Rooster: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 9

  She seems to be stressing out about this way more than I am. I guess that unless you know him, Rory seems like a super bad option. Prison for a year, banned from his sport, fucks girls in alleyways for fun, tattoos all over his body, record number of times sent to penalty box in a debut match, record number of broken sticks in one match, I can see where she’s coming from. I know a completely different side, though, even though I still don’t know how he would feel about Oscar.

  “Why are you so turned over about it?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Iz. You’re my best friend and I love you. I love both of you.”

  “Even when he keeps you up all night?” I ask.

  “Sometimes, even when he keeps me up all night”, April adds.

  “I’ll tell him”, I say.

  “If you do it here, it’s harder for him to leave.”

  “Invite him here?”

  April nods. She’s got her scheming eyes on now. “If you do it in public, or over the phone, he can just run away. Do it here, where he can see Oscar, where he can see how you live and how much you need his help”, she says.

  “You’re a bad person, April Pearson. But, you’re a good friend. Thank you for looking out for me, I appreciate it”, I say, not entirely convinced it’s a good idea.

  “Well someone has to, don’t they? If you’re going to get yourself knocked up in a back alleyway in the lower east side, who else is going to come to your rescue?” she says.

  “Is that the end of your firm, big sister eyes now? I’ve had those all week and I don’t think I can cope with them anymore.”

  “I’ll put them back in the box”, April says. “But they’ll be coming straight out again if they need to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Alright, good, now give me a hug before the moment passes.”

  Six.

  Izzy

  There are parts of me that think this is a terrible idea, other parts that think it’s the best idea in the world. Invite itinerant, badly behaved Irish sports star and father of exhibit A, Oscar ‘crying and shitting machine’ Byron to dinner, make sure badly behaved Irish sports star and father of exhibit A, Oscar ‘crying and shitting machine’ Byron is halfway through his dinner and suitably drunk to feel embarrassed at doing anything but staying put, and then present said baby to said sports star just before the dessert is served.

  What an earth could go wrong?

  April is right, which I hate to admit because she is right so infrequently that when she is she likes to go on about it. Doing it anywhere other than here is just nonsense. We know each other intimately, after all, what would be more appropriate for a third date than a home cooked dinner at a typical New York apartment, full disclosure on a secret baby, and an eye-popping sex session to round off the night?

  There is also a bed here. Restaurants and bars and sports venues do not have beds, although I suppose that didn’t stop us in the first place. Whether I want to give Oscar a little brother or sister yet is another matter entirely.

  Could you imagine that? So, Rory, welcome to America. This is your son and right here *pointing at already swollen baby* is the next one on the way.

  Just a normal day in the office.

  April and Cory have made themselves scarce, but have refused to take Oscar with them, which April quite rightly points out is the reason for bringing Rory here in the first place. My idea of seeing how the night goes before dropping the mother of all bombshells clearly isn’t shared by my roomie and part time relationship counselor.

  At least Rory seems keen. He says he misses me, which is nice to hear. He says he can’t wait to see me again, but I wonder if that will change when he actually gets here and finds out about our secret.

  Oscar has been crying for what seems like a week. He might be teething early, he might be ill, he might just like the sound of his own voice. Neither the doctors nor anyone else but April and I seem to think it’s unusual or anything to be overly concerned with.

  Whatever is wrong with him, if this carries on, I won’t be able to hide the secret from anyone in the entire borough of Manhattan, let alone his real Dad.

  It’s been a couple of weeks since I saw Rory last, who has continued to make a name for himself in the world of ice hockey. Remarkably, he’s led the Rangers to three victories now, scored in the last two games, and despite his somewhat unorthodox style of play, seems to be winning over fans.

  It’s an absolutely incredible story, even more so because half of the time he looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s typical Rory, at least it is from what I know about him. The man seems to do everything with a smile on his face, even if it’s pounding seven bells of shit out of his opponent. The funniest thing is, he’ll knock someone on their ass and then help them up so he can do it again. If he gets knocked down, which seems to only happen if the opposition throws two or three players at him, he takes it all in the spirit of the game.

  I haven’t seen a player in ice hockey with a better temperament, which makes me think that whatever awful shit went down between him and his dad, it must have taken something serious to finally push him over the edge.

  Both of the games he’s played since I saw him last were away from the city, which has been kind of convenient in giving us a natural break. Based on the microcosm that is our relationship so far, two weeks without seeing each other is positively glacial, but I’m keen not to rush into it too quickly, especially if it continues in the incredible way it has begun.

  Rushing into something so good would be a mistake, you know, like getting pregnant with someone a minute after meeting them, or inviting them around to dinner to show them their secret baby three weeks after they appear out of nowhere again.

  Thirty minutes to go before blast off and I’m seriously having doubts about whether I’m doing the right thing.

  I’ve made Irish stew, which on reflection could be a massively inappropriate, overstepping-the-mark, overly-familiar gesture. I bought Guinness too, but I’m hiding it. Three dates in and it feels like we’re already married.

  Welcome home honey, how many people did you knock to the ground today? Want to bend me over the table and fuck me rigid with that huge Irish cock of yours, while our fourteen children finish up in the coal mines?

  We can have wine like everyone else, and one child is enough for now. I’ll tell him the stew is American, even though I went to four different shops to get the ingredients and then spent three hours cooking it.

  Or I’ll cancel the whole thing completely. I still have time. I doubt Rory’s preparation for an evening consists of anything more than a glance in the mirror on the way out of his hotel room, and that’s about it.

  That’s exactly what I like about him too. Real men have balls, and I like it when they are big enough to show them. He doesn’t need to hide behind a sheen of expensive aftershave, or a pair or nut squashing trousers. Rory would eat hipsters for breakfast, if they had any nutritional value.

  Oscar is up and down like a yoyo, and I’m running out of time. I’ve fed him, so that can’t be it, I’ve changed his diaper twice, so that can’t be it either. I can’t see any teeth in that massive mouth of his, and even if I could there would be nothing I could do about it anyway.

  I can’t lock him in the bedroom and it’s slightly unethical to dip the tip of his bottle in whiskey, so I have no idea what to do.

  Fuck. Daddy’s coming home in less than half an hour and Oscar is already yelling at him. This is make or break. This is the sports star I’ve always dreamed about having for my very own, about to see the future with a clean set of eyes.

  Forget about the money, although that has a practical purpose it’s hard to argue against, and think for a moment about the man. Rory is an incredible human being and even though we’re not very far along in our journey, I really don’t want to fuck it up before we’ve even begun. We could be perfect for each other, as unlikely as it seems and despite all of the things going against us, and I don’
t want to spoil that over rebranded Irish stew, warm white wine and a podgy bundle of tears that on any other given day is usually as good as gold.

  There’s nothing else for it, I have to phone April.

  As soon as I reach for my phone, it begins to ring, shocking me so much I nearly drop it into the stew.

  “Don’t do what you’re thinking of doing”, April says.

  “How did you-?”

  I can picture the look she’s giving me even though I can’t see it.

  “It’s eight forty-five, I knew you’d be about to call him”, she says.

  “I can’t do it, April.”

  “You already are.”

  “What if he freaks out?” I say.

  “Listen, Iz. You’re doing the right thing. What happens after is up to him and completely out of your control. He has just as much responsibility to Oscar as you do.”

  “What if, I don’t know, what if he wants to take him away and all the way back to Ireland?” I say, seriously worried there is a possibility of this happening.

  “Seriously?” April says. “Honey, this is America, and Rory has a criminal record. He’s not exactly the ideal parent.”

  She has a point although I’m still terrified of the possibility.

  “Oscar won’t stop crying.”

  “Have you changed him?” she asks.

  “I’ve done everything to him that I can think of. I’ve changed him, bathed him, kissed him, cuddled him, rocked him to sleep but nothing.”

  “Then maybe it’s for the best”, April says.

  “How is a crying baby for the best?” I say, ready to panic.

  “Because it means you’ll have no way of avoiding what you need to do tonight.”

  There is some noise on the line and it sounds like April is being called away. “Iz, I’ve got to go.”

  “April?”

  “You’ll be fine. Remember, less fucking more baby Daddy talk.”

  “Wait.”

  “I’ve got to go”, she insists.

  “I’m not ready”, I say, but it’s too late. The line has already gone dead.

  When the buzzer goes half a second later, it’s so loud it actually makes me scream.

  Rory

  I can smell the food even before I’ve got to the apartment. If she’s cooked what I think she’s cooked, I’m not going to be able to help falling in love with this girl. She could have a million and one skeletons in her closet and it wouldn’t matter, if she cooks me traditional beef stew every once in awhile, everything would be automatically forgotten.

  Her place reminds me of the inner city tower blocks we get in the shitty outer suburbs of Dublin, the kind of place I grew up and where my Mom and her side of the family still live now. It’s hard to believe that this, and my hotel on the square, are even in the same city, let alone the same borough.

  Manhattan is a relatively small place, and when you think about New York you definitely don’t think about poverty. This place has it all though, graffiti on the outside, lift door kicked in and teenagers hanging about outside trying to sell me weed. Even the stairwell stinks of piss.

  I climb the six floors up to the top of the building, where the smell of that stew comes wafting out from underneath the two-inch gap of the front door so thick I can almost taste it. Even if I were blind I could have made it up here, and having started the evening with a hunger anyway, now I’m here, I’m absolutely famished.

  When I knock, I notice the jemmy marks on the door where someone has obviously had a go on the lock, before I hear Izzy’s voice call to me from the other side.

  “One minute”, she says.

  Two weeks since I saw here last and it’s almost been worse than the whole year we had apart. I hadn’t even heard from her until a couple of days ago, another one of these we need to talk pre-conversation conversations she seems to be so fond of, followed by the surprise invite over here I hadn’t expected at all.

  To be honest, I hadn’t expected her to call. I wanted her to, but the way she left my hotel room, didn’t fill me with all that much confidence about such an imminent return.

  Yet here I am. Not only meeting up with Izzy again, invited to her inner chamber. Whatever the fuck she wants to talk about, which is clearly codeword for multiple orgasm, I can’t wait.

  Life is good at the moment. The back alley angel is back in my life, I’m nailing this fucking weird game that seems to be a mix of winters out at my uncle’s house in the country, where we’d play rugby on the frozen ice of his pond, and straight up cage fighting, I’ve just got an advance on my first paycheck, and I’m about to fill my boots with beef stew.

  The only thing that could top this off is a cold Guinness and the kind of orgasm that rolls your eyes into the back of your head and curls your toes to the far wall.

  Izzy looks worried when she finally opens the door. Beautiful, but worried, and make that half opens the door. It’s the same as the last time I saw her, hiding behind the wood as though trying to decide whether to let me in or not. It’s coquettish and playful and I can’t say I don’t like it.

  “Hello, Rory O’Connor”, she says.

  “Hello, Isabel”, I say back

  “You’ve brought your stick.”

  “Flowers are so passé.”

  “Are you trying to impress me?” she asks.

  I hand it over to her. “I got Kowalski to sign it for you. I know you’re a fan of his work.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  Just looking at those chocolate brown eyes of hers gives me a boner. Although, maybe it’s not just the eyes, maybe it’s the look she’s hiding behind them. Half timid, half playful, fully erotic. I’ve missed that look. In fact, I’ve missed everything about this girl. The way she stands barefoot with one foot balanced over the other, the way she ties her hair up with a pencil, the type of dresses she chooses, her cracked nails bitten to the wick, her plain face unchoked by the artificiality of makeup.

  “Welcome to my humble abode”, Izzy says sending the door wide.

  I step inside to the open plan apartment, the food already out on a dining table that seems to have been set up solely for this purpose, the rest of the space given over to books, clothes, and other assorted junk that gets collected over time.

  “Nice place”, I say.

  The view from up here is incredible, and while I walk casually around to check it out, Izzy watches me patiently, her hands clasped behind her back.

  “I like it”, she says. “It’s small, but it’s cheap. Cheap for Manhattan, I mean.”

  I go to the table and lift the lid on a stew I already know will be absolutely delicious. The smell is all over the apartment, probably all over the lower east side by now, it’s that good.

  “Irish stew”, I say, eyes wide.

  Izzy shakes her head. “American stew”, she says with a smile.

  She’s watching me carefully like we’re playing a game where she’s hidden something and I have to guess what it is. I half expect her to say warmer or colder as I move into different parts of the room. She’s clearly got something she needs to tell me, but is struggling to find the words. Is this my last supper, or am I misreading this entirely?

  “I’ve missed you”, I say, moving towards her.

  I take hold of the back of her neck and bring her towards me. Our lips are millimeters apart, so close I can feel the heat coming off them, when, all of a sudden, I swear I hear a baby crying.

  Izzy presses herself onto me, fighting her tongue into my mouth and biting down on my lip, but that sound is super distracting and unless these walls are paper thin, it’s clearly coming from inside this apartment.

  I pull away momentarily. “Did you hear that?” I ask her.

  “Hear what?” she says innocently.

  “That, that sound?”

  “What sound?” she says, pressing herself into me again.

  “There. You don’t hear it? I
t sounds like a baby crying”, I say.

  “A baby crying? Oh fuck, he’s awake again”, Izzy says, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  “Who’s awake again?”

  This is really fucking confusing now.

  “Oscar”, Izzy says, already moving towards one of the closed doors.

  “Who the fuck is Oscar?” I ask.

  Izzy disappears into the darkness of the room for a moment before coming out with a crying baby in her hands. I mean this thing is about the size of a sack of spuds and it’s wailing like there’s no tomorrow. How something so small can have such a huge pair of lungs is beyond me. Apart from that, my other main question is what the fuck is Izzy doing with a baby?

  “Rory, meet Oscar”, she says. “Oscar, this is Rory.”

  I’m looking at her but she’s not saying anything. Either she’s not aware or I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, whichever way it is, this is fucking weird.

  “Cute kid”, I say. I’m sure he’s way cuter when he’s not screaming.

  “He’s a pain in the ass”, Izzy says, jiggling him up and down.

  “I know this is probably a really stupid question, and maybe it’s entirely inappropriate, Izzy”, I say, “but what exactly is Oscar doing here?”

  This kid has got me worried and I don’t like being worried on an empty stomach and now Izzy is giving me a glare I don’t like the look of.

  “Not a fan of kids?” she asks pointedly.

  “I love kids, I just didn’t expect one to come out of that room”, I say.

  “Here, hold him a sec will you, I need to do his bottle.”

  Bottle? Hold? What the fuck? I haven’t got a chance to refuse before she hands him over.

  I’ve never held a baby before, but I guess that’s not the right time to tell Izzy that. Even if it was, she doesn’t give me enough time to do so anyway. I jiggle him in the same way she did while she prepares his bottle, the question on the tip of my tongue.