I nearly agree with him, but then I look up and see the smile on his face. He’s happy. He’s pleased that Becky won’t be getting a job post-graduation. Even though it has nothing to do with him, he’s taking pleasure in the misfortune of others.

  That proves to me he isn’t responsible. He would be there. He would be at college to watch her downfall.

  He didn’t do it.

  I punch him anyway.

  It’s all I can do to stick to the speed limit. My foot desperately wants to push down on the accelerator, but I resist the urge and grip the steering wheel tighter instead. The knuckles on my right hand are scraped and a little bloody. They’re nothing compared to Peter’s face. I wonder how he’s going to explain that to his parents. Probably some bullshit about slipping on the ice.

  My phone vibrates in its hands-free cradle. I ignore it. It’s not Becky. She hasn’t phoned, text, or emailed since she stormed out of my house. I’m beginning to think I should have chased after her. Maybe she just wants me to convince her of my innocence? No, I did the right thing. Becky will realize it wasn’t me who leaked the poem and then we can focus on fixing this mess.

  The phone rings again, but this time I answer it. I need to keep the phone on for the GPS navigation, and I don’t want to be distracted by phone calls every thirty seconds.

  “Hello?”

  “Charles.” It’s Coach. I’m not used to hearing his normal speaking voice. He’s usually either shouting at us or giving words of encouragement. I feel certain I’m not going to get the latter tonight.

  “What’s up, Coach?”

  “Is it true? That you’re fooling around with your tutor.”

  “I’m dating a fellow student who happens to be helping me with my English literature classes,” I reply. I wish everyone would stop making such a big deal out of her being my tutor. They make it sound sordid, when it’s not. It’s so far from that.

  “Shit, Charles, you really know how to make life difficult.”

  “Why does this make life difficult? I can’t be the only player with a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t act naïve with me, son. You know it’s going to look suspicious. You show up at college with a general lack of education, and a bad test score, and suddenly you’re getting decent grades.”

  “That just shows what a good tutor Becky is. And it proves she was tutoring me when the college was paying her to. It’s not like we were mucking around on company time, so to speak.”

  “That’s not what I mean. The last test you took, you got a B+, am I right?”

  “Yes,” I reply proudly. I’d been damn lucky with that exam, but I’m overjoyed to get such a decent grade. The questions weren’t based on material we’d studied, so I couldn’t prepare for it directly, but the skills Becky had taught me really came in use. I much prefer exams like that to ones where you just have to regurgitate information.

  “Am I also correct in thinking it was a take-home exam?”

  “I guess so. Although I did the exam in the library.” I don’t like doing exams at home; too many distractions there.

  “So Becky could have helped you with the exam?”

  Shit. So that’s what he’s getting at. As if Becky would ever help anyone cheat, even me. Especially me. She’d made me work my ass off to learn that stuff—cheating on the exam would be an insult to her.

  Coach isn’t the only one coming to this conclusion. No one can prove anything—what with it not being true—but the rumor is damaging enough. Combine that with Becky having the poem published in the paper under her name, and she’s be pretty much untouchable by any employer. She really is screwed.

  “Becky didn’t help me in any way on that test,” I insist. “We didn’t even talk about the exam afterwards.” Who wants to talk about exams when you can just fuck instead?

  “You have to realize it looks bad.”

  “And you have to realize that I don’t take too kindly to being labeled as a cheat. Even less so when you imply Becky had someth
ing to do with it. She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met, so if you want to imply I cheated then go ahead, but you better leave her out of it.”

  “You need to remember who you’re talking to.”

  “I know who I’m talking to. Dan Edwards, played for Michigan, got drafted by Chicago and made three professional appearances before being dropped and never heard of again. Coached at Michigan, before being fired and ending up at this place. Does that sound about right?”

  Oops. I may have gone a bit too far there. This is why I don’t usually talk on the phone while driving.

  “You’re going to apologize for that right now, or—”

  “Or what? You need me more than I need you. I already have teams interested in me. The draft is a formality at this point.”

  I can’t stop the words escaping from my mouth. No athlete wants to be called a cheat for obvious reasons, but that’s not what’s getting to me. Becky has studied hard her entire life, and twenty-four hours ago she had a full scholarship, high GPA, and a couple of job interviews to show for it. Now those interviews will probably be canceled, and her GPA and scholarship might get called into question. All because she wrote me a poem.

  I know I’m not actually mad at coach, but he’s the only person I can take it out on right now. At least he’s only getting verbal abuse. It could be worse—just ask Peter.

  Coach is silent for a few seconds. I wonder whether I should apologize, but then he speaks. “Not that I need to defend myself to a student, but for what it’s worth I left the NFL because of an injury, and I was not fired from my job at Michigan. I needed to move back here to look after my mother.”

  Shit. “Coach, I—”

  “Save it. Who do you think arranged for the scout to be there for your first game? You might have impressed him, but no team is going to sign you without a recommendation from your coach. You might want to think about that.”

  He hangs up.

  I know I’m going to regret that conversation in the morning, but right now I’m too angry, tired, and concerned to care. It’s just football. I still can’t play the sport properly, so losing out on a career as a professional isn’t that big a deal. I have money; not enough to live on for the rest of my life, but enough to set Becky and myself up for the future. After that, I don’t care if I have to wait tables.

  It’s midnight by the time I get back, and I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. The nine hours of driving has left me feeling like I’ve got jet lag; I’m in that exhausted and mentally confused state. Eventually my eyes feel genuinely heavy, and I sense the sweet relief of sleep on the horizon.

  Then I sit bolt upright.

  I have an exam tomorrow. Scratch that, I have an exam today. Yesterday was supposed to be a study day and this isn’t the sort of exam you can go into cold. If I don’t know my shit, I’m going to fail miserably. Does an exam really matter now? I’m probably off the team and it seems pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. With everything that’s happened today, I’m not even sure Becky would care about an exam.

  Of course she would. She isn’t the type to put exams and studying to one side just because she’s had a bad day, and she’ll kill me if I use her misfortune as an excuse to fail the test.

  I groan loudly and force myself out of the bed that suddenly feels so comfortable. I turn on nearly every light in the house to wake myself up and grab my books. Becky’s done a lot to make me appreciate old plays, but all her enthusiasm can’t help me at one o’clock in the morning the day of an exam.

  I’m doing this for you Becky.

  I open my book and grab my highlighters. It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter 13

  Rebecca

  I don’t hide. I don’t exactly go out of the way to be seen either, but most importantly I don’t hide.

  Fortunately, I only have two classes and I can leave college at lunchtime, so it’s not like I have to hang around for long. My classes pass by in a blur of checking my messages and emails. I’m getting plenty of both, but few of them are positive. It amazes me that people have nothing better to do than send abuse to someone they don’t even know just because I have the tenacity to think that an attractive footballer might like me.

  None of the messages are from Charles. He hasn’t been in touch since I ran from his house yesterday and that’s probably for the best. Yesterday had been a day for feeling sorry for myself. There had been plenty of tears, and more alcohol and ice cream than I care to admit.

  If Charles had come over yesterday, he’d have seen the worst of me. I’m over that now, but still he doesn’t get in touch. I don’t hate him anymore. I never did hate him, I was just angry at him. I still am, but what’s the point in being angry at someone who’s not here? At least if he were here I could yell at him.

  When I arrive back home, I get a message that makes me want Charles more than ever. One of my interviews has been canceled. Well, the interview is being “re-scheduled,” but no new date has been set. The interviewer is “out of town, and will be in touch.” I’ll never hear from them again. I still have two interviews left, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re canceled or rescheduled too.

  Fuck, Charles, I’m glad you gave me some space yesterday, but I need you now.

  There’s a loud knock at the door. I quietly creep up to the peephole, careful not to make a sound in case I don’t want to open the door. This apartment block isn’t exactly secure, so you don’t open the door unless you have to.

  It’s Charles.

  I swing the door open immediately before thinking that perhaps I should have put up a bit of a fight.

  “Can I come in?”

  I nod slowly, careful not to seem overly enthusiastic. He looks exhausted. I can’t smell alcohol on him, but the heavy bags around his eyes don’t leave much to the imagination.

  “I see you had a fun night,” I snap. I spent the night inside crying, but clearly he had been out drinking and partying.

  “What do you mean?” Charles replies groggily.

  “From the looks of you, I’m guessing you went to a party last night.” Was there a party last night? Probably. For popular people like Charles, there’s always a party they can go to.

  “I was up late studying.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, okay, if that’s really the lie you want to go with.”

  “It’s true. I had that exam this morning, remember?”

  Now I feel guilty. I’m still technically his tutor and I’ve forgotten about one of the biggest exams he’s had to date. If he stayed up all night studying, he must have been struggling with the material. I should have been there to help him.

  “How did it go?”

  “It went well. Obviously I’m not going to get the results for another week or so, but sometimes you just know when you’ve done well and, without wanting to sound arrogant, I think I kind of aced it.”

  “Wow. I guess you don’t need me as a tutor anymore.”

  “Don’t be like that,” he says solemnly. “I still need your help, but given a choice between having you as my tutor or my girlfriend, I know which I’ll pick.”

  I shake my head. “I’m glad you did well in the exam, but nothing’s changed. You fucked up and now my life is a huge mess. I can’t think about my love life right now.”

  “You don’t still think I did this on purpose, do you?”

  I shake my head immediately. I’ve never really thought that. The words had left my mouth, but I’d known immediately just how stupid they were. “It doesn’t matter whether you did it on purpose. All that matters is it happened, and I don’t see a way out for me.”

  “That’s because you’re looking for a way out by yourself. I was doing the same thing yesterday. We can get through this, but we need to do it together.”

  “Maybe, but not right now. I just need to be by myself.”

  “I used to quite like being by myself, but it’s not so much fun anymore.” He steps forward and places his hand on my cheek,
his thumb wiping away a solitary tear that I haven’t even noticed escape my eye.

  I could give in right now. I could let Charles hold me for hours, or even days, while I feel sorry for myself. But at some point he’d have to let go and nothing will have changed.

  I take hold of his hand and pull it away from my cheek. His knuckles are rough and scratched, with some small scabs dotted around. “What did you do?”

  “Punched the wall,” he replies. I raise my eyebrows doubtfully. “Okay, I punched Peter. Long story.”

  “I thought he was out of town.”

  “He is.”

  “Feel better now?”

  “No, not really.” Charles is silent for a few moments and I can tell he’s debating whether or not to tell me something. I stay silent, suspecting that if I challenge him he’ll refuse to tell me. It works. “There’s something else. About Peter.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about Peter right now.”

  “I don’t think he did it.”

  “You don’t think he did it, but you punched him anyway?”

  Charles shrugs. “He had that coming.”

  “Why don’t you think he did it?”

  “He says he couldn’t access the software remotely. Something about being able to sign into the network, but not accessing software stored locally.”

  I’m fairly sure you can sign in remotely and access the software, but I must admit I’ve never tried it. When I sign in to the college’s servers from home, I’m able to access all online databases, like the library catalog, and research articles, but I can’t access separate pieces of software that are stored locally on the desktops. I’m sure you can though.

  “Peter’s better with technology than I am,” I say. “He’s the one Professor Fenwick and I have to go to when we can’t get something working. He’s probably lying and trying to cover his tracks.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Charles says, clearly not convinced. “I’m hardly an expert on these things. I can’t even log into my own account on the college servers. Thing is, Peter seemed genuinely surprised by the whole thing. I don’t think he even knew about the poem being published.”