Homecoming: A Secret Baby Romance

by Landish, Lauren

  Cory snorts. “Says who?”

  “Says me,” I snarl causing Cory to draw back as if he fears I'm going to punch him in the face. Honestly, I don't know why I'm acting this way. I don't own this chick, don't even know her. And Cory's right, the guys weren't saying anything different from what I'd seen the past four years on the first day of school, and again in April when the track team did the exact same act.

  Russ eyes me suspiciously. He's always been one of the smarter guys on the team, even if he's got a strange sense of humor. He usually makes me laugh, unless he's fucked off on deep coverage again and gotten beat deep. “You want her, don't you?”

  “No,” I reply nonchalantly. "Just sayin', you two ain't got no chance. I can see it in her face, she's no easy lay."

  “Fucking liar. You want her bad, man. Admit it.”

  “So what if I do?” I growl menacingly. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Russ holds my gaze for a moment and then looks away. “Nothing,” he mutters. "You get all the girls anyway. All I get are the fucking skanks.”

  That's what I thought.

  I nod my head. “You're right. But I'm also the one who carries this fucking team.” As Silver Lake's prized quarterback on offense and inside linebacker on defense, I’m literally the lynch pin of the best chance Silver Lake has had to go to the state championships since Jimmy Carter was President. I’m one of the most popular kids in the school and usually get my way with everything. Girls, grades, preferential treatment by teachers — you name it, I get it.

  It goes without saying that I'm an egotistical, conceited bastard. But I'm that way because I earned it, every fucking bit of it.

  But while I can't ask for more of the sweet perks I get at school, it's a total 180 when it comes to my living situation at home. The moment I step off school grounds, I go back into the real world. I'm no longer Troy Wood, Silver Lake High's most prized athlete and biggest campus celebrity.

  I'm just some ungrateful shit that should be happy that my dad choose to bang a random chick when he was eighteen and not use a condom. And according to my drunken dad, I wouldn't be shit without him. I owed him for everything — giving me life and for being a star ball player though he'd done nothing to help me hone my skills. Shit, I owed him just for breathing. In fact, I owed him so much that I had to work an after school job at a shitty pizza parlor just to help support his sorry ass drinking habit. So I take those easy grades from the teachers, mainly because after practicing until seven four nights a week, I spend another three to four hours slicing vegetables, sausage, and stirring five gallon pots of tomato sauce just to put food in my stomach.

  I don't know what he's going to do when I go off to college, I think to myself. Probably become a bum under the bridge. And it'll be all my fucking fault.

  I have big plans for myself after I graduate high school, none of which involve my drunkard father. One, I hope to go to college on a scholarship, because I certainly don't want to be chained to a student loan debt, and two, I want to be drafted by the NFL, starting off with a multi-million dollar contract.

  I figure once I get on the college team and start showing off my exceptional abilities, the talent scouts will go crazy and start the bidding wars. First round draft pick, working a couple of endorsement contracts coming right out of school, and I'll be on easy street riding out my rookie contract on that bullshit scaled system the NFL is putting in place. When I hit free agency though, that's when it all goes bananas. Naturally, I'll settle with the highest bidder and make my way to the Hall of Fame and retire with a big mansion, a trophy wife and a quad of kids, set for life.

  Ah, the easy life. I just have to get there first.

  And I will get there. I have total confidence in my ability to do so.

  As cocksure as I am, I always have to give myself an internal pep talk to keep my confidence level up. You have to when you're the brightest star on an otherwise shit team and your father tells you you're a worthless piece of shit. Coach tells us a positive mental mindset is essential, and I believe it. Coach has a lot of good things he says like that.

  One thing for sure, I know I'm not going to reach my goals if I get involved in a relationship with a needy girlfriend. That's one promise I've made to myself. No girlfriends. No relationship. No drama. No bullshit.

  If I want to make it to the NFL, my motto has gotta be fuck 'em and leave ‘em. It's harsh, but I have to protect myself. I don't want to become too attached. And I know what could happen if I fuck up by falling in love and getting a chick pregnant. It already happened to one of my best friends who now had to put his entire life on hold because he'd knocked up a chick he had feelings for. He was 'the guy' before I showed up on varsity, and we formed the core of a good one-two threat before he got the bitch pregnant. He quit the team, saying he wanted to man up, and that was when the shit hit the fan. He's been forced to work two shitty jobs to support the baby and his grades fell because of it. With no football and no grades, he couldn't qualify for college, and was stuck in those same two jobs, a miserable bastard. The worst part of it all? His lady love cheated on him shortly after giving birth. Hell, she asked if I wanted a piece of her ass when I stopped by once to see how my buddy and the baby were doing.

  I vow I'm not going to be that sucker.

  The cheerleading squad takes a rest and I watch as Whitney pauses to dig the tights she's wearing out of the crack of her ass. She glances around as if worried someone is watching, and our eyes meet. She stares at me, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink and I give her my most charming smile. Her lips part, as if in surprise, and then she looks away. Bending over, she grabs a water bottle, before realizing she's giving us a pretty good view of what she was just digging out, and I can't help it. Mr. Disco Stick is ready to say hel-fucking-lo, and I'm not all that disinclined to stop him.

  I can't keep the grin off my face, but I'm worried about how much I want to meet this girl. Usually I let them come to me, yet I want to go to her. It's like she's a magnet and I'm a big hunk of metal. I mean, I'm a big hunk of something, and it can get hard as steel, but that doesn't mean I'm made of it.

  “You are totally checking her out for yourself,” Russ accuses, catching the exchange. "Or is that bulge in your pants because of Cory's gangnam style dance?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Don't play stupid. You're not in AP English, but you aren't an idiot either.”

  I think desperately, and come up with the first idea that pops into my head besides Whitney's ass. “I was just thinking about the new plays I want to try at practice tomorrow. In case you didn't notice, we've got Blueridge on Friday, and their fullback isn't a pussy like you.”

  “Right.”

  “I was.” I run my gaze over my gathered teammates. “And I want you all to be ready to try them out. No questions asked. I think it will help us when we play against Blueridge. I’m not starting my senior year with a loss.”

  “And have you run these plays by Coach Jackson?” asks Cory. “Usually he wants to look them over and approve them before trying them out."

  I shake my head. “Nope. But I'm sure he won't mind. He knows all my strategies are good.”

  “Cocky bastard,” Cory grumbles.

  “He can be afford to be cocky when he practically has a scholarship to any school he wants,” says Russ enviously. “Ain't that right, Troy? So which are you going with, Notre Dame? Stanford? Nah, you ain't got the grades for Stanford, but I bet the SEC would hook you up real good, football, easy grades, and Southern girls. Fuck, you wanna stay out here West Side, just go down to Clement, right?”

  “I don't have one yet,” I say. "You all know that."

  Russ drops his jaw in mock astonishment, giving me a melodramatic gasp. “You mean to tell me the King of Campus doesn't have a scholarship?”

  “Cut it out jackass before I deck you. I said I don't have one yet, not that I'll never get one. School has only just started back.” Russ is showing his
jealousy by bringing up my scholarship, but I'm not going to sweat it. I know most times, athletes were awarded scholarships in their senior year. Russ needed to stop talking shit and worry about himself. He'd be lucky to get one to a D-II school in North Dakota, let alone a major conference school like I'm in line for.

  “What school you hoping for most?” Cory asks curiously.

  “I dunno. Maybe State,” I say with a shrug. State has one of the best football programs in the Northwest, and best of all, get on TV a lot so I'd get a good chance to get noticed by pro scouts, so it’s a natural choice. But honestly, I don't think it matters where I wind up.

  “Wherever he goes, they better have a field that can contain his ego,” says Russ. "Goddamn Rose Bowl isn't big enough for it from what I've seen."

  “Shit, they better have a cup size that contain my dick,” I joke. "Do they make cups in foot-long size? I play soft, not hard like Cory does with his two-incher."

  The guys erupt with laughter around me, but I can only keep cutting glances at Whitney.

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  Julian

  I was putting on my pants when my father called. Glancing at the clock, I could see that it was only eight in the evening, so him calling wasn't totally unexpected. It was about eleven his time out there in New England. The girl, I think her name was Candy, maybe Cindy, watched me with the sheet pulled up to her chin as her large breasts pushed the cotton out an impressive distance. She'd just turned eighteen not long ago. And yes, I checked. I'm not one to get taken for a fool. After a friend of mine got himself in a load of trouble with the law, I made sure to never just take the girl's word for it. "Yeah Johnathan?"

  "Julian, you know I hate it when you use my name like that," my father replied. Like I gave a shit. "I know it's been a while, son."

  "Not long enough, Johnathan. What do you want?"

  "I just called to invite you to my wedding."

  I closed my eyes, rubbing at my temples. I could feel a splitting headache coming on, and we were only fifteen seconds into the conversation. "What's the slut's name this time, Johnathan?"

  My father collected women like I used to collect baseball cards back when he was married to my mother. Of course, right about the time I turned seven, he sent Mom packing, and I never forgave him for that. To top it off, Johnathan could hire the best lawyers in the state, and instead of going with Mom, I had to spend all but a month each year of my time for the next eleven years living with him. I got to watch in person as my father went and got himself married again, this time to a woman almost half his age. She, of course, ditched his ass as soon as possible, taking him for a huge chunk of his money (again).

  I will admit, there are some benefits to being Johnathan Castelbon's son. First of all, he has enough money that he could get married twice, get taken to the cleaners twice, and still have enough left over to be listed in the Forbes 400. With that amount of dough, he can afford to let me do pretty much whatever the hell I want. I had a monthly allowance that is bigger than your average household yearly income. When I got my driver's license, the next day I was driving a Lexus. He insisted that I learn on a more reasonable car, I believe is how he said it. By the time I graduated from high school, I'd grown into a Porsche. Now I ride around in a Ferrari, my second.

  Thankfully, since turning eighteen, I'd been able to minimize Johnathan's access to my life. He'd by that point realized that trying to bullshit me and buy me off was useless. Of course I didn't stop him from buying me things, but I damn sure wasn't about to make nice with him either. Besides, by that point he was already balls deep in his second wife, Jennifer. That lasted another year, when she divorced him and took off with some dude from Europe. By then though, I'd already had my own share of drama to deal with. "So what's her name, anyway?"

  "Sandra. Come on Julian, I've been dating her for over three years." My father sounded slightly hurt, which I loved. It was just about the only emotion I got out of the bastard.

  "Hadn't noticed, Johnathan. In case you forgot, I've had some troubles of my own." I reminded him because it seemed for me and my father, the only way we did communicate was when I was getting myself in trouble. Now, I'll admit, starting a fight with Ariana Grande's supposed boyfriend at the Playboy mansion wasn't the best idea in the world. The guy rolled with a posse of five. But I swear, she hit on me. And besides, I held my own for fuck's sake. How was I to know the tough guy boyfriend would turn out to be a little bitch who insisted on pressing charges?

  "Yes, I know. Julian, I don't want to have a fight with you about this. I just wanted to invite you personally, instead of you getting a card in the mail or having my assistant do it. Son, please. I'm asking you as a favor to me. Come to the wedding, Sandra wants to meet you. She already arranged for her daughter to come as well."

  Daughter? Hmmmm, this sounded interesting. Maybe there was a way to get my father's attention without also getting another hit on my criminal record. "Okay Johnathan, I'll be there. Have your assistant send me the details. When is it?"

  "In two weeks. If you have the time, maybe you could come up a few days early? Sandra said Krystal will be coming up for the whole week before. She's a lovely young woman, Julian."

  "I'll see what I can do." I hung up my phone without saying goodbye. I never do. On the bed, the blonde I'd just gotten done with was still looking at me. "What can I say? Family drama."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean," the bimbo said in her almost too high pitched little girl voice. She had the body of a sex goddess, but the voice of Minnie Mouse. Seriously, fucking her was like listening to a hamster on helium. Total one night stand sort of chick. "Family drama is why I moved out here from Iowa."

  Iowa? For fuck's sake. "I'm sure. So....." I said, wanting to get out without getting something thrown at me. I've already had to talk my way out of a false rape accusation, and while it was untrue and I prevailed in the end, it's something I'd rather not go through again. I'm no saint, but I am damn sure not a rapist.

  "So you said you knew some guys I could talk to about getting a role in TV?" she said, sitting up. "I was kinda hoping you could give me their number."

  I grinned in relief. Oh yeah, I had a few boys I could pass this girl around to. "Sure, baby. Hold on." I went over to my jacket and pulled out my wallet, flipping through some of the business cards I kept in there. I found the one I was looking for, a guy who called himself a talent agent named Eric. While Eric could boast to having a few clients who were secondary characters in some decent Hollywood films, most of his clients, especially the female ones, ended up working in the more risqué type of business. In other words, perfect for this Iowa farm girl, bless her heart. Taking out Eric's card, I handed it over to her. "Here you go. Hey, I've gotta get going, there's something I've got to do."

  The girl took it and looked at me, and I could see the self delusion in her eyes. She wasn't the first to look at me that way. It's a blessing, and a curse. "So we can get together another time, right?"

  "Yeah baby," I said, quickly pulling my shirt over my head. "Let me check my schedule, and I'll give you a call." I was sure I had her number, but I never gave out my real number to one of these types of girls. She was no doubt looking to use me, but I was using her too, so it all worked out. Not that it stopped the real determined ones from tracking me down. I am Julian Castelbon after all. "I'll see you later."

  * * *

  Julian

  My father's secretary, a withered old battle axe named Patricia who I wouldn't have fucked even if she w
asn't older than Johnathan, sent me the information three ways. I gotta give it to her, she's thorough enough. E-mail, text message, and registered delivery via US Postal Service. I was surprised she didn't hire a process server like others have when I've gotten sued. Some of them are pretty damn good at tracking me down.

  I was sitting in my own place when the e-mail bounced off my laptop. I've got one of the two penthouses for the building, owned by my father of course, but he hasn't been out to the West Coast since Mom left him. Sitting in my shorts, I was getting ready for a workout down at Metroflex when the computer dinged. I finished pulling a tank top on, making sure to showcase the new ink on my right arm. Then I clicked on my e-mail. Patricia was her normal brief self, which at least I could respect. She didn't like me, but she didn't overly dislike me either. I read her message, then opened the attachment.

  Johnathan Castelbon and Sandra Hepburn-Askoy

  Kindly request the honor of your presence at their wedding

  Saturday the Fifteenth of June

  At eleven o'clock in the morning

  Castelbon Manor

  Reception to follow

  Jesus, Castelbon Manor? Sure, the old place has been in our family since my great-grandfather Wayne Castelbon made it big doing ship building contracts for the Allies in World War I, and then later on for World War II. The manor was actually older than that, having been first built in the early 1800's by some old Yankee trader whose fortune, at least some thought, may not have always been by trading just rum and timber from the Americas to Europe and back. Wayne Castelbon bought the place from the diseased remnants of the family, and had actually renovated the main building, ripping down both wings to put up new ones. Since then, my grandfather and then my father both took the time and money to make sure it was kept up to date in terms of facilities while still retaining the old fashioned exterior. In short, Castelbon Manor was the seat of the family's power, and just another way my father was getting a dig in on me. Seriously, did he not remember than when he married my mother, she'd been only nineteen while he was twenty two, in a quickie ceremony in Las Vegas? Now here he was giving this latest gold digger a full on ceremony in the Castelbon seat of power, and my Mom got jack shit? Fuck that!