Halo Violation: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Daphne Swan

  “Hey. Come on, now,” Dad says with playful smile. “Don’t go getting all soft on me.”

  That gets a laugh out of me, and I manage to stem the flow of tears. Barely.

  “I am not paying fifty thousand dollars a year for mediocre academic performance. I expect the best from you, young lady,” he says with his sorry attempt at a stern look.

  Shaking my head, I mutter, “Slave driver.”

  He laughs and gives my arm another squeeze.

  “I know how hard you work, Molly. This was probably the most stressful conference week yet, but it’s over now and you have a whole month to relax before heading back up to school again in January. So take it easy and enjoy yourself, kiddo. You haven’t got a care in the world right now, and it won’t be like this forever. Enjoy it while it lasts, my little angel.”

  Haven’t got a care in the world?

  Oh my god, if he only knew...

  Tricia comes into the living room carrying a tray of cups, and a wave of nausea hits me like a blow to the gut.

  “Eggnog?” she says, leaning towards Dad and me like some 1950’s housewife, complete with a dazzling smile.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  When Dad takes one of the cups and pulls it towards him, I feel my throat tighten.

  “Molly?”

  I shake my head as cautiously as I can. Tricia’s smile vanishes and she gives me a strange look. I hold still, hoping the moment will pass. I am mentally pleading with her to get that disgusting shit away from me, but she doesn’t look like she has any intention of budging.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  Son of a bitch. I’m going to just have to come right out and tell her to get away from me with that eggnog. Now.

  But when I part my lips to speak, I immediately start retching. I clap my hand over my mouth and spring to my feet, desperate to get away. Tricia steps to the side, thank goodness, so I can dash past her as quick as I can. I hurry into the hallway, throw open the door of the powder room under the stairs and drop to my knees.

  I make it just in time.

  What a mess. I’m trying to hold my hair back while at the same time, attempting to pull the door closed behind me. I can only hope Christmas music playing on the stereo is drowning out the sound of me barfing.

  Oh my god. This is so awful. Tears running down my face, I vomit up the entire contents of my stomach, and when it’s all out, I’m left feeling woozy. Finally, I get the chance to close the bathroom door, but this is probably a case of too little, too late.

  Shit.

  After flushing the toilet and rinsing out my mouth, I splash some cold water on my face and do what I can to regroup.

  I wish I could blame my sudden sickness on a hangover, but everyone knows I stayed home last night. If they thought I’d been necking the bottles in the liquor cabinet and getting wasted on my own, that probably wouldn’t be any better than the actual truth.

  Maybe I can pretend like I’ve got some kind of stomach bug that hit me out of nowhere?

  I don’t know.

  I look like shit. Thankfully, I didn’t get any vomit in my hair, but my hair is wet and stringy because I washed my face without bothering to pull it back. Speaking of my face, it’s looking pale and waxy, and my eyes are bloodshot. I’ve never looked worse.

  A knock on the door startles me.

  “Molly?”

  It’s Tricia. I open the door, and she comes in, giving me the most pitiful look you could ever imagine. There’s no question in my mind. She knows.

  “Oh, Molly,” she murmurs, taking me into her arms. “You poor thing.”

  My whole body shakes with sobs that are desperate to come streaming out, but I know I have to hold it together. If I start crying now, I’m never going to stop, and if this is it—if I have to come clean to the family now, today, then I refuse to become a blubbering mess before we’ve even started trying to process everything.

  And so I just cling to my sister with my eyes shut tight, soaking up her kindness and her compassion.

  After a while, she pulls gently back and takes my hands. Looking into my eyes, she says, “Just to be sure I’m clear on this, you’re pregnant...right?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak just now, so I nod.

  She inhales deeply and nods back at me.

  “Is it...? Um...” I frown. “Do you think...? Does Dad know?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Oh, fuck.

  This is not how I wanted everybody to find out. Not that there’s any possible way any of them would have been happy to hear the news, but this has got to be on the list of top ten worst ways to find out.

  “Are you ready to talk to them about it?”

  I want to say no. I really, really, really want to say no, but I can’t think of a good reason to put it off any longer. It’s probably best to get it over with, anyway.

  “I guess so.”

  She takes me by the hand and leads me out of the bathroom. I’m having the strongest sense of déjà vu. This is just like when Jules led me from the kitchen to the living room after I dropped the bomb on her.

  God, I’m becoming the sort of person who has to be handled.

  This time, Tricia leads me to the den—a cozy room on the other side of the house from the living room that mostly functions as Dad’s man cave now that my sisters and I have left home. She guides me to the sofa, and once I’m seated, she pats me on the knee and offers a weak smile.

  “Be right back,” she says before quietly slipping out of the room.

  Not even three minutes later, they’re all filing in. First comes Dad, his face bright red with rage and his eyes narrowed into slits. Next comes Mom. Her eyes are already streaming with tears. Beth enters next, followed by Tricia, who closes the door softly behind her. Both of my sisters are solemn-faced.

  As much as I want to...

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “Who is he?!” Dad roars. “Who’s the bastard that did this to you? I want the motherfucking piece of shit’s name!”

  “You don’t need to know that, Dad. He’s not relevant.”

  “Not relevant?! Not relevant?!”

  His eyes are so wide. They look like they’re about to pop right out of his skull.

  Okay.

  Onto Plan B.

  “His name is Johan and he’s a Swedish exchange student,” I say, reciting the carefully constructed bio of the baby’s fictional father. “We had a whirlwind romance, but we both knew it wasn’t going to last. His life is in Sweden and mine is here. He flew back home a couple of days ago, and he has no plans to return.”

  “A whirlwind romance?” Mom says with a wavering voice. “Margaret, I asked if there were any boys in your life when you were here for Thanksgiving and you said there was nobody special.”

  Oh, shit! I completely forgot about that.

  I could just kick myself. How could I be such an idiot?

  “Why are you lying to us, Molly?” Dad demands. “What’s this ridiculous story about a foreign exchange student? I want the truth, and I want it now, goddammit. I want the bastard’s real name so I know whose face to kick in!”

  Beth exhales a heavy sigh and says, “Come on, Dad. You’re not going to kick anybody’s face in.”

  “The hell I’m not! You think I’m going to let the snivelling, snot-nosed punk get away with what he did to my little angel?!”

  “She’s not a little girl anymore,” Beth says. “I know you don’t want to see it, but she’s a grown woman.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t say anything. He glances at me, and then back at Beth before doing that thing he always does in moments of great distress. He wraps both arms around his head and spins around. Facing away from us, he utters a mournful cry that breaks my heart.

  And I can no longer hold it in.

  In an effort to maintain some semblance of control over the situation, I manage not to collapse into a wailing heap, but I can’t sto
p the tears from trickling down my face one after another.

  “Dad, come here,” Beth says, placing a gentle hand on our father’s shoulder. “Mom, you too. Let’s all have a seat and discuss this like rational adults. Tricia?”

  Tricia snaps right into action, guiding Mom to the sofa and seating her next to me. Beth leads Dad to one of the chairs opposite the sofa.

  Once we’re all seated, Mom turns to me and says, “How could this have happened?”

  How the hell am I supposed to answer that?

  “Lets try not to focus on the details about how it happened,” Beth says. “Let’s talk about where we go from here. Molly, have you made any decisions as to what you’re going to do?”

  I can do this. The key is to break it to them gently. I’ll parcel out the information on a need to know basis.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “I’ve decided to go ahead with the pregnancy.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies,” Mom murmurs.

  So far, so good. As horrible as things are, they could be worse. If I’d told them I planned to terminate the pregnancy, Mom would be the one yelling about kicking faces in, starting with mine. As a devout Catholic, her views on abortion are crystal clear.

  “And then?” Tricia prompts.

  It takes me a moment to gather the courage and then I say, “I plan to raise the baby on my own.”

  “What?!” Beth cries.

  “You can’t be serious!” Dad roars.

  “That’s insane,” Tricia tells me.

  “Oh, Margaret!” Mom sobs.

  After their collective shock dies down a just a bit, Mom says, “Be sensible, honey. You can’t raise a child on your own. You’re far too young.”

  “I’m only two years younger than you were when you had Beth,” I point out.

  “That’s different. I was married.”

  I don’t see what that has to do with it. We’re talking about age. But I know I need to keep my mouth shut on the subject.

  “Speaking of marriage, I don’t suppose the...the father has offered to step up to the plate?” Dad asks.

  The idea of Eric Wenzel asking me to marry him is so ridiculous that I nearly burst out in laughter. Luckily I manage to keep it together.

  And frankly, I’m proud of my calm, collected response.

  “As I said, the baby’s father isn’t in the picture.”

  “Who is he, Molly?” Dad says, his eyes filled with venom. “I want his fucking name!”

  Oh my god, I can’t take this anymore!

  “It’s none of your business what his name is! I don’t want him to be in the picture, and you need to respect my decision! I’m an adult, Dad. I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl, and you need to stop treating me like one.”

  “I’ll treat you like an adult when you start acting like one,” he says. “What about your education?”

  “I’ll be graduating three months before my due date.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I’ll throw myself into preparing for the birth, and after that I’ll devote my life to raising my child the best way I can.”

  I brace myself for his threat. If my parents choose to cut me off financially, I’ll have a much, much more difficult row to hoe. I’m not sure what kind of career I’d be able to land with an undergrad degree in the Classics, especially if I had to pay childcare expenses, but I’d find a way to manage. I just know it.

  But his threat doesn’t come. Instead, he says, “And so you plan to throw your life away.”

  “Martin!” Mom reprimands him with a look.

  This gives me a glimmer of hope. Maybe it won’t be so hard to get her on my side, after all.

  “I have an idea,” Tricia says. “I haven’t spoken to Michael about it, obviously, but I think he’d be on board. Molly, I would be truly honored if you would let us raise your baby as our own.”

  What?

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is she serious?

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Beth says.

  It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one who’s horrified by Tricia’s suggestion.

  “Lucas is still an infant. You have your hands full with him, not to mention the demands of your jewelry business. You wouldn’t be able to give the new baby the attention he or she deserves.” She turns to me. “I know David will agree with me when I say we would love the opportunity to raise your baby as our own.”

  I am far too stunned to respond.

  “Now, that makes no sense whatsoever,” Tricia says. “You already have two children under the age of four and you want to take on a third?”

  “At least we have plenty of room. Your apartment isn’t big enough for a family of four.”

  “Ugh. Not everyone wants to live in the suburbs, Beth. We have a gorgeous co-op a block from Riverside Park, and we have more than enough room for a new baby.”

  I cannot believe this. Are my sisters actually arguing over which one of them gets to raise my baby? My baby?

  “Stop it!”

  They both turn to me, looking surprised. Like I’m the crazy one here.

  “Neither one of you is going to hijack my baby. This is my baby we’re talking about here. Mine.”

  I turn to my parents for validation. I need to know I’m not the lunatic here. But Dad’s face is buried in his hands, and Mom looks perplexed.

  “You understand how I feel, don’t you Mom?”

  Her bottom lip trembles, and she reaches for my hand. After taking a deep breath to regain some composure, she says, “Honey, I don’t think letting one of your sisters adopt the baby is the worst idea in the world.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I know your heart’s in the right place, Margaret, but you’re not looking at the big picture. Do you really want your child to grow up without a father? Don’t you think it’s a little bit selfish to deny your baby the love of two parents?”

  Well...fuck me.

  I have nothing to say. I can’t even form a coherent thought in my brain, much less express it in words. I take my hand back from Mom’s, get up from the sofa and walk over to the door.

  I need to get out of here.

  Now.

  I pull my boots on in record time, grab my coat and head out into the cold night air. I start walking with no destination in mind.

  Merry fucking Christmas to me.

  11. ERIC

  “There’s my little baby!”

  I roll my eyes. I’m twenty-five years old, and my stats are 6’6/247. There’s nothing little about me. But what can you do? She’s my mom.

  She throws her arms around my neck, and I lift her up off the ground. Man, it’s good to see her. It’s good to be home.

  When I set her back down on the floor, she steps to the side with a big, beaming grin on her face.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in. How was your flight?”

  “Can’t complain. Delays and shit aren’t so bad when you’re riding in first class.”

  I grab the handle of my bag and swing it into the living room. I make my way straight for the sofa and collapse into a heap.

  She nods knowingly. “You’d be singing a different tune if you’d been in coach.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Considering the length of my legs, I hope I never have to fly in coach.

  “Did you eat on the plane?”

  “No way.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  I don’t care if they were serving five-star gourmet grub on the plane—which they weren’t, by the way. Mom said she’d be cooking, and she’s an awesome chef. No way would I ever want to miss out on whatever she’s planning to serve up. And judging by the aroma filling the apartment, the menu involves something beefy, something citrusy, and definitely something garlic-y. I can tell she made her homemade gingersnaps, too. My mouth is already watering.

  Mom comes over to sit next to me on the sofa and pats me on the arm.

  “Oh, I’ve really missed y
ou, Eric.”

  “Me too, Ma. I wish I could stay longer. Why don’t you fly out for a visit soon? You know you’re welcome anytime. Just say the word and I’ll hook you up with a ticket. First class,” I add with a smile.

  “You’re such a good son,” she says. “And of course I’d love to come for a visit, but you know it’s busy season now. These days the January sales seem to stretch until the end of the month. I might be able to take a couple days off in February, though.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s a standing invitation. Just let me know when you want to come.”

  I have no idea why Mom insists on keeping her job. I make shitloads of money and I’ve offered to take care of her, but she won’t hear of it. For reasons unknown to me, she insists on hanging onto the lower management position she’s got at the cheap-o chain store outside of Toledo, even though it pays jack shit. She won’t even let me buy her a house. I feel like such an asshole, raking in over two million bucks a year (plus bonuses) when my mom is living in a dinky little rental in a cheap, generic subdivision out in the ass crack of nowhere.

  She’s a stubborn old goat. Well, not really. She’s not old; she’s only forty-seven. But I enjoy giving her a hard time. Whenever I accuse her of being stubborn, she brings up the pot calling the kettle black. And it’s true. I’m a lot like her in that regard. When I dig my heels in, it takes a lot to sway me.

  Needless to say, our relationship went through some tough times in my teenage years, when we’d fight about curfews and study time and shit.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom asks.

  “Starving.”

  “Well, then. Let’s eat.”

  She made beef with this orange, ginger, garlic sauce, and my stomach rumbles ferociously as I watch her spoon it out onto a bed of pearl barley. She’s such an incredible cook. She could for sure be a professional chef. People would line up around the block to sample her unique flavor combinations, and they’d pay a pretty penny, too.

  I’ve offered to hook her up, of course. I like to imagine her opening some kick ass café in Manhattan somewhere, or maybe even Brooklyn. I’d foot the bill, and not to sound like too much of an asshole or anything, but I would use my celebrity status to generate press and get customers in the door.