Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Vesper Vaughn

  I left London around noon but with the time difference, I end up in Newark in the morning.

  As tired as I am from the long flight, it’s not like I have a choice. I drive over to the office, parking my car on the top floor of the parking garage. I press the elevator button a few times before realizing it’s broken.

  I have six flights of stairs to walk down. Sweat is pouring from my body by the time I get down to the bottom floor. I step into the street and see Brenda walking ten steps ahead of me.

  What a metaphor. She’s always on top of things, always ahead of me.

  I slow down my pace and hide in the doorway of the bodega on the corner so she doesn’t see me. The last thing I need right now is a confrontation with my arch enemy. This day has already been terrible enough.

  I wait a few minutes and head back to the office, riding the thankfully working elevator to the top floor. The newsroom is relatively quiet; people are only just starting to trickle in. I glance at my desk and see my in tray is piled up with messages.

  Ugh. I’m not looking forward to trawling through those. At least I’ve been checking my email. I think about how many paper memos I would have to attend to if this were thirty years ago, before the advent of email.

  “Childs! In here!” Sandra barks.

  I keep my purse on my shoulder and walk into her messy office. She slams the door behind me.

  “You didn’t get the draft into me. I need it. Publication isn’t for another five months but we need an idea of the shape of the piece.”

  I sigh. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just still not comfortable with publishing this.”

  Sandra turns red from anger. There’s a vein throbbing at her temple. “This company just spent a fortune putting you up at the nicest hotel in London so you could get a good story. I expected you to be a goddamned journalist and actually go where the fucking story was, Childs. You didn’t do that.”

  I wince at all the cursing she’s doing. Confrontation isn’t my strongest suit, but I seem to keep finding myself at the heart of conflict over the last few days, much to my chagrin.

  I exhale. “I just don’t feel right-“

  “Listen, sweetheart, you were the one who decided to fuck this guy, not me. That’s your guilt to carry around. All I care about is the story. You know that by now. And the last draft you sent to me is so fucking boring I fell asleep reading it.”

  “I know it needs some tweaking but-“

  “Hand your notes to Brenda. She’ll write it for you. She’ll get the byline. You can go stand in the breadline if you’re not willing to meet this deadline. Is that what you want?”

  I gulp. If I do that, it’ll all be for nothing. Brenda will be writing the story about Ryan from my detailed, intimate notes; the article will still be published. I won’t even get a byline on a featured piece. And Ryan will still hate me. What a waste of all of this.

  I put my hand on my lower abdomen, thinking about the baby growing there. I can’t afford to lose this job at all. This is all I have. “I’ll write the story,” I say with false confidence. My stomach fills with dread and turns over as I say the words out loud.

  Sandra claps her hand on her desk. “Good. I need that draft before day’s end, you got that? Otherwise, Brenda gets the story and you lose your job. This thing goes into print in five months. November issue. Get the damn story written. You’re a damn good writer. You’ve got this handled. Push your feelings aside and write the piece I know you can write.”

  I nod and stand up. I already have the draft done and dusted. It’s the one that Ryan saw on my computer that I forgot to close out of. It’s the draft that made the father of my child not ever want to see me ever again.

  Brenda is sitting out of her desk slightly out of breath and looking far too much like she doesn’t care. She’s pretending to be interested in a file on her desk. I have a feeling she overheard all of that conversation.

  “Listening at keyholes again, Brenda?” The words are in the air before I can stop them.

  She looks startled. “Like I give a shit about a conversation about your career, Childs.”

  I’m filled with a sudden urge to slap her across the face. I get close to her, leaning in so she’s sure to see my face.

  “I know you’re circling this story like a vulture, but you’re not getting it. Give up and move on already. Maybe you can actually work on making a name for yourself that doesn’t involve working off the back of better writers than you.”

  I stand up, satisfied at the look of shock and rage on Brenda’s face. I turn around and walk to my desk. Jim walks by me and whispers under his breath. “That’s the way to be a journalist, Hayley. Your dad would be proud of you.”

  I’m startled that he was listening and I’m left speechless as he walks the other direction.

  I hoist my purse up higher on my shoulder and march to my desk.

  I’m ready to write this story. Ryan and I are over. There’s no hope there anymore.

  This needs to turn into something good.

  Otherwise, I just lost a good man over absolutely nothing at all.

  The thought just makes me write faster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  RYAN

  I wake up to another mercifully cloudy day. My hangover is pulsing in my head. My mouth tastes like copper.

  I don’t know what day this is of drinking in a row, but I’ve barely had time to stop and get a hangover, so this is a good sign. Groaning, I toss myself out of bed and run a hot shower for myself. I stand under the water so long my fingertips turn to prunes.

  As I’m toweling off, the doorbell rings.

  “Just a minute!” I yell downstairs. I wrap the towel around my waist, my hair still dripping. I pad down the stairs and pull open the door without looking.

  A woman stands there. She’s moderately attractive and really familiar-looking. She has sandy blonde hair and green eyes, and is tall like me.

  “Hello,” she says in an English accent. “Are you Ryan Mackenzie?”

  “Who’s asking?” I say to her, looking over her shoulder to make sure there’s not a cameraman hiding in the bushes.

  “May I come in?”

  “Would help if I knew why you wanted to,” I retort. “I don’t normally ask strangers to come sit inside my home with me.”

  The woman lets out a small smile and nods lightly. She wrings her hands. I can tell she’s uncomfortable. “I just feel like it would be better if I could come inside.”

  “Listen, lady, I don’t need religion or a set of encyclopedias, so if you could just cut to the chase-“

  “I’m your half-sister. My name is Megan.”

  My heart stops and it takes me a few moments to compose myself. When I finally do, I have words to speak. “You better come inside, then.”

  I step aside and she nods her head in thanks as she crosses the threshold.

  I have a sister.

  And she’s here. Right now.

  This day just got a lot more interesting.

  “You want some tea?” I ask her as she wanders into the front, formal sitting room. I’ve never actually used this space before. I feel like a guest in my own home.

  “No, thank you,” she replies, sitting on the edge of the white sofa. She looks like she doesn’t want to get too comfortable or ruin anything.

  I take a seat in the navy armchair. “So…how did you find me?”

  Megan opens her mouth several times before speaking. She fidgets with the edges of her grey sweater. “My dad – our dad. He died recently. He told me about you before he went.”

  The words smack me like a piano falling on my head. “Scott Mackenzie told you I’m his son?”

  She nods. “That’s right.” She clears her throat, obviously uneasy with my reaction so far. “I mean, he was sort of out of it in the end, so I wasn’t sure if he’d just seen your name in the paper and said you were his son. But seeing you in person…we do sort of look alike.”

  I know she’s right. We h
ave the same hair, eyes, and nose. “Did Scott Mackenzie also tell you that he abandoned me and my mother? Did he tell you that he’s as good of a father as a dumpster fire is?”

  Megan flinches at my words. “I know that Dad wasn’t perfect but-“

  I laugh at her. “This is a joke, isn’t it? ‘Wasn’t perfect.’ So, how did he treat you and your mom?”

  Megan sighs. “He was always there for me. He told me right before he died that he’d made a lot of mistakes. Mistakes that he regretted. I’m guessing some of those probably apply to you and your mother, if I had to guess.”

  I stand up. “Get out of my house. I don’t want anyone who is an apologist for Scott Mackenzie to walk through these doors. Leave.”

  Megan looks shocked. Tears are forming in her green eyes. “Are you…are you serious?”

  I nod. “Out!” I’m shaking with anger and annoyance.

  “Alright, then.” Megan stands up. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. “Call me if you ever want to talk again. I know it isn’t likely, but I wanted to offer.” She sets the card on the end table when she realizes that I’m not going to be touching it.

  She leaves and I lock the door behind her, sliding down onto the ground, my head buried in my hands.

  There’s nothing left to do now but drink.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RYAN

  I board the train headed north, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. A woman bumps into me and gives me a sly smile.

  I scowl back at her.

  All I can think about is Hayley. I’m not interested in anyone else.

  I don my headphones and settle down into the window seat. I like taking the seats that face the front of the train. I like to see where we’ve been, not where we’re going.

  There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to linger on the thought.

  I fall asleep within minutes, the train rocking me into bliss like a lullaby.

  I dream about Hayley. About her curves. About me tracing my tongue down her cleavage. In the dream, I’m just about to enter her hot wetness when she laughs and pushes me away. Then I’m standing in the middle of a grocery store. I see Megan in the cheese section.

  “I’m picking this up for later!” she calls back to me. “What kind of wine do you want?”

  I open my mouth to answer but no words come out. I’m unable to speak.

  I wake up as we pull into the station. It’s drizzling and cold up here. I reach into my duffel and pull a hoodie on, drawing the strings tight around my face.

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Devon texting me.

  You better get over here before I drink all the beer.

  I hail a taxi cab and pull out an extra twenty quid for the driver to go faster. He heads through the pouring streets to one of my old haunts, a pub so ancient a stiff wind looks like it’ll knock it down into a pile of rubble.

  I pull open the door and bells chime. Devon and my former teammates look up and yell in greeting.

  “It’s been too long, mate,” Devon says, hugging me and clapping me on the back. “I’ve already got your special going. Two pints of Guinness.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. I slam down one of the glasses. It’s thick and hearty. “Been too fucking long since I’ve had Guinness.”

  “You’re too damn tied up down there. You’ve got to be free, mate. Free from all the bullshit rules. I really wish you’d come back up here to play. I think it’d be good for you.”

  The alcohol hits my brain and I hear the rational side of me calling out for moderation. Then I see a flash of Hayley in my mind’s eye and I know that I don’t want to think tonight. I just want to drink.

  I sip my next pint. Devon and I find our own booth alone away from the team.

  “So, how’s it been going? Bet you’re fucking loads of women. Those London girls sure are something else.”

  “Yeah, well. Not too many London girls for me.”

  “Oh, is it that bird you were with in the photos? Outside of that posh burger joint?”

  I nod. “Yep. But that’s…that’s over now.” The alcohol really has me swimming now. I push the half-full pint away from me.

  “Oi, now we don’t want that, do we? Come on! Where’s the Ryan Mackenzie I know and love? He wouldn’t have stopped for nothing. Drink up.” Devon pushes the pint back to me.

  “I don’t know, mate,” I say while I hold up my hands. “I think I should take it kind of easy tonight. It’s been awhile and I’m not really up to scratch.”

  “You a lightweight now?” Devon asks with a smirk. “Not the guy I remember after all, are you bruv?”

  I stare at him and look over at the rest of the team. They’re all chugging pints and goading each other to down the poison faster.

  Poison. That’s how I look at alcohol now.

  I take a deep breath and inhale the scent of this place. Sweat, smoke, and alcohol. I realize the wallpaper is peeling.

  Did this place always look like such a dump on the inside?

  Or is it me who’s changed?

  “I need to piss,” I say to Devon, who is now looking at me like an alien has snatched my body and taken over my mind.

  The team mercifully doesn’t notice me as I walk past them into the small bathroom. It only has two stalls.

  I do my business, wash my hands, and as I pass through the doorway one of my former teammates bumps into me.

  “Fucking watch it, mate,” he says.

  I hold my hands up. “It was an accident, alright? Just calm down.”

  Telling him to calm down is my mistake.

  This guy is shit faced. Three sheets to the wind. Completely down for the count.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, you wanker.” He shoves me into the doorframe and I hit my head.

  As I reflexively reach up to cover where I hit my head with my hand, my elbow knocks him in the shoulder.

  “I fucking told you to not fucking touch me, you bloody prick,” he says.

  And then he punches me in the face.

  Hard.

  I hear the crunching of bone as his fist connects with my nose. I swing wildly at him, hoping that I’ll connect with some body part and he’ll back off.

  I swing and miss, my eyes watering from the pain. “Get the fuck off me!”

  I hear the people still chanting and chugging in the bar. If someone could come help me, that would be great.

  But the alcohol is slowing everything down for me. There’s a ringing in my ears, and I feel like I’m sinking into a stupor that I’ll never get out of.

  The guy takes another swing at me and I duck. His fist hits the doorframe and he curses, kneeing me in the balls.

  I want to pummel the life out of him.

  But then I think of Hayley again. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t like that.

  She’d tell me not to retaliate.

  Well.

  Hayley’s not here, is she?

  I break his nose and blood flies everywhere. I’m seeing red figuratively and literally. I don’t know where I am anymore. All I know is pure anger, and the bartender’s hands on my shirt as he pulls me away.

  “I’ve called the police,” he says. He looks at my face. “Not you again! I thought I banned you from this place!”

  I scratch my head and reach out for paper napkins to stem the blood flowing from my nose. “Yeah, well. I forgot about that.”

  Twenty minutes later I’m in the back of a police car on the way to the station.

  It’ll be the drunk tank for me tonight.

  I get to sit in a concrete cell and think about what I’ve done.

  But all I can think about is Hayley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  HAYLEY

  “This place is a damn mess,” Alison says, picking up a pair of dirty underwear using only her fingernails and dropping it into my hamper. “Are you sick or something?”

  “No,” I reply dully from the other end of
the couch.

  “Your door was unlocked. And this place is a mess. I’ve literally never seen you live in filth and squalor like this. There are pizza boxes everywhere.” She reaches over to lift one of the grease-spot-stained boxes. “And there’s a cup of noodles under here. Are you serious right now? You hate this shit. You didn’t even eat it when you were broke and in college.”

  “Whatever,” I say. I flip the channel back to what I was watching. I’d changed it reflexively when I heard Alison at the door. I didn’t want her judging me for my viewing habits, but what’s a little more judgment piled on at this point?

  Alison looks at the television and groans. “Not the Kardashians.” She slaps my sweatpants-covered leg. “Are you drunk? Hungover? Replaced by some sort of alien from a planet where they don’t have their own trash television to watch so they have to watch ours?”

  I turn the volume up and ignore her.

  “Did you even meet your deadline?”

  “You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?” I ask rhetorically. My voice is laced thick with bitterness.

  Alison sniffs the air and leans closer to me, sniffing again. She turns up her nose and coughs. “When was the last time you bathed? Seriously, sis, you’re freaking me out.” She reaches over and snatches the remote from my hands. The television clicks off a moment later.

  “Hey!” I protest. “Now I’ll never know if Kris got to take her day at the spa with Khloe and Kourtney.”

  Alison stands up and holds out her hands. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re showering. Now. While I clean this mess up. It’s ridiculous how you’re acting right now. You’re scaring me, Hays. Please.”

  The look on her face is what gets me off of the sofa and into the bathroom. I stand in the shower until the water turns cold. I towel off and realize I have no clean clothes. I grab my bathrobe and tie the fluffy purple tie around my waist, my hair wrapped up in a towel atop my head.

  I walk into the living room to see that Alison has taken out all my garbage.

  She dusts her hands off on her jeans. “Well, it smells better in here anyway. I’ll need another good hour of scrubbing to get it actually clean.” She looks at my outfit. “I went downstairs to put in a load of laundry. It seems like you’ve worn all your clothes and have absolutely nothing to wear. Is that right?”