Rooster: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  “There’s nobody like you in our sport, and right now, we need you”, he says.

  “Even though I’ve never played it.”

  Francis leans in. “Even though you’ve never played it, I wager that you are better than ninety-nine percent of everyone else in our league. We need that advantage. At the end of last year we lost one of our best players, and if we don’t pull it together this year we are going to fall apart completely. I can’t let that happen.”

  “Which is why you’ve come here for me?” I ask.

  “Which is why I’ve made the effort to come here personally for you”, he says.

  I drink half of my pint in one go.

  “What’s it worth?”

  “One year contract, one million dollars”, Francis says.

  I let silence seep in between us, punctuated only by the sound of the fruit machine bells from across the room.

  “Huh”, I say, leaning back into my seat. It’s way more than I’ve ever been paid here, even with sponsorship deals.

  “You do well this year, we talk about tripling it”, Francis adds.

  He coolly sips his pint, but this still doesn’t seem right to me. I know I’m good, but I can’t help it from coming back to me. Hurling is my life, ice hockey isn’t. I have my family here, my friends, my club, even though all of that is currently on hold. What have I got there? A week full of good memories and one that has made it into the hall of fame, but what else? I know New York is a big place, but what if I bump into that lass again? And what if this time, it isn’t down a darkened alley?

  “One million?” I say.

  “That sound alright to you?”

  “One year?”

  “To start”, Francis says.

  “It isn’t hurling.”

  “No, it isn’t hurling.”

  I sip my pint. “I have a criminal record”, I say.

  “So did I when I got there.”

  “And now you work for an ice hockey team.”

  “No, Rory”, he says. “Now I own an ice hockey team.”

  From across the room, a waterfall of euros fills the trough at the bottom of the fruit machine, a pop-pop-ching of sound echoing around the bar, that only cold hard currency has the ability to make.

  Izzy

  I have about enough money to last me until Christmas, a lot more if Brad stops treating me like a fucking weekend pitstop and steps up his game to help me out. I can’t get too upset with him because Oscar isn’t his responsibility, but it kind of bums me out that he doesn’t seem to give two shits about the fact I’ll have to move back home if I don’t somehow sort this situation out.

  Waitressing won’t pay for childcare and child support isn’t enough alone to get me through. Being a single mother sucks balls because I can’t do all of this stuff alone. My family is too far away to depend on, and I can’t keep asking April to help out while I go to interviews for jobs I know are not even worth me taking. Either I get a nine to five that gives me enough money to hand over Oscar all day to someone else, or I bite the bullet and head home where I can work any shitty job™ while Mom and Dad do the childcare angle, which isn’t exactly my first choice at all.

  If motherhood wasn’t difficult enough, I’m still coming to terms with the fact my dream job has been mercilessly ripped away from me. How could they do that to me? A young Mom with hopes and aspirations. And that season ticket bullshit just adds insult to injury. Like I want to support the team that fired me. Brad wouldn’t be happy either. He’s an Islander after all, and even though we met because I worked at Rangers, he doesn’t want me actively supporting them.

  Even if I manage to get a decent job, I’m not entirely sure I want to pay someone else to look after my child for forty hours of the week. I’m supposed to be a Mom after all, and even though I didn’t plan to have Oscar, now that he’s here I want to take responsibility for him.

  There isn’t an easy solution obviously. Brad earns enough money to look after me and the baby, but that doesn’t solve the issue of me wanting to work, back in something I’ve spent my life working towards, plus he’s openly admitted he doesn’t want anything to do with the baby, nor for what we have together to be anything more serious than a casual hook up. Whenever he fucking feels like calling that is. It’s not exactly officially an open relationship, and I don’t have the time to look for anything else anyway, but I guess that’s the way Brad sees it. Fuck me when he wants to, with absolutely zero responsibility afterward.

  I guess on the plus side I get laid, and he is an arrogant asshole, which is kind of the type I go for anyway. I suppose it could be worse. He’s definitely no Rory, in looks, size or ability, but then Rory was a one-off, and it’s not even worth me going there.

  I’m late to the fucking interview and it’s not exactly because I’ve slept in too long. If anything, I hardly feel like I’ve been to bed at all. Not the best preparation, but if a baby’s crying, what exactly am I mean to do?

  The look I get as I walk in is priceless. It’s so dismissive I almost walk straight out of the door again. It’s as if none of these people have ever seen a baby before, and even though I know, technically, it isn’t the best form bringing him here, it’s not exactly the end of the world either.

  Maybe they don’t have children, or maybe they do and they didn’t have to do it alone. They should be thankful he’s asleep, because it’d be a hell of a lot worse if he wasn’t.

  An office job. A corporate, behind the desk, brain-numbing, nothing to do with my sports related business degree job, at just about enough money an hour, to keep Oscar in diapers and pay for the stupidly expensive but cheapest I could find childcare across the bridge in park slope.

  Three wax works guarding the way between me and a single mother’s daily grind. I smile, because if I don’t I’m only going to cry. Not because I’ve given up, but because it might make them take pity on me.

  “So, Isabel Byron. Thank you for coming”, one of them says.

  Coming was the easy part, looking after the baby afterward? Not so much.

  “It says on your resume that you spent a year in the PR department at the Rangers, I just worry that this might be a step down from there for you”, another one of them says.

  Oh, it is, it’s a massive step down, not just in terms of salary, but pretty much in every other respect too. This is a data entry job. This is the kind of job I could have done at nine years old and I have a degree in business, from a good college. I’m better than this but I also have a child to support and little other choice.

  “I wouldn’t say that”, I say, instead of what I’m really thinking. “I’ve been impressed by this company, and I think we would have a lot to offer each other.”

  “What happened with the Rangers?” the last one asks.

  “My one year contract can to an end, and the department I was working in was restructured and the position dissolved”, I lie.

  “And they didn’t want you to continue?”

  The question comes from the man wedged between the two women either side him like salami in a subway sandwich.

  “I was offered a role that I didn’t think best matched my skills and aspirations”, I lie again, at which point Oscar decides to wake up, filling the awkward silence with an ear-splitting scream.

  I lift him out of his pram and settle him down within minutes, but I feel like the damage is already done.

  “My sitter canceled on me at the last minute”, I say by way of explanation. “And Brad was at work, so-.”

  Their awkward nods don’t fill me with much confidence.

  “It’s really a very basic role. I’m not sure-”, the left slice of bread says.

  “I don’t mind basic”, I cut in. “Life is kind of challenging enough at the moment.”

  They look at each other, perhaps trying to work out how best to manage this situation so they can get me and Oscar out of the door as soon as possible without being rude.

  It doesn’t take them long. A few more textbook
questions and it seems like the shortest interview in the world is over.

  “We’ll be in touch”, white bread to the right says. Those famous last words of any prospective employer. What she really wants to say is we will never be in touch, ever. Even if you were the last candidate on earth and employing you meant the survival of our company and every single staff member, it would still be a no. Lose the baby and we might be able to talk, okay, honey?”

  I make a show of struggling out with the pram, even though it’s not necessary. I think about doing the waterworks too, or even stopping to breastfeed him right there in the reception area, but I just haven’t got the energy to waste on a completely lost cause. This isn’t the first job interview I’ve been turned down in, and it won’t be the last. The best thing for me is to forget all about it and move on. Baby crying, head held high, back out into the freezing New York weather, onwards and upwards.

  I’m halfway home when I see him, far too late to avoid contact. He’s blocking my path, smiling like a lunatic and waving his arms about to get my attention like an aircraft marshall guiding in a jumbo jet.

  Martin.

  Same tight pants, same stupid hipster swagger, even more cutting edge haircut.

  “Izzy.”

  Please don’t do the two kisses, one on each cheek thing like we’re French. I’m not French and I’ve not seen him for a year but no, that still doesn’t stop him. If someone goes in for it, it’s not exactly easy for the other person to hold back, so stretched awkwardly across the pram, up on tiptoes and nearly falling over, careful not to be impolite, I engage in this frankly ludicrous ritual.

  “What’s it been, a year?” Martin says.

  “Something like that”, I respond, vaguely.

  “What are you up to now?” Martin asks, in a way that seems like he can’t wait for me to ask him the same question.

  Either Oscar is invisible or too many jam jar cocktails have addled his brain. I mean isn’t it a little bit fucking obvious?

  “More or less the same”, I say. “I’ve got this one now.”

  Nothing conversations with people from the past always lead absolutely nowhere. They are like dead moments in space and time, and no-one ever wants to engage in them, except, perhaps Martin.

  “Wow, he’s cute”, he says, leaning into the buggy.

  Please don’t fucking wake him up.

  “He’s got your nose”, he says.

  Is that just one of the things people say to be polite or does he actually mean it?

  “How’s your photography thing going, the project?” I say, unable to find a decent enough out yet, and feeling just like the panel probably did in my interview.

  “The lines that aren’t there”, Martin reminds me.

  “Yeah, the lines that aren’t there. How’s that going?”

  “It’s gone already, and it went well, thank you. We had a gallery opening and I made it into the New York Times”, Martin says, obviously very proud of himself.

  “Wow. That’s… impressive”, I say, searching for the right adjective. “Well done.”

  “Thank you”, Martin says, smiling coyly. Like I said, not bad looking, just not my type.

  There’s an awkward silence in which I wish he’d stop looking at me with those you and me we could have been if only you’d given me a chance eyes.

  “You know I’ve got to-”, I begin. “He’ll need feeding.”

  “Sure”, Martin says.

  “Nice to see you”, I lie.

  “Yeah, likewise. Good luck with the, you know. Everything.”

  I watch Martin disappear down the hill for long enough to answer my own question. No, not even if I were desperate, he would never be the right man for me.

  The trudge home is harder than it usually is and I wonder if today I’m feeling particularly susceptible.

  No sleep nights aren’t unusual right now, so I can’t blame my tiredness for getting me down. The truth is, it could be any of a number of other things too. Brad romantically linked with a stripper from Atlantic City he didn’t think important to tell me about, the cold weather with prospects of more on the way, the fucking unending grind of job interviews, the lack of any kind of light at the end of the tunnel. If I didn’t have Oscar I might give up completely, but then if I didn’t have Oscar, I might not be in this mess at all.

  At home, April and Cory are getting ready to go out. It had completely slipped my mind that today was Friday. The day that traditionally every twenty-three year old goes out to party. Everyone but me and Oscar.

  “What’s up?” April asks.

  Even April’s you’re my best friend and I’ll do anything for you eyes aren’t enough to pull me out of my funk.

  “Bad day”, I say.

  “Every day’s a bad day when it’s fucking freezing”, Cory says.

  “Amen to that”, April adds.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Haven’t decided. Monika’s having a house party so we might head over there.”

  “Monika from work?” I ask.

  April nods. I slump down into the coach, Oscar thankfully still out of it enough to have survived the journey back to the apartment, and now April’s awful music selection while we’re in it. I can’t escape.

  “I thought you said she lived in a brothel”, I add.

  “It’s technically a halfway house, but it’s definitely not a brothel”, April confirms.

  “I wish I could come”, I say.

  “I wish you could come to. We could always try and get a sitter”, April offers.

  Twenty dollars an hour and at last minute’s notice, no chance. I don’t even need to say that either for April to understand. She reaches out takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “Next time”, she says.

  “Next time”, I echo.

  She’s a good friend. I can’t think of many people who’d put up with a baby in their apartment for so long, and even though, all up, we’re pretty different people, she understands me perfectly.

  “Don’t be sad, Iz. That super-fit, alpha male sports star is just around the corner, I can feel it”, she says.

  “One that likes babies?” I ask.

  “Just because Brad is a douchebag, that doesn’t mean every other man is. There are plenty of good ones. It took me a while to find one, and you are way more picky than I am.”

  “Thanks, April”, Cory says sarcastically.

  “I’m not exactly an Atlantic City stripper”, I say.

  “And you’re much better for it.” April smiles, her arms out, her hair and makeup done. “How do I look?” she says.

  “Gorgeous”, I confirm.

  “Drop dead or totally fucking?” she asks.

  I look at Cory and then back to April. They look good together - a normal, understanding, supportive couple. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s honest, doesn’t fuck her around and is clearly into her. He also stuck around when April was busy trying to make her mind up about him. I have to respect that because it’s way more than I’ve got with Brad. Fuck him, that doucheball.

  “Drop dead”, I say, and April beams at me.

  “Don’t stay up.”

  At the door, I call to her. “April?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for being there for me”, I say.

  “Don’t even think about it, Izzy. Just repay the favor when Cory knocks me up.”

  “No fucking way”, is Cory’s systematic response, before both of them are out in the corridor outside the apartment, and I can hear April continue to wind him up.

  I have less than three minutes of absolute silence, during which I swear I’m about to fall asleep for a thousand years before Oscar’s wails wake me up. How something so small can make such a big noise, I have absolutely no idea. He must get that from his dad.

  I feed him, change his diaper, spend forty minutes waiting for him to fall asleep again and then collapse back onto the sofa.

  It’s the end
of the week and I’ve achieved absolutely nothing. In fact, I’ve achieved less than nothing because right now I’m in a worse place than I was a week ago. At the start of this week, I had three interviews and a hat-trick of potential job opportunities. Right now, I have an empty schedule, a rapidly evaporating bank account and a stack of mail that can be nothing other than a pile of bills I’ve been putting off opening since the start of the month.

  Oscar will need new clothes soon, more diapers and more medication. The buggy’s falling apart, and sooner or later, no matter what April says to the contrary a time will come when we’ll have to move out. I don’t want to bring it up because I don’t want to think about it, but it’s in the mail and I’m going to have to deal with it soon. Not just for her but for me too. When Oscar gets even just a little bit older he’s going to need his own room.

  It’s a huge shit sandwich and I not only have to take a bit, I have to swallow the whole thing and enjoy it too.

  Underneath the stack of mail is a newspaper, and even though I want to do everything but look at vacancies, I figure now, while Oscar is asleep, is as good a time as any.

  I can feel my eyes shutting as I run them rapidly down the columns, an expert now in sorting through the ones that are likely to be worth applying for and the ones that definitely aren’t. When the words begin to get blurry and I decide enough is finally enough, I have several potential opportunities circled in preparation for ringing tomorrow.

  I close the newspaper on the back page, and I’m about to rest my head on the cushion behind me when I see the headline jump out at me.

  RANGERS DEFY LOGIC TO BRING IN SHAMED IRISH SPORTS STAR.

  Any weariness I previously had is immediately evaporated when my eyes move from the attention-grabbing headline to the mugshot below it, his name appearing in huge letters, just in case there was any doubt.

  RORY O’CONNOR.

  My Rory. The father of my child. The itinerant Irish sportsman who took me down a back alleyway and left me full of his seed.

  The best fuck of my life, here again, playing for my ex-employers.

  I have to read the paper several times to make sure I’m not imagining it. I have to check the internet, the official web page, the gossip columns and they all say the same.