Quarterback Baby Daddy (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)

by Claire Adams

  She swayed on spiky high heels and then threw herself into my arms. The sickly sweet smell of rum erupted from her giggle.

  "You need to find your friends," I told her. "It's time for you to go home and sober up."

  "You can take me home." She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

  I took her shoulders with both hands and set her back against the opposite wall of the hallway. "Libby, this isn't okay. It never was. I made a mistake, and I'll be the first to admit it."

  "Want me to tell your friend, the Dean of Students?" she asked while batting her eyelashes.

  "Tell whomever you want. Like I said, I made a mistake, and I own it." Disgust rolled around in my stomach.

  Libby Blackwell was the epitome of a privileged Landsman College student. Her parents had more money than the government of a small country, and she knew it. Libby flubbed her grades, flirted her way through projects, and expected that everything would be fine on the other end.

  When I arrived on campus, I was angry. Angry with Wesley Barton for being a crook, angry with a system that served the wealthiest, and angry at myself for not knowing who to trust. Libby was wild, sexy, and an easy way for me to self-sabotage. I never regretted anything more in my life.

  The worst part is she always threatened, but never told anyone. My department head, Florence Macken, suspected our brief affair, but no one else knew. A few times a year, I would run into Libby, and she would try to trade sex for silence. I knew I should be the one to approach the Honor Council and be done with the whole sordid affair, but I had tried uncovering the truth once and still felt the burn.

  "Hey, Red," I called at the tall football player down the hallway. "Come help us out."

  "What's up Prof?" he asked.

  "Libby here needs a safe chaperone home. That means you find her friends and get them all home together. You got me? None of the girls go off on their own." I caught him in a stare that made beads of sweat pop out on his strawberry-colored hairline.

  "You got it. Operation Gentleman." The football player gathered a giggly Libby under his arm and boomed down the hallway. "Ashley, Farah, time to get your girl home!"

  I swore if I couldn't find Clarity, then I would confront Dean Dunkirk with my indiscretion. He would help me face the right consequences and put my mistake-ridden past behind me.

  The glimmer of redemption sent me striding down the hallway and into the kitchen, just in time to see Adam try to kiss Clarity. I jumped back into the shadowy hallway and clenched my fists.

  "Adam, stop. This was supposed to just be a casual date." I heard Clarity trying to keep her voice light. She pushed the tall quarterback on the chest, but he didn't step back.

  "Come on, you can't say you're not attracted to me," Adam leaned in again.

  "But I can say ‘no.’ Do I have to say it again?" Clarity asked.

  "Uh huh," Adam nodded and reached out to grip her shoulders.

  Before I launched myself at the unsuspecting kid, Clarity took care of the overeager football player herself. She hooked a foot around his ankle and gave his chest another hard shove. The shocked quarterback stumbled back and plopped down on his ass.

  He laughed and held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, I give. How about you let me walk you home?"

  The right hook I had cocked and ready itched to knock him down as soon as he got to his feet, but, again, Clarity took care of it.

  "Best stick around here and sober up," she said. Clarity spun on her heel and marched towards me.

  I lowered my fist just in time.

  "Ford? I mean, Professor Bauer?" She skidded to a halt in the shadowed hallway.

  "Your father asked me to check in on the party. He's out in the backyard." I hoped Dean Dunkirk would understand me ratting him out so fast.

  If the flashing look in Clarity's green eyes was any indication, then the dean would understand perfectly. I backed up against the wall and left the hallway open for her to pass.

  She glanced back over her shoulder where Adam was laughing and giving high-fives to his friends. "Dating is the worst. Especially trying to date college guys."

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "My sister, Liz, says the exact same thing. Which is good, because I told her I would stop paying her rent if she skips class for a boy. She's in med school and better stay focused."

  Clarity stepped closer to me. "Is that why you're teaching instead of chasing after big stories? You're supporting your little sister?"

  "How about I walk you home?" I said.

  She smiled. "Thanks, but, like you said, my father's outside. It was nice of you to help him out."

  I nodded and didn't trust myself to say anything else. There was no reason for me to feel so relieved knowing that Clarity had turned down the football player and would be heading home safe.

  Chapter Five

  Clarity

  The shuffle of the Sunday newspaper was always relaxing. My father and I spent Sunday mornings at the wide kitchen table in front of the French doors. Morning light poured in and caught the swirls of steam rising from our coffee mugs.

  I loved the quiet routine. Except my eyes wouldn't focus on any words, and I burned my lips on my coffee. My mind kept wandering back over the moonlit campus walk with Ford. As soon as we stepped out of the frat house party, my father had jogged up with a breathless frown.

  "A group of streakers is causing havoc outside the gym complex, and I have to go deal with it."

  "There's a great article in there somewhere," Ford nudged me.

  "Professor Bauer will see you home safe, won't you?" My father had waved as security swung by in a truck to pick him up.

  Neither of us had said a word until the full moon climbed up and over the corner towers of the library.

  Ford sighed. "I do actually like it here. I know you think I should be off chasing big stories and being a hard-hitting journalist, but it's peaceful here. Beautiful."

  Our hands had brushed at that moment, and the memory alone caused a thrill to rush up my arm. I had to be a silly, delusional girl to think that last, whispered 'beautiful' was for me, but I couldn't help it. We were impossible, never going to happen, but at least I could hope he felt the same way I did.

  My growing attraction to Ford was a problem. It was fine when it was just a crush on an attractive professor, but now it was pluming out like smoke and hanging like a deep haze on the majority of my thoughts.

  "Clarity? Your toast popped up," my father repeated. He folded down one corner of his newspaper and checked on me. "Everything alright?"

  I looked around the sunny kitchen and took a deep breath. Most of my friends made fun of me for living at home until they saw our house. The Craftsman was big, comfortable, and full of light. The original hardwood floors and crown moldings gave it a sense of maturity, while my father's tendency towards bright colors kept it lively and fun.

  "You know it's alright if you want to go out with your friends on Sundays," my father said. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the French Press on the table.

  "I know, thanks." I gestured around the warm kitchen. " But why would I want to leave all this?"

  My father snorted. "This isn't for everyone. Too boring. What's the word? Stodgy."

  He was talking about my mother, and I felt a twinge in my chest. She had left when I was too young to remember her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, but the way my father talked about her, she may never have sat there for more than five minutes. When he talked about her, my mother was always in motion. Always going somewhere, traveling, and very rarely returning. And then one day, she was gone.

  That was why when my friends called to declare a Funday Sunday, I declined right away. I couldn't bear to drop everything and leave my father alone. He needed someone to grind the coffee to the right consistency for the French Press. He never remembered where the honey was that he liked on his toast. If I wasn't there to help him, sit with him, he'd be all alone.

  I would never hurt him like my
mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and he was too good a man to deserve that.

  So, I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some journalists used creative leads, while most stuck to single-item or summary leads.

  The newsprint blurred, and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly, and dried leaves crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly charged current leapt between us.

  "Just imagining things," I muttered.

  "What was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section again.

  "Did you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.

  He gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to write my own grabbers.

  Not touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.

  I jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all at the same time when I was near Ford.

  "Working on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like 'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that you're all grown up."

  "No one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're describing pirates," I pointed out.

  My father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."

  I groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after coffee."

  "No lecture, just an observation," he said.

  I folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well, here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications, and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the kitchen island.

  My father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work there?"

  "First off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table in exasperation.

  "You don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break. Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.

  I held up a hand. "No. No talking about the holiday until you promise you will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter, the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."

  "That's what I want to talk to you about," my father reached for my hands. "We've been remiss with our holidays the last few years."

  "I don't mind. I'm not a child anymore," I reminded him.

  He squeezed my fingers. "Even more reason for us to take the time to celebrate. You need to let yourself be a kid again, even if it's just during the holidays. You're much too serious, Clarity."

  I narrowed my eyes, but knew I would never win this fight. We had it almost every day. My father thought I was too serious, too focused, and that I was going to miss out on my life. I thought he was sentimental and pinning his abandoned desire to paint on me. We'd go ten rounds about what we each thought the other should do, and then let it blow over until the next day.

  "How about we make a deal?" I asked.

  My father let go of my fingers and steepled his hands together. "Ah, a deal. Does it include you finding a creative outlet and letting a little more balance into your life?"

  I swatted at him even as I thought about the scrap of paper in my back pocket. "Nice try, but we're skipping the lecture today and going straight to negotiations."

  He laughed and sat back to cross his arms and give me a regal stare. It didn't quite work with the remainder of his red hair still fuzzy from sleep and his bathrobe tight over his belly. "Fine, I'm listening."

  I grinned. "I will help you cook a full Thanksgiving meal, decorate the house from autumn leaf garlands down to a cornucopia centerpiece if you help me complete my entire application for Wire Communications."

  "Turkey, stuffing, gravy, the whole works?" he asked.

  "Even acorn squash with nutmeg," I promised.

  My father's eyes twinkled. "Throw in one original poem, and it's a deal."

  "No poem, no short story, just the entire Thanksgiving experience."

  "Fine. Deal." My father stuck out his hand and we shook on it. "Now what's this about a short story?"

  "Dad!" I laughed but shifted so I could feel the folded paper in my back pocket again.

  #

  The armchair was half-hidden behind the archive stacks in the basement of the library. Above it was a porthole window, a trace of the old building before the new addition. That was why the tiny alcove was an anomaly in the architecture and the perfect place to curl up and work on my secret project.

  The scrap of paper was now taped on the inside of a spiral bound notebook. Page after page was crossed with a slashing X as I had written and rewritten the beginning about eighteen times. I wanted it to be perfect.

  Each word felt like a tiny puzzle piece that had to be turned and fitted precisely. I loved agonizing over them and watching beautiful sentences form.

  The best feeling, though, came from the moments when the pen took off, and I filled half a dozen pages with inspiration. My mind soared, and I felt the smile on my lips even though I was all alone.

  Every time my phone beeped to remind me of the time, I felt like I was coming down from a great height. Gravity was heavier as I trudged up the stairs and crossed the courtyard that joined the library with Thompson Hall. It was my new routine to work on my secret project until it was time for Ford's class. If it had been any other class, I would have skipped it and stayed in my little library alcove, scribbling away forever.

  No one knew where I disappeared to, and that was part of the thrill. I hadn't told anyone, not even Jasmine or Lexi, and I certainly was not going to please my father with news of my creative endeavor. If he knew I was writing a short story, he would yell it from the rooftops.

  "Did you find that link I sent you about traditional story structures?" Ford asked as I walked into the lecture hall.

  "Yes, thank you! Kurt Vonnegut sums it up so well. I loved how he described the shape of stories. Especially Cinderella," I said.

  Ford smiled, and for a moment I forgot about the multiple levels of students behind me. There was only his stubbled grin and the crinkled lines of it around his smoky gray eyes. The man had black lashes that could ensnare me.

  "Are you going to tell me what you're working on?" he asked.

  I turned to walk up to my seat. "Who says I'm working on anything? Maybe if you didn't give us so much homework..."

  The students nearest me snickered and called out their agreement. I felt a tug in my chest. It always felt awful to separate us back into our roles. He was a professor, and I was a student, except when he smiled and the outside world receded.

  I missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted phrases and minute descriptions—a mess of writing that had nothing to do with journalism.

  As long as no one noticed, I was reckl
essly following my own instincts. If anyone saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild, impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.

  With that thought in mind, I scooped up all my things and crammed them into my book bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.

  "Hey, Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some company?"

  It was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to the library basement and be left in peace.

  "Sorry, Thomas, I've got to study. See you around," I called as I headed across the courtyard to the library.

  I took a different route just to make sure Thomas didn't follow me. He was shy, but persistent, and I wasn't sure how far he would pursue me. I was just translating that thought into a memory for my main character when I came around the corner of the archive stacks and almost screamed.

  "What are you doing here?" I hissed instead.

  Ford leaned his head back on the hidden armchair and smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm waiting for you."

  "How did you know I was coming here?" my whisper cracked with irritation.

  Ford stood up and motioned for me to take the arm chair. When I shook my head and crossed my arms tight across my chest, he sighed and explained, "I questioned your friend, Thomas. I'm sorry to say, but he's the best kind of source: anxious to talk if he likes the subject. You do know he likes you, right?"

  "Leave poor Thomas out of this. Why are you here, Ford?" My breath caught. I always called him by his first name in my head. That's how we first met, and I felt I had some claim to his given name as long as I didn't say it aloud.