Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  I mean. Maybe.

  The further along I get in this pregnancy, the more privacy I’m going to want.

  Right?

  Or no?

  My head does a hesitant little nod. “Maybe.” We’ll see. “Give me more time to think about it.”

  This mollifies my brother. “I, of course, would have a spare key.”

  I laugh. “No, you will not have a spare key!”

  “Why not?!”

  “You won’t even be around—you’ll be in Arizona, for pity’s sake.”

  “See! So how can it hurt for me to have a key to your house? You’re not making any sense. I’ll be like your groundskeeper and maintenance man.”

  “You.” I stab at my salad. “Will.” Stab. “Be.” Stab. “Gone.”

  “So? I’ll put cameras up.”

  “Oh my god, Buzz, are you hearing yourself? You’re worse than Mom, Dad, and Tripp combined! If you won’t be here, what the hell good are you going to be all the way across the country?”

  A cruel reminder that the father of my child is also going to be clear across the country while I get more and more pregnant.

  The thought of that suddenly depresses me, and I shove lettuce in my mouth.

  “I’ll fly you out. You can come stay with us there. Lie out in the sun, sit by the pool, work in the shade on the patio.”

  That does sound lovely. Instead of renting a house or apartment or staying in a hotel like many professional players do while they’re in preseason camp, my brother bought a house—a fixer-upper—a few years ago and stays there instead.

  Then, throughout the winter, my parents will fly out to Arizona to escape the shitty Midwest winter.

  “Thanks for the offer.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing—I’ll think about it.”

  “We won’t be gone a long time. Spring training is only thirty-seven days.”

  Thirty-seven days sounds like an eternity, actually, except I’ll never admit that.

  “So…” My voice trails off, and I clear my throat. Shift in my seat. Plop a breadstick into the alfredo dipping sauce and swirl it. “Do you ever have friends stay with you?”

  Buzz pauses. “What friends? From home?”

  “No,” I say, feigning ignorance. “Like, teammates and stuff.”

  “They can get their own damn houses.”

  Oh.

  How the heck am I supposed to find out gossip about Mateo when my brother is so tight-lipped about his buddies?

  “Do you hang out with any of your teammates while you’re training?”

  My brother shrugs. “Usually, but last year I wasn’t married—or even in a relationship.”

  Buzz and Hollis met and were engaged within three weeks, married within months.

  Yes, you heard that right: it was a three-week courtship. Insta-love and all that good stuff…

  “And Hollis is going to be there this year?”

  He nods. “For the most part, back and forth since she’s got to check in with her office periodically. She can’t just skip town completely, but we are going to pay some of her support staff while wifey is away so she has more freedom to come and go.” Buzz is eating spaghetti and inhales a giant forkful. “She’s excited.”

  “So you guys aren’t going to hit the town with your friends?”

  He levels me with a stare, a noodle dangling from the corner of his mouth. “What’s with all the questions about my friends? Stop being weird.” His lips are stained red from the sauce. “Speaking of my buddies and guys, have you thought about dating at all? You’ve been single forever.”

  Any thoughts I had about starting to date quickly fled the second I found out I was having a baby. What guy in their right mind wants to date a pregnant girl who is having some other man’s baby?

  Another depressing thought because I cannot tell him any of what’s weighing on my mind.

  I sigh. “Oh, Mr. Married wants to play matchmaker for his baby sister?”

  “What did I say about matchmaking? I just asked if you were stuck on being single.”

  Stuck on being single—as if I’m doing it on purpose. “I haven’t met anyone.”

  Plus, my eggo is preggo.

  “Did you want to volunteer any of your friends?”

  “Pfft. Hell no.”

  “Not a one? Not…oh, I don’t know. Espinoza?”

  Buzz stops shoveling in spaghetti long enough to shoot me an agitated glare. “Definitely not him. Over my dead body.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “That’s not a reason,” I say, sounding a lot like our mother.

  “Yes it is.”

  His nonresponse response makes me laugh, but it’s still aggravating that he doesn’t seem to have a single reason Mateo Espinoza would be a terrible match.

  Which makes me wonder if he is a great match.

  Which makes me wonder if I made a huge mistake thinking he was a player.

  “Why, does he sleep around?”

  If my brother did sleep around, it was never anything I was aware of. Never heard any whispers about him being a playboy—which you sometimes do. It’s not unheard of for a player to earn a reputation off the field and in the media.

  He just chose the wrong girls at the beginning of his career, the ones that were aggressively in his face. I mean, a shy girl isn’t going to stand out in a sea of gold diggers whose lifelong pursuit is to be a trophy wife.

  So a few bad girlfriends landed in the mix. A few young women who spoke out to the media about Buzz, who wanted gifts and presents and such.

  That didn’t make my brother a man-whore; it made him human.

  “How would I know who he’s sticking his dick in?” Buzz blurts out before catching himself for his bad manners. “Sorry. I meant, how would I know if he’s sleeping with a bunch of chicks?”

  One of my shoulders goes up in a shrug. “I assumed y’all knew that stuff about each other…which guys sleep around and which ones are loyal.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions about Espinoza?”

  “I’m not.” Am I? “It was one question.”

  “Then why was he the first person who popped into your head when you asked me to play matchmaker?”

  “Oh my god, I did not ask you to play matchmaker. You know what? Never mind, forget I said anything.” Please, let it go and never bring it up again.

  The meatball on his plate gets cut in half. “It’s not like he hasn’t been sniffing around for information about you. It’s so fucking annoying.”

  Oh?

  Tell me more.

  I lean forward, affecting a casual posture, pushing the soup spoon around the Italian wedding soup I ordered, picking out the noodles and blowing on them.

  “Calm down. All he did was ask for your number, and that was weeks ago.”

  And now I’m twelve weeks pregnant. At twenty, I can find out if the baby is a boy or a girl, and I still have not told Mateo.

  I do not mention to my brother that Mateo managed to find my number via his meddling sisters, or that I am going to have drinks with him, or whatever we decide.

  Buzz would be so pissed, more so than he is that I’m living in Tripp’s house while I search for a place—and let’s be honest, I haven’t done shit as far as looking.

  One week turned into two and two turned into I don’t know how long I’ve been there but I have to leave before I get huge. Good luck getting me out then, after feeding me and taking care of all my basic human needs.

  Last night while I was lying in bed, I finally messaged my close friends, sending them a text with the pregnancy test. Stayed up until all hours of the morning answering their questions, leaving out the part about Mateo—I trust them, but only mostly. I’ve only met Winnie’s boyfriend once, so I can’t be sure he won’t tell someone. And Monica? We know she’s hard up for cash considering she couldn’t pay the rent, and a story about baseball’s golden child impregnating the sister of one
of his teammates? That could fetch Monica thousands of dollars.

  Probably more money than she can make in a year.

  So for now, they think I’ve been knocked up by someone from my past, a guy I went to high school with who I had drinks with one night.

  They freaked out.

  At one point, we FaceTimed so Winnie could cry, a bit jealous perhaps that I’m having a baby before her, since she’s the one in a long-term relationship.

  They were supportive, obviously, but it felt weird texting to break the news. I tried to be upbeat and cheerful, but they could see how tired and worried I was. Am.

  The whole thing is just so messed up.

  When Buzz drops me off at Tripp’s house, the first thing I do is steal away to the bathroom and lock myself in—I’m not risking either of my brothers trying to barge in. Or Molly skulking around to spy on me.

  Pulling up Mateo’s number, I send him a text.

  Ten

  Mateo

  It’s just pizza.

  Just.

  Pizza.

  Calm your nerves, dude—you’ve played in the World Series, this doesn’t even compare, and it’s not even a date, so what are you so freaking nervous about?

  My stomach rolls.

  I haven’t seen True since her brother’s wedding, and I’ve been doing my damnedest to meet up with her, everyone in her family avoiding me or denying my requests for her information, and now I’m finally going to see her.

  Granted, I’ve built this moment up in my head and it’s probably not going to amount to anything, but…

  Still.

  It’s just pizza.

  That’s what True wanted, so that’s what we’re going to do.

  I thought it was a little odd. Most women would at least suggest coffee? Or dinner—a real one. Steak, potatoes. Maybe Italian…

  Not her.

  I take one look at her when she breezes through the entrance and my heart skips an actual beat; she’s bundled up and adorable, already peeling off her thick winter jacket, long hair peeking out beneath a cable-knit hat. Giant puff ball on top I immediately want to fluff with my fingertips.

  Rosy cheeks. Serious expression.

  I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my coat, feeling a bit bashful, and give her a nod.

  “Hey.”

  Take them out again to give her the standard hug-slash-greeting and pat on the back.

  “Hey,” she says at last, shivering a little.

  “They have a table for us. A booth, actually.”

  “Oh great—I love booths.”

  Same.

  So much comfier and more intimate.

  Granted, this is a Chicago pizza place, so how romantic and intimate is it going to be?

  Plus, a few dudes around the room have noticed me despite the blue New York Yankees baseball hat I’m wearing as a disguise, to throw people off my scent.

  Super fans gonna super-fan, and heads are turning.

  Whispers are whispering.

  It’ll only be a matter of time before someone musters up the courage to come to the booth and ask for my signature.

  True’s jacket comes off before she slides into the booth, and I quickly do a scan before her lower half isn’t visible: jeans, sweatshirt, black winter boots with fur sticking out the top that matches the fur on the ball of her hat.

  Unlike most women try to do when they’re meeting a man they haven’t seen in a long time, it’s obvious she’s not trying to impress me—not in that outfit.

  This is like…friend zone outfit status, not a “hanging with bae” outfit.

  Not a good sign.

  Dammit.

  Once we’re settled, the server comes over with two glasses of ice water—the kind served in big red plastic Pepsi glasses filled with crushed ice. Sets down two sets of forks and knives wrapped in paper napkins.

  True and I ignore each other the first few minutes, respectively poring over the menu when in reality, I already know what kind of pizza I’ll eat, the only kind I prefer.

  Sausage. Mushroom. Black olives. Extra cheese.

  “Want to get a pizza?” she says, even though she’s the one who suggested we meet at a pizza joint.

  Uh. Were we supposed to order a different kind of food?

  “Yup. Whatever kind you like.”

  Her lips press together. “I’m boring—just your basic sausage, mushroom, black olives.”

  A girl after my own heart. “Sounds good to me.” I glance at the menu but don’t really have to. “Garlic bread or no?”

  True puts her hands up. “No. No, no—lord no. If I eat garlic bread, I’ll…” She stops talking.

  “You’ll…?” Have diarrhea? Get the shits? Fart a lot?

  Come on, don’t keep me in suspense here.

  “I just don’t like to eat garlic or onions.”

  Ahh—she’s worried she’ll smell. I keep those thoughts to myself, having been trained by females who would kick my ass for saying shit like that out loud to embarrass them.

  “Got it. No garlic bread, no onions.” I file that information away. “What about regular bread? With cheese?”

  True snaps up the menu, gaze roaming over it. “Oh! What about fried pickles!”

  Fried pickles? What the hell?

  “Uh. Sure.”

  Her eyes are still scanning. “Maybe calamari? With ranch and marinara for dipping.” She glances up at me. “Do you want anything?”

  “You are not going to eat all that yourself,” I deadpan. She cannot be serious.

  She’s tiny!

  Well. Normal sized.

  I can’t imagine her eating two appetizers herself plus pizza, but what do I even know?

  True dips her head, face flushing. Cute winter hat still pulled down on her head. No chance in hell she’ll take that off so I can see her hair—it would be a mess, no doubt, and she’d be self-conscious.

  But I’m curious, because I’ve never seen her hair fully down. Sure, I searched for images of her on the internet—bunches popped up, mostly events she’s gone to with one or both of her brothers. Football fundraisers and baseball galas, one or two ESPY Award ceremonies.

  She’s cute and put together in each and every one; this sweatshirt-and-jeans True is a far cry from the glam girl I met and banged at Buzz Wallace’s wedding.

  I prefer this version by far.

  Real. Authentic.

  True to herself, no pun intended.

  After we order, it’s just us. Well, just us and a room full of people, most of whom are pretending not to be watching us, some of them actually doing a decent job of it.

  “It’s nice seeing you,” I start, sliding the paper ring off the utensils and folding it in half to occupy my hands. I’m nervous and not sure what to say or how to begin, or how to ask her why she’s been avoiding me.

  Or maybe she hasn’t and I’m going to make an ass of myself by asking.

  “Yeah—I really needed to get out of the house, so thank you for the invitation.”

  “Out of the house.” That jogs my memory. “Oh that’s right, I remember you mentioning you have a place with two of your friends closer to the suburbs.”

  “Had.” True sips at her water. “I’m living with my brother Tripp right now. I lost my place.” Her head gives a shake. “Why did I say I lost it? What I mean is, my roommate defaulted on our rent and we got kicked out. Landlord has this niece…”

  “Ah. The old ‘I need you out so I can move my kid in’ scenario. That’s why renting sucks.”

  She unwraps a straw and sticks it in her water cup. “Yeah, my brothers keep telling me I should buy something, but I guess…” Her sigh is loud. “It’s probably smart.”

  “You don’t want to buy something?”

  “I do. It just seems…hard?” She laughs at herself, and I laugh along with her. “Who wants to be an actual adult? Not me.”

  Man, she’s sweet.

  Younger than me by maybe five years, which is the perfect age gap in my opi
nion.

  “Not me, either. Being an adult sucks. You can’t just have a one-night stand with someone anymore without thinking about that person nonstop.”

  It takes True Wallace a few seconds to play my sentence back in her mind to make sense of it, to realize I’m talking about her and our night together. To understand that I’m implying I didn’t mean to have a one-night stand and never see her again.

  The wedding was fun, yes.

  The sex was amazing, yes.

  Did I plan to bail? No.

  Did she?

  Was she just using me?

  That’s one idea that hadn’t crossed my mind until this very moment, and the thought of it makes me sick.

  Nah.

  Not possible.

  “Very funny.” She makes light of my comment to avoid discussing it, but I don’t think I want to let her off so easy.

  “Weird role reversal, don’t you think?” I take a swig of water.

  “How so?”

  “Stereotypically, it’s the guy sneaking out.”

  She almost chokes on her drink, sputtering. “Oh my god, you can’t just say that!” Her eyes are smiling.

  “I can’t? Why not? You left and it wasn’t even daylight—where were you goin’ in such a rush?”

  The server appears, setting two baskets in the center of the table: calamari, aka fried squid, and the fried pickles. Dipping sauces galore.

  True claps her hands. “I wasn’t going anywhere in a rush.”

  Liar.

  “Except to get gone?”

  She considers this as she loads the small round appetizer plate with food, licking her fingers once she gets her last helping out of the basket.

  “I’m going to be honest with you,” she begins. “So, I’m going to put my game face on.” True inhales, then inhales an appetizer. “I’d never done anything like that before, and I was embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed about what?”

  “What you’d think of me…how you’d treat me the next day…” Her shoulders move up and down. “I didn’t want to wait around to find out.”

  Fair enough. She’s afraid of rejection.

  Who isn’t?

  “So what you’re saying is, you’re not good at casual sex.”

  A fried pickle falls out of her mouth and onto the plate. “Um. I don’t have casual sex.” Says it as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard in her life.