Football Baby: A Secret Baby Romance

by Roxeanne Rolling

  And I get this news just when things were really starting to go well with Sam, too. I felt like I was really making a special connection with him.

  My mind’s not there during warm up, and I drop more than a few balls.

  “Get your head in the game,” shouts coach at me. As if it’s that simple, as if I can suddenly decide to do so. If there was ever a piece of terrible advice, this is it.

  23

  Lauren

  It’s one of those mornings where I wake up with my heart pounding, full of dread and anxiety. I look over and Dylan’s already gone.

  In the kitchen I find a sweet note about getting to the game. But maybe the best thing is just to head back to Baltimore today, skipping the game. He seemed pretty pissed that I didn’t want to move here.

  The truth is I’d love more than anything to move in here with Dylan, bringing Sam with me. Maybe I could just work one job since I wouldn’t have to pay the entire rent myself, and then I could go back to school to get another certification in something so that in a couple years I’ll be earning more money.

  But I can’t do it. I can’t continue living a lie, not telling Dylan and Sam the truth…it’s too painful to even think about.

  Dylan is Sam’s father. The words won’t go away, no matter how hard I try.

  There’s no way I could keep that secret to myself living day in and day out with both of them under the same roof.

  And I can’t tell Dylan. There’s no way he would forgive me, and I’d rather live with him mad at me for not wanting to be with him than have him hate me for hiding Sam from him for all these years.

  I’m actually half way packed up when Sam comes into the room.

  “What you doing, mom?” he says, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  “Just...” I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m packing up so I can take him back to Baltimore.

  He’s pretty astute, though, and I’m pretty sure he knows I’m packing.

  “I thought we were going to the game?”

  “I thought maybe it’d be better if we…”

  “But we have to see Dylan play,” says Sam. “I’ve been looking forward to this for so long.”

  I love Sam so much, and I realize now it’d be harder on him if we head back to Baltimore right now. There’s no way he would understand what happened, and there’s no way I could explain it to him, just like I can’t explain it to Dylan.

  “Of course we are,” I say, changing my mind. “I was just trying to organize a little.”

  It’s just a white lie, but even so I don’t think Sam believes me.

  “Dylan left us directions and everything,” says Sam. “I’ll go get dressed and then we can go soon, right?”

  “Of course, honey,” I say. “Make sure to bring your football.”

  Sam beams at me before disappearing into his room.

  A moment later, he’s back and grinning. He’s wearing a kids football jersey with “KNIGHT” printed on the back.

  “Look what Dylan left for me,” says Sam.

  Despite myself, tears are welling up in my eyes. How could either one of them know that Knight should be Sam’s legal last name.

  “What’s wrong, mom?”

  “Nothing, it’s just that you look really cute in that jersey.”

  I don’t think he believes me. He can tell when something is up, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he helps me get my stuff ready to head to the game.

  Dylan was so thoughtful that he got a rental car for us before we arrived. It’s just been sitting outside his apartment. It’s actually a hell of a lot nicer than my own car in Baltimore.

  “This thing is fancy,” says Sam, playing with the automotive windows.

  “It’s pretty nice,” I say, my mind in a thousand other places.

  The traffic isn’t bad on the way there and we arrive in plenty of time.

  The ticket booth has the tickets for us, and again the guy behind the counter comments on how lucky we are about the seats.

  The game’s starting, but I’m barely paying any attention. Everything that happened last night is rolling over in my head. I make a couple trips to go get hotdogs and sodas for Sam so that I don’t have to pretend to watch the game.

  “Mom, the game’s already started,” says Sam. “Aren’t you going to watch it?”

  “I’m trying, honey,” I say.

  Sam’s so enthralled in the game that he doesn’t notice that the rest of the time my face is probably looking completely blank.

  Maybe I should just tell Dylan and get it over with, and then depending on how it goes, I can decide to move in with him, if he still wants me too, that is. But I’m already positive of how he’ll react: I know he won’t want me to move in with him after I tell him that…

  Finally, about a quarter of the way through the game, I escape my thoughts for long enough to concentrate on Dylan in the field.

  He looks up at us. Despite my frustrations, I can’t help but thinking how sexy he looks in his football pads and helmet. I don’t know why the helmet makes him look sexy—maybe it has something to do with how he’s doing something so physically dangerous he needs an insane amount of protection.

  “Mom, Dylan’s waving at us,” says Sam.

  “I see him, honey,” I say.

  It’s true. Dylan’s waving at us for a moment at the end of a play.

  “Looks like Dylan’s admirers are back in the stands,” says the announcer, so the whole stadium can hear him. People around us in the stands all crane their heads to see who Dylan’s been waving at.

  I guess I didn’t realize how much the news had got out about us—I mean, after all, we’re all the way across the country in a completely different city.

  “Dylan sure has been taking some hard hits today,” says the announcer.

  “What does that mean, Sam?” I say, my voice probably sounding more concerned than I would like it too.

  “Didn’t you notice, mom? Milwaukee has been targeting Dylan the whole game. I think they’re trying to injure him.”

  “Are you worried about Dylan?” I say, realizing that I’m worried about him just hearing that that he’s a target. Why didn’t Dylan ever mention anything about this to me? Maybe he didn’t want me to worry—that’s just like him. Or he hasn’t paid that much attention to it himself.

  “He can handle it,” says Sam, but he sounds a little worried. I can tell, after all, since I’m his mother.

  “They’re setting up the next play,” says Sam.

  I’m staring at the field. Before, I was trying to stay focused on Dylan, but now he’s all I can see. I’m having a hard time looking at the other players, or figuring out what’s going on.

  Just because I’ve watched all of Dylan’s games that I can, doesn’t mean I know a single thing about football.

  I mean, sure, I know what a quarterback does, and I know some of the basic rules, but beyond that I can still get easily confused by the game. I guess with working all those jobs and raising Sam, I never had much time to think about football much. I couldn’t devote much brain energy to it.

  The players are frozen, hunched in their positions.

  Now they’re moving, fast.

  The ball snaps to Dylan. He’s got it in his hand.

  “#12 is open!” shouts Sam, as if Dylan can hear him down on the field.

  “You really know a lot about the game now, honey,” I say, putting my hand on Sam’s back, and tousling his hair. But he’s so concentrated on the game, I don’t think he even notices. He’s sitting forward in his seat, watching intently as he can. He looks so cute wearing Dylan’s jersey.

  Dylan’s arm is cocked. Now he throws the ball, releasing it in a perfect spiral.

  The ball flies through the air, right to #12, just like Sam said.

  “I guess he saw the same opening,” I say. “Maybe you could be a football player too some day, Sam.”

  Sam doesn’t
even respond at first. Now he says, “Look!” he sounds horribly worried. He’s pointing right to Dylan.

  Even though Dylan no longer has the ball, there are four Milwaukee guys approaching him. If I could see their eyes hidden behind their helmets, I know from their body movements and language that I’d see nothing but pure hate and determination glowing fierce and powerful.

  “He doesn’t have anyone to block for him!” screams Sam.

  Everyone around us has stood up in their seats.

  For a moment, they block my view, and I can’t see what’s happening. I stand up too, getting up onto the seat.

  By the time I can see Dylan again, two of the Milwaukee guys are inches away from him.

  Dylan doesn’t look worried, but a moment later there’s a sickening crunch that I can hear from our seats. Both Milwaukee guys collide with Dylan at the exact same moment. For a moment, his body goes completely limp like a rag doll. Because he receives force on opposite sides, his body doesn’t go flying.

  Instead, Dylan’s body simply crumples to the ground in a horrible flopping way.

  “He didn’t even have the ball,” shouts Sam, who is peering between two standing adults in front of us, so that he can see.

  Holy shit.

  The Milwaukee players are lying on top of Dylan, a big pile of pads and anger.

  They get up, but Dylan remains on the ground.

  “Is he OK, mom?” says Sam, anxiously.

  I don’t answer. I’m just as worried. Right now, it’s not looking good.

  I’m remaining somewhat calm until the EMTs rush onto the field with a stretcher. Dylan hasn’t moved in a whole two minutes, which feels longer than an eternity.

  “What’s happening?” I say, practically screaming, my voice becoming frantic.

  The crowd around us isn’t helping. They’re all looking incredibly anxious.

  I feel like my heart is beating as fast as it possibly can, about to burst through my chest.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. I keep thinking this over and over in my head.

  But Dylan’s still not moving as the EMTs are huddled around him. Part of me wants to just run onto the field, just to be near him. I know they’ll never let anyone near him. They’d never let me anywhere near the field.

  But from where we are, we’re very close. I can see clearly that Dylan isn’t breathing. Or if he is, it’s very shallow. Fuck, I hope he’s breathing.

  Finally, the EMTs pick Dylan’s big body up and put it on the stretcher. They strap him down and start carrying him away, but he still hasn’t stirred a single muscle.

  The game’s starting back up. The replacement quarterback has already jogged partially onto the field.

  “They’re going to keep playing?” I say in complete shock and disgust. The people around us in the stands are settling back into their seats. Despite how famous and loved Dylan is by The Rabbits fans, they’re ready for the game to continue.

  “Come on, Sam,” I say, pulling Sam’s hand as I get up. We start walking up the steps to the interior of the stadium that we can exit from. Soon, I’m jogging, and now I’m running, trying to pull Sam along quickly behind me.

  “Where are we going, mom? Is Dylan OK?”

  “I’ve got to talk to someone about Dylan Knight,” I say, to the security guard. There’s no one else around that I can talk to.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have any information about that.”

  “He was just taken away on a stretcher.”

  The security guard just shrugs, and points over to the ticket counter. “Maybe they’ll know.”

  Wow, there’s no one around here with any information. Everyone is just a hotdog vendor or security guard, or even worse, the ticket counter guy. I think back to the ticket guy in Baltimore and shudder.

  This ticker counter guy is a little nicer, but he doesn’t know anything either. “My best guess is they’d take him to Johnson Hospital, about twenty minutes away.”

  “You don’t know if he’s OK?” I know I’m sounding frantic but I don’t care. “Please, I’m his girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know anything.”

  “There’s no way I could talk to the coach or anything, or someone who knows where he went?”

  “They’re in the middle of a game. They won’t let you anywhere near the field.”

  I turn around without saying anything. I’m too worried to entertain an exchange of pleasantries right now.

  “Come on, Sam,” I say.

  “Where are we going, mom?”

  “To the hospital.”

  “Is Dylan OK?”

  “I don’t know, Sam. We’re going to go check on him.”

  I try to drive calmly, for Sam’s safety’s sake, but I end up driving a little like a wild woman despite myself. But in the end I only miss a couple traffic signals, and get a few nasty honks in my direction.

  The Seattle drivers are not nearly as vicious as the Baltimore drivers, so I know I can outbox them and cut them off when I need to. They’re too wrapped up in their West Coast niceness routine.

  I get Sam to plug Johnson Hospital into the GPS, and twenty minutes later we’re there.

  The car skids to a stop at the entrance to the emergency room.

  “You can’t park here, ma’am,” says a parking attendant, leaning into the window.

  “My boyfriend was just taken here. He’s Dylan Knight.”

  “The quarterback for The Rabbits? Shit, what happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to see him. No one will tell me where he is.”

  “Shit,” says the guy again, which isn’t helping the situation any.

  I’m just trying to stay calm enough so that I’m still functional. I haven’t started crying yet, which is a good sign. But I feel like I might collapse into nervous tears at any moment. Right now I know I’ve got to keep moving. I’ve got to get Dylan. I’ve got to get to him.

  “Can’t you just let me park here for a couple minutes while I run into check on him?”

  “Shit, I really shouldn’t let you do that. But…”

  Finally the parking attendant relents. It turns out he’s such a bit Rabbits fan he’s almost as anxious as I am to hear how Dylan is.

  “Just tell me how he is when you come on out, ok?” says the guy. “ I shouldn’t do this, but I’ll take care of the car.”

  I hand him the keys, and he drives off with it to the parking lot.

  The parking attendant may think he cares about Dylan, but I know he just cares about Dylan Knight The Player, The Quarterback, rather than Dylan the person, my Dylan.

  Sam’s tagging along behind me as I burst into the waiting room lobby.

  “I’m here to see Dylan Knight,” I say, probably sounding as frantic as I feel.

  “Take a seat please,” says the nurse behind the big desk.

  “It’s an emergency,” I say. “He’s really badly hurt. And I need to see him right now.”

  Here they come. Here are the tears. They’re flowing freely down my face and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

  “I can’t let you see him unless you’re a blood relative or you’re married to him.”

  “But I’m his girlfriend. I’m staying at his apartment.”

  She gives me a stern look.

  “Can’t you just tell me how he is?”

  “I can’t release any information about any of the patients,” says the nurse.

  “Sam,” I say. “Could you do me a big favor and go get mommy a water from the vending machine in the corner over there?”

  I hand Sam two dollars. He looks concerned.

  “Are you OK mom?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” I say, even though the tears are still pouring down. “You can help me by just getting me a water.”

  Sam runs off diligently.

  I sent him over there so that he’ll be out of earshot.<
br />
  “Listen,” I say, leaning far over the counter to the nurse. “That boy right there is Dylan Knight’s son. So that qualifies under the blood relative clause, right?”

  She nods slowly, but still looks suspicious.

  “And because he’s a minor, he needs a parental guardian to enter. I’m his mom, and I need to go with him.”

  After some hemming and hawing and some long paperwork, we eventually get into the ward area.

  There are doctors and nurses rushing around frantically. I’m glad I didn’t take too close a look at the people in the waiting area. They looked like they were in bad shape, and examining them more closely would just make me more worried.

  “I’m sorry,” says a nurse. “He’s gone into surgery. You wont be able to see him for another couple hours.”

  “How is he? Is he OK?”

  The nurse frowns at her chart. “Unfortunately we don’t know until after the surgery. You can wait in the waiting room if you like and we’ll call your name when you can visit him.”

  “Come on, Sam, let’s go back to the waiting room.”

  Back to the waiting room, where people are groaning in pain and vomiting…

  24

  Dylan

  “Dylan, can you hear us?”

  Someone’s talking to me. I think. Everything is cloudy and blurry. I just see shadowy shapes moving around me. Not sure if they’re real or not. No way to tell.

  My brain feels scrambled. Thoughts aren’t complete, just little fragments.

  “Dylan, blink your eyes if you can hear us.”

  It takes a huge effort. Pain. Pain shooting all over.

  But I do it. I blink my eyes.

  “He can hear us!”

  “Dylan, it’s going to be OK. You had an accident.”

  An accident?

  Fragmented memories start flooding back. I don’t think it was an accident.

  My sleepy brain is slowly coming on line, although something feels off. Something feels wrong. I remember being on the field. The pass was completed…