Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  I pause, considering, holding the pants to my chest. “Well, there is something, actually.” Sigh. “This morning Mateo texted me. He’s…he…”

  “Mateo Espinoza?” Chandler asks cautiously, pieces clicking into place that he is one of her players. Well, not her players—one of the players who is on the Chicago Steam. The team her family owns and oh my god, what am I about to admit to her?!

  This could be a public relations nightmare for her.

  Them.

  Mateo José Espinoza, getting a girl pregnant out of wedlock. The sister of one of his teammates, the sister of a professional football player, the sister-in-law of his team’s owner.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Maybe I should have thought this through before I opened my big mouth.

  Maybe I should have thought it through before I slept with him.

  Maybe maybes don’t help me right now.

  Would have, should have, could have my mother always says as a way of saying What’s done is done. You made the decision, now you live with it.

  For the rest of my life, apparently.

  “Chandler, I…don’t know what to say. I know this will be a public relations nightmare for the team when the news breaks.” Because it will. “Mateo doesn’t know yet—I would p-prefer to tell him myself, I d-don’t want—”

  I’m straight-up panicking.

  “True, I would never ever say anything to anyone. Ever. I wouldn’t do that to you, wouldn’t dream of it.” She hops up to wrap her arms around me then grips my hands in hers. “You’re my family. I know I’ve only been with your brother a few months, but we’re here to protect you.”

  We.

  Did I mention that Chandler and I are almost the same age? She’s a year younger than I am, and here she is, comforting me with all the wisdom of someone twice her age.

  Her words give me some comfort. Not a ton, but enough to lower my guard.

  “Okay.” I nod, letting out a puff of air. “Okay, yes. I haven’t told him and it’s eating me up inside—and this morning when I woke up, I’d received three text messages from him.”

  Her eyes widen. “You did? What did he say?”

  I scramble to get out my phone and pull up the messages, blushing when I glance over them as I hand her the cell.

  Her eyes widen further as she reads. “Smash and dash—that’s a new one.”

  Yeah, I’d never heard that phrase before either, and my face gets redder.

  Chandler lifts her head. “He wants to see you.” Her voice gets quiet. “It sounds to me like he wants to date you.”

  I know.

  And therein lies the problem.

  “How am I supposed to look him in the eye and tell him I don’t want to date him because SURPRISE, I’m pregnant, and you’re going to be a father?” I flop down on the bed, on my back, staring up at the ceiling as Chandler hovers over me. “I fucked this up royally.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I toss my arm over my head, covering my eyes. “Get dressed, go to dinner with my family, and figure this out later.”

  “That’s not really a solution.”

  “I know,” I groan. “I’ll text him back. Just not sure what I’m going to say.”

  I feel the weight of the bed sink as she settles in beside me. “What if you start with, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, I would like to talk, starting with coffee.’”

  “I can’t have coffee,” I whine obstinately.

  “You know what I mean. Keep it simple—you’re going to have to face the music sooner or later.” She pats me on the leg. “Get dressed—if we don’t get downstairs soon, your brother is going to bust through that door thinking one of us had a medical emergency.”

  Probably. Tripp Wallace is such a drama queen.

  I don’t know if you’re purposely avoiding me or just can’t find a way to get ahold of me?

  That sentence haunts me as I sit at the table with my family, and I know I’m acting strange tonight because Buzz keeps giving me odd stares. He knows something’s off but can’t quite figure out what it could be, his radar up.

  For example, he’s squinting at me now as he chews the lasagna our mother prepared and brought along for the meal, each of us kids too lazy and busy to prepare the food ourselves, Buzz and Hollis included.

  “How are you enjoying your time off?” Mom asks Buzz, since baseball is not in season and he has a few months to be home and spend time with his wife.

  “Good. I’ve gotten two houses renovated.” He stuffs a forkful into his mouth like a slob, sauce oozing out the corner.

  I want to gag.

  “He’s also decided to redo the laundry room at home, ripping it apart, but hasn’t had time to put the countertops back on the cabinets,” Hollis says, unamused. “Dust. Everywhere.” She pats him on the knee.

  “I’ll get to it!” Then, under his breath he mutters, “Eventually.”

  “Love you, babe. Just don’t start tearing apart anything else.”

  “No promises. I like swinging my sledgehammer.” He glances around the table. “If you know what I mean.”

  “No sex talk at the dinner table, dear,” Mom tells him primly, as if he doesn’t make innuendos on a regular basis. My brother cannot contain himself; he’s that immature.

  I choke down some pasta so no one suspects that it’s making me want to throw up. I’m not ready to say anything to anyone, least of all at a casual, midweek dinner. No, when I spill the beans, I plan to do it the right way. My parents first, then Buzz, then…

  No. Buzz first, then my parents.

  Wait.

  First Mateo, then Buzz, then…

  I set my fork down, appetite gone, the daunting announcement in front of me getting me all kinds of twisted up inside.

  Ugh.

  “Why are you being weird?” Buzz probes, asking point-blank across the table, stabbing his noodle-filled fork in my direction.

  “I’m not being weird.” I scrunch up my face to prove my un-weirdness. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  Except I am kind of being weird; Chandler knows it, and Tripp knows it, and I know it. Even the dog knows it—we’ve brought Chewy along, and he’s slumbering at my feet, resting his jowls on the top of my boots, protecting his pregnant auntie.

  Slobbering on my boots too, I imagine.

  Buzz grunts, unconvinced. “Normally you’re giving me shit. You’re too quiet—I don’t trust you.”

  That makes me laugh. “You don’t trust me because I’m not being loud? Am I that obnoxious?”

  “Yes, one hundred percent.”

  “You’re worse.”

  “At least I can own it.” Buzz helps himself to a third serving of lasagna. I know it’s his third because I’ve been watching him; he’s shoveling the food back like he’s eating for two.

  Hmm.

  I cock my head at him, then study Hollis.

  She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt and leggings and looks just as tired as I feel, except she’s hiding it better than I am.

  “You’re the one that’s being weird,” Tripp chimes in, tearing off a piece of bread from the sourdough loaf and slathering it with butter. He’s coming to my defense to take the heat off me by starting an argument with Buzz. “What’s your deal?”

  Buzz shifts in his chair.

  Hollis shifts in hers.

  The dog rises from my feet and goes to sit on hers, beneath the table.

  Oh shit.

  Ooh no.

  My stomach turns, and it’s not morning sickness from the baby, although it’s from a baby alright—just not mine.

  “I don’t have a deal. You do,” Buzz volleys back, ever the consummate debater but never actually having a decent comeback.

  His one-liners suck.

  He wouldn’t last a second in a professional debate, but the two of these morons sling mud at each other nonstop when they’re together because of the same pissing-contest, competitive bullshit they’ve had since they were spawned
.

  Beasts.

  Our mother sets down her fork, bracing for the argument that’s brewing, glancing at our dad, who’s obliviously chewing and staring out the window, lost in space.

  Way to tune out, Roger, I think. Dad never has a clue what’s going on, but he’ll jump in at the last minute once he starts getting yelled at by Mom for not disciplining us.

  She’s excellent at guilting people.

  “Why are you getting on her case? She’s eating—leave her alone.”

  “I’m not getting on her case. I’m just asking why she’s being weird, that’s all.” Buzz glances over at me. “Are you sick?”

  “Kind of,” I admit, not exactly lying but not telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “Well you look like shit, sis,” he declares, still eating and not mincing words. He’s never been one for sugarcoating things.

  “What the hell, Buzz!” I sputter, wiping the corner of my mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of water, wishing it were carbonated. A few bubbles might be good for my tummy. “Rude!”

  “Maybe you should be staying with me instead of with him. You’d get more sleep.”

  “I highly doubt that,” I lament. “You talk way too much.”

  “Amen.” Hollis laughs.

  “Hey!” He turns and looks at her, betrayed by his own spouse. “I’m sitting right here.”

  His wife giggles again, the same shade of pale green I probably am, except I’m not about to mention that comparison to anyone sitting around this table.

  If my brother and his wife are not ready to spill their news, they aren’t ready, and neither am I.

  “When are you leaving for Arizona?” I allow myself to ask, a lump forming in my throat.

  I would like to see you, I would like to see you…

  If Buzz is leaving soon, that means Mateo will be leaving soon, and if I don’t sit down with him before the team leaves for spring training, I’ll have to fly—I’m not sure my body can handle it.

  “I don’t know, a few weeks. We’re starting to have meetings about it, so…” He shrugs, unconcerned. “Hollis and I will probably go sooner, get the house ready. Swim. Relax before I have to work.”

  It’s crazy that playing a game is what they do for a full-time job. Blows my mind sometimes. While most people go into an office or work in retail or the service industry, both my brothers toss around a ball and get paid for it.

  “You can come and stay with us if you want,” Hollis offers, looking hopeful. “We can sit around the pool, and I won’t bother you if you have to work.”

  I would be in the same city as Mateo. Again.

  We could work out our issues, figure out a solution. Come to an agreement.

  Will he want a lawyer? Will he make things difficult? At the beginning, when I missed my period and peed on that store-bought pregnancy test, it crossed my mind not to tell him. It crossed my mind that perhaps I could raise this baby alone—with the help of my family—and not tell anyone who the father is.

  Then I looked around at one of our family dinners, and…

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t do it to my family, and I could never do it to Mateo. Not with the things he told me when we were alone together: how important his sisters are, how close he and his parents are, how family means everything to him.

  How he would give everything up in a heartbeat if they needed him by their side.

  Me keeping this baby from him would be the ultimate betrayal. The ultimate sin.

  I can’t do it, no matter how scared I am to tell everyone.

  I just need more time.

  “See, there she goes again.” Buzz’s voice cuts in. “Lost in space. Earth to True, Earth to True—come in True, can you read me?”

  I throw my napkin at him. “Shut up!”

  “You should see your face.” He scrunches it up then stares at the wall with his mouth hanging open. “This is what you look like.”

  “It is not. Be quiet.” But I’m laughing—for one of the first times in days.

  Eight

  Mateo

  Nothing.

  Nothing from True in two whole days.

  Forty-eight hours. Two-thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes.

  Radio silence.

  Nada.

  At first I wonder if I fucked up the telephone number, chastising my sisters for giving me the wrong information—then I call the stadium to confirm the last four numbers.

  We discovered they had it by accident; True happens to be on Tripp’s emergency contact list, and I plan to take advantage of them admitting they had it.

  They weren’t willing to share the number the first few times I called, but they were willing to let me know I had the correct digits.

  Awesome.

  Great.

  If only she’d text me back.

  I stare at the three messages I foolishly sent, cursing my idiot self for putting myself out there. I sound like a goddamn idiot.

  I sound thirsty.

  Desperate, even.

  Well. Fuck this.

  If she doesn’t want anything to do with me after I make yet another effort? Fine.

  So be it.

  Except…

  When my phone dings, my heart leaps.

  When the messages are from other people, my stomach drops from disappointment.

  When my phone stays silent, I constantly check to make sure it’s not on mute.

  Do you ever have that happen?

  It fucking sucks.

  I pick up my phone and look at it, throwing it down into the passenger side of my car when I find the screen blank, no notifications because I am a loser with no personal life.

  Ugh!

  I hit the grocery store, tossing fruit and vegetables and whatever other healthy shit I can find into my cart, wheeling around each corner as if I’m being timed on a game show.

  Smiling curtly at a woman who coyly grins my way, eyeing me up and down like meat in the deli.

  Sorry ma’am, not interested.

  Why aren’t I, though? I’m single.

  The one person I’m interested in doesn’t give a shit about seeing me, and I haven’t been laid in…since…

  Well—the wedding.

  True Wallace was the last time I’ve had sex, and if I said it wasn’t the best sex, I’d be lying. And it was better than good because I felt something.

  I don’t always have sex on the first date, but when I do, I do.

  Ha.

  One hundred and seventeen dollars poorer (because eating healthy is fucking expensive), I heft the bags out to my car in one trip, determined to carry them out on one arm, without a cart, pumping the bags like iron.

  Roar!

  As soon as I start the engine of my SUV, my phone chimes—but this time I let it sit, in no mood for more disappointment, mind wandering as I back out of my parking space, passing by the coffee shop I want to hit on my way home, hanging a left at the stop sign.

  “Your mom actually made you take dancing lessons?” True asks after the slow song ends and a fast one begins. We exit the dance floor, my hand at the small of her back, eyes skimming her backside appreciatively.

  She’s a beautiful woman.

  “All of us had to take dancing lessons—no idea why. It’s not like I was ever going to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.”

  “You could be, actually.”

  She’s right—I could be, now that I’m famous. “No one is knocking down my door to be on television,” I insist—although, with one phone call, I could have my agent look into it. “Right now, the only person I want to be dancing with is you.”

  True rolls her eyes. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

  Probably. “I’m a little out of practice. Normally when I’m trying to date someone, I go to my sisters for advice, and—” I pretend to look around. “You don’t see any interfering Latinas nosing around, do you? I’m on my own. I can’t help what comes out of m
y mouth.”

  “You have six sisters, I have only brothers—we’re both doomed.”

  Before I order us another round, I find out if she’s hungry. “Should we go grazing at the buffet?” A long table of snacks and appetizers have been set out to keep food in the bellies of those of us who are drinking.

  “I could eat.”

  It’s music to my ears. A girl who likes food is a keeper, as my father always says.

  I look down at True’s gently swaying hips, imagining myself between them while following her to the spread on the other side of the ballroom.

  She plucks up strawberries, cantaloupe, and pineapple. A slice of a Danish. One beef slider. Cheese. Sausage. Three crackers.

  “You’re going to regret only taking one slice of cheese,” I mention, knowing how addicting a cheese/sausage/cracker sandwich is.

  “But I have all this other stuff…”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You’re not going to want it. Cheese, sausage, and crackers only.” I load my plate up to demonstrate, choosing the meats and meatballs and a handful of nuts. “If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll share.”

  She waits patiently while I pick a few other things—as if she’s obligated to wait. As if we’re in this together.

  Heading back toward the bar, we set our plates on the counter when we get there, and I signal for another round of whatever we had before, plus two waters. “Want anything else? Soda? Iced tea?”

  “No, the drink is perfect.” She begins picking at her plate, going for the cheese first.

  Yup. I knew it.

  Her first bite is dainty, hand under her mouth to catch falling crumbs, her pink tongue darting out to lick small bits of Ritz off her lips with a smile.

  “Man I love these.” She chews. “I can’t keep any of these things in my house because I’ll eat them for dinner every night. Trust me, I’ve done it before. My roommates had to have an intervention for me last year.”

  “I could see that, sure.” I pop a meatball into my mouth. “Another thing I’m addicted to is potato chips and French onion dip. Once, during a Christmas, my mother stationed my sister Ana in the kitchen to guard it from me.”

  “Guard it from you?!”