Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

“Fish and chips, I guess.”

  “They do have more than that on the menu. If you want the full chippie experience you can get sausage, battered sausage, pea fritter….”

  “What’s a pea fritter?”

  “It’s mushy peas fried in batter. You know what, I think I’ll just get you the fish and chips.”

  “Good idea. Maybe get Gemma that pea thing—it does sound like baby food.”

  Except Gemma’s not a baby anymore. She’s quickly becoming a toddler and quite a handful. She’s starting to talk now, but not well enough to get her point across. Not with us anyway, but she has a way of getting other children at her playgroup to do her bidding. We really need to keep an eye on that one. She’s either going to end up president of the United States, or she will take after her grandfather.

  Gemma and I take a seat at the only free table while Charles goes and gets our order. Gemma hands me a napkin and says the words “for mama,” as she passes it over. My heart melts and I immediately feel guilty for doubting her warmth and tenderness.

  Then I look down and realize she just wants me to clean up the mess in front of her left by the last group of customers. Yep, I was right the first time; evil genius.

  “Here we go.” Charles comes back with a small glass of water and two pints of what looks like pale ale. My mouth waters in anticipation until I remember that it’s going to be room temperature. Just because I’m an Anglophile, doesn’t mean I have to like everything British.

  I take a small sip of the beer, and have to admit it’s actually not that bad. I overcome the temperature thing by telling myself that it’s not actually beer; it’s just an alcoholic drink that happens to look a bit like beer. When you think of it like that, it’s quite pleasant, especially on a cold and rainy day.

  Shortly after, a waiter comes over and dumps about twenty thousand calories worth of food on the table in front of me. Charles adds the requisite salt and vinegar to the chips before I can eat any of them plain. He considers that sacrilegious. I grab a few chips and shove them in my mouth to satiate my appetite and warm me up a bit. They do the job instantly on both counts.

  Gemma copies my approach and shoves her hand into the pile of chips, grabbing a few and aiming them at her face. Her little face cringes as she tastes the vinegar, but she keeps chewing the soft chips anyway.

  “You can tell she’s half-British,” I say.

  “Let’s hope she stays that way. I don’t want her growing up talking about spring breaks and describing everything as ‘awesome.’”

  “I’m afraid it will take more than a yearly trip to England to give her an English accent.”

  Charles won’t admit as much, but I know this trip is as much for Gemma as it is for me. He’s worried she’ll never learn about her roots. I don’t think it’s going to be a huge problem. After all, we can afford to travel as often as we like in the off-season. Gemma is going to get plenty of exposure to England and other countries while she grows up, certainly a lot more than I ever had.

  “I think I prefer the chips you make,” I say, honestly. “These are a little greasy.”

  “That’s how they’re supposed to be. I’ll take that as a compliment though.”

  After lunch, we take the train into London and I get my first experience of being with someone famous. Charles spent the last year as a superstar on campus, but outside of college he rarely gets recognized. I expect us to walk the streets of London like any other couple with a small child, but people immediately recognize us. They do double takes in the middle of the street, not expecting to see Charles back in England and certainly not with a small child in tow.

  Perhaps this is what life will be like for the next few years once Charles starts playing in the NFL. The novelty of stopping every thirty seconds to pose for pictures quickly wears off, and Charles puts on a baseball cap to hide his appearance.

  I’m sort of famous now myself. Okay, nothing on the scale of Charles, but people know my name. Actually, they know my pen name: Becky Adams. ‘Becky’ because that’s what Charles always calls me, and ‘Adams’ because that’s my mother’s maiden name.

  I suppose it’s more accurate to say people know my work than know me. As predicted, all my job interviews dried up after the poem fiasco. I tried applying for jobs, but the rejection letters—or, more often, complete silence—got depressing after a while.

  One good thing came out of the whole mess. My article on college sexism never got published by the college newspaper, and that meant I was free to use it elsewhere. I delved deeper into the topic and re-wrote the piece a few times until it was as good as I could make it. I used a new pen name to submit the article to a few national organizations, and they ended up in a bidding war for it.

  My article went live a few weeks later and caused quite a stir. The money I got paid was small fry compared to what Charles will be earning now, but you can’t beat the feeling of seeing something you wrote on a huge website visited by millions of people a day.

  Charles knows London better than I do, but I’m the one leading the way, guidebook in hand, as we move from tourist trap to tourist trap, stopping to take photos and buy tacky souvenirs. After this trip, we’ll never need to buy mugs again.

  Gemma is too young to consciously appreciate what we see, but I’m absolutely captivated by everything London has to offer. We end up walking for so long we have to crash at a hotel instead of getting the train back to Charles’ family home.

  “You do realize we can come back here later in the week?” Charles asks. “London is only a train journey away, so we don’t have to do it all in one day.”

  “We haven’t come close to doing it all.” I grab the pocket guide from my bag and start looking at the pages marked up with stickies. “We still need to go to the British Museum and I hear you have to get there early to avoid the crowds. That’s at least half a day.”

  “A museum? Great. The learning never stops with you, does it?” Charles takes the guidebook and flicks through it with a bemused look on his face. “You’ve highlighted it.”

  “Of course I’ve highlighted it.”

  “I should know what your color scheme means by now, but I must admit I’m at a loss.”

  “That’s okay, this is a new scheme specifically for traveling. Stuff highlighted in yellow we should do in the morning as early as possible. Things highlighted in green are close to places we can eat lunch or dinner, so we should time those trips around meals. The blue highlighting means we can go at any time.”

  “You’re exhausting. I’m literally getting tired just looking at this.”

  “And you call yourself a professional footballer.”

  “Not yet I don’t. There’s still one month to go before I’m officially a pro.”

  Charles hadn’t had any problems finding a team to take him. A team in Southern California drafted him and after a long discussion we agreed to move south.

  “I’m going to miss this little one,” I say selfishly as I ruffle Gemma’s hair. I know it’s a ridiculous thing to say. If I’m going to miss her, then how must Charles feel? He’s her dad, whereas I’m just… I don’t know what I am. I feel like her mom every time I’m with her, but then she goes back to her real mom and I feel like little more than a glorified babysitter.

  “We’re still going to see her once a week,” Charles says. “I promise you, and you,” he says, turning to Gemma, “that not a week will go by without us being together as a family.”

  “Sorry, I’m just being silly.” This is one of the few times I need to be strong for him. Every time he hands Gemma back to Dana, it’s like she’s being ripped from his arms and he barely speaks for hours afterwards. I lift Gemma up and sit her down on my lap, although she immediately tries to wriggle away. “Come on, let’s plan our day for tomorrow. We’re starting with the British Museum.”

  “I’ve been to the British Museum,” Charles says. “That means I don’t have to go. Gemma and I will go to the park and have fun.”

  “W
hen did you go to the British Museum?”

  “At school,” he mumbles.

  “Knowing what you are like in an educational environment, I’m guessing you spent the whole time fooling around with your friends. Am I right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charles says dramatically.

  “Then we’re all going together, and I’m going to ensure you learn something.”

  “Does that mean I have to pay you $15 an hour?”

  “This one’s for free.”

  “And are you providing any other services on the house tonight?” Charles leans in and kisses me on the neck. He knows the exact spot to touch and never hesitates to use that information to get his own way.

  “I assume you’re referring to babysitting services, because that’s all I’m doing while this one’s watching.”

  I’ve never been comfortable doing anything sexual with Gemma in the same room, and even less so now that she stares at me all the time. “You’re just going to have to keep it in your pants tonight, darling.”

  “I hate hotels,” Charles mutters, before picking up the phone and ordering an indecent amount of food that puts lunch’s caloric intake to shame. What the hell, I’m on vacation.

  Homesickness hits both of us hard when we move down to California. It’s beautiful on paper—sunny and hot nearly all year-round, and we have a house near the water. We’re literally living most people’s dreams. Most people’s, but not ours.

  I keep my homesickness to myself for the longest time, because it feels silly to complain about moving from Washington to California when Charles has moved halfway across the world. When I do finally admit to feeling a little upset, he immediately admits that he feels the same. Apparently Washington had been okay for him because it rains a lot there and he feels at home.

  We both promise to give California a shot, and what better way to help Charles feel at home than to open up a British pub. I suggest it as a joke one night, but Charles instantly takes to the idea and within a few weeks we’ve bought a suitable bar and have started converting it to look a little more like Charles’ local from back home.

  He’s determined this won’t end up as another British pub that requires inverted commas every time someone describes it as such. We spend a fortune importing British beers, and even go to the effort of using a few chefs born in Britain to design the menu. Most of the staff consist of expats or Anglophiles like me who know their shit when it comes to Britain.

  We don’t need the place to make money or be a big hit. We both agree that even if we we’re the only customers, that’s enough to keep us happy. As it turns out, there are quite a few British ex-pats in Southern California and plenty of Americans who are curious enough to come inside and check us out. We never make much money—we keep the prices low and the margins thin—but the place is always busy. Busy enough to warrant a second property. And then a third.

  When the third pub opens, we host an opening night for regulars at the other establishments, and a few of the friends we’ve made since moving down here. Charles also invites one special guest he knows from back in his rugby days.

  “This is bloody brilliant,” Oliver remarks excitedly. “I haven’t had a pint of Boddingtons since I moved to the US.”

  “I seem to recall that was one of your favorites,” Charles replies. “I thought I could handle my drink, but then I saw you drink this stuff like it’s water. You put me in my place.”

  All I know about Oliver Cornish I got from Charles and a quick read through his Wikipedia page. He’s like an overly excited fanboy around this guy. Something about England winning a World Cup a year or so ago. I guess that’s a big deal.

  Oliver introduces me to his wife Michelle, who’s got enough of a bump around her belly that I’m fairly certain she’s pregnant, but not certain enough to say anything for risk of embarrassment.

  “I thought you’d be drinking Budweiser and eating hot dogs by now,” Oliver jokes. “Is this pub your way of pretending you’re still British?”

  “I’m still as British as ever,” Charles says.

  “I don’t know, I saw you on the telly the other day talking about scoring touchdowns, and having a strong offense.”

  “What can I say, I’m bilingual.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. It must be a bit easier on the body wearing all that armor when you play. Of course, real men don’t need all that shit.”

  Charles laughs and shakes his head. I get the distinct impression I’m going to be listening to these two throwing insults at each other all night.

  “Lay off him, Oliver,” Michelle says. “Personally I think football is just as tough as rugby. You should see some of the bruises Sean comes home with.”

  Sean. He’s about ten years younger than Oliver, but technically he’s Oliver’s son after Oliver adopted him a few years back. I found rumors online that Sean’s dad had died in suspicious circumstances, but I don’t think I believe them. If everything I’ve read is true, then Oliver has been through some serious issues.

  “You still trying to convince Americans to play rugby?” Charles asks Oliver.

  Oliver nods. “It’s not easy, but I’m making progress. You should swing by the training camp one day; that’s if you can still remember how to play.”

  Charles smiles. “Says the man who’s already retired. I think I can handle training a few kids.”

  “You haven’t met my sister,” Michelle mutters. She turns to me as if noticing I’ve been quiet and not participating. That’s kind of how I like it. I can listen to English guys talk all day. “Would you ever move to England?” she asks me.

  “We’ve talked about it,” I reply. “It’s not really an option at the moment.”

  “Gemma,” Charles clarifies. “Or more specifically, Gemma’s mom. What about you?”

  “Similar problem really,” Michelle says. “Kids. Sean has taken quite a liking to football and he can’t play that in England.”

  “Kids are a pain in the arse, aren’t they?” Oliver says.

  “Bit late to come to that conclusion, darling,” Michelle says as she rubs her belly. Thank God for that. Now I can ask her about the baby without risking a very awkward silence.

  Charles and I disappear briefly to greet other guests and make a quick announcement, but then we rejoin Michelle and Oliver at a table for our meal. We keep a vague eye on how the restaurant is being run, but we hired good staff, and it’s quickly clear we don’t need to worry. That means Oliver and Charles can spend the evening consuming ridiculous quantities of beer and hurling insults back and forth. That’s something I never quite picked up from all the English television I watch. The English love to insult each other. It’s all friendly and in good spirits, but it does take some getting used to.

  Michelle and I stick to the basics, namely babies. Michelle is pregnant with her first, and so am I. I don’t tell her that. It’s probably only fair Charles is the first to know, and tonight seems like the perfect time. That’s if he can keep his hands off me for five minutes—a few pints of beer and he ends up looking at me like he did in the sauna the first time we met. I’ll never get bored of that.

  Epilogue

  Charles - Four years later

  Back in Washington at long last. It feels like it’s been a long time coming, although I spent longer living outside Washington than I did in it. Still, it’s good to be back.

  Washington feels much more like a second home to me, whereas Southern California always felt like someplace I worked. I know my friends back home think I’m crazy for giving up the California sun and returning to rainy Washington, but I like rain. Okay, I don’t tend to like it when I’m actually standing outside in it, but I like the feeling of coming indoors from the rain. Especially when I have someone to snuggle up to.

  In fact, the bed is getting rather crowded these days. Ollie doesn’t sleep through the night unless he gets to curl up in our bed, and there’s no way Gemma’s going to be left out of the fun. Combine all that with the fact that
Becky is the size of a whale and I’m struggling not to fall out at night.

  I never say it to her face, but Becky is huge. Really huge. I’m still convinced we’re having twins or even triplets, but the doctors insist there’s just one in there. I’m going to have to buy a bigger bed.

  I still miss them when I’m gone. We have another road trip coming up—a playoff game in Chicago that’s going to keep me away from my family for a few days. It’s my fault, really. Well, mine and Barton Fenner’s. I don’t like being away from home, but with the two of us kicking ass and taking names, a spot in the playoffs was always inevitable. We’ve had a good season, but no one will be happy if we don’t come home with a Super Bowl ring to show for it.

  I smile to myself and shake my head. I still can’t wrap my brain around the concept of playing in a Super Bowl. I’d never even watched a Super Bowl until four years ago, and I only watched that one because I’d placed a bet on the winner.

  At least I know the rules now. Most of the rules. Referees still award penalties against me more often than I’d like, and I’m usually clueless as to why. No one complains—not when I run in a touchdown five minutes later.

  The oven timer starts beeping at me, so I grab my oven gloves and open the door. Smoke immediately flies out at me, making me cough as I furiously waft it away with a towel.

  I can cook fish and chips, I can cook all sorts of curries, fried breakfasts, and even haggis. The last one had just been for a joke. However, I still can’t do shepherd’s pie. It’s either undercooked, burned on top, or both. I break through the black crispy layer of potato on top to look at the meat inside. Yep, today it’s both.

  “Takeout tonight then I guess?” Becky asks from the kitchen doorway.

  “Good job we own a restaurant down the road. Can you do the honors? I need to dispose of this.”

  Becky leans sideways awkwardly to pick up her phone from the table. Bending forwards is pretty much impossible for her at this point.

  “Hi, George,” she says wearily into the phone. “Do you have time to whip up one of your shepherd’s pie’s? For three people. Plus a bit for the kids.” I see her smile and look up at me in response to something George has said. “Yes, he did it again.” Pause, followed by laughter. “I think it’s cute that he tries. Okay, thanks, George.”