Halo Violation: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 4

  “I know that,” she says a couple of times and “I will,” and “Mom,” and one very distinctive, “all right, fine.”

  I can sympathize with the poor girl. I wouldn’t want my mom calling me right after sex, either. Shit. Talk about a buzz kill.

  After a couple of minutes, Margaret comes back into the bedroom with a look of regret on her face.

  “Come here,” I say, holding out a hand to her.

  She takes my hand and I guide her on top of me so she’s straddling my abs. Her pussy is so wet. I love how it feels mashed up against me. My cock starts twitching again. Damn. I’m already primed for the next round. Here’s hoping she feels the same.

  “Hey, sexy,” I tell her, reaching around to stroke her ass cheeks.

  She doesn’t crack a smile. If anything, she looks even more regretful.

  “I am so sorry, Eric, but I really have to go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s complicated. Like I said. Stupid family stuff.”

  I narrow my eyes, studying her face. There’s definitely something shady going on here. If she’s really spending the holiday with her friend’s family, why would “family stuff” make any difference in whether she’s here with me or at Nina’s folks’ place?

  And then it hits me.

  I’m such a fucking dumbass. It’s obvious that the story about her staying with her friend Nina for Thanksgiving was some sort of cover story. But the question is why she would feel the need to feed me that bullshit. What possible reason could she have for lying to me about something so pointless?

  “Why not just be real with me?” I ask.

  She narrows her eyes back at me and says, “I am being real. I can’t help it if I’ve got obligations. I hate to break it to you, but the world doesn’t revolve around you, Eric Wenzel.”

  So she does know who I am. I haven’t mentioned my last name all night, but she knows it. Since she hadn’t said a word about the Vipers all night, I thought maybe she didn’t know who I was, but apparently that’s not the case.

  “I don’t really see how calling you on your bullshit makes me think I’m the center of the universe,” I tell her.

  She heaves a weary sigh and gets up off of me, leaving a wet mark on me from her pussy.

  Damn, that’s hot.

  So much for Round Two.

  “Just let it go, would you?” Margaret says as she finds her bra and straps it on. “I wish I could stay longer, but I can’t and I don’t want to have to explain things to you, okay?”

  “Fair enough.”

  She’s right. She doesn’t owe me any sort of explanation.

  Still, I hate that she’s leaving. I was looking forward to being inside her at least one more time tonight. Hell, I was kind of hoping she’d stay the night even though I didn’t think it was likely to happen.

  She leans down to pick her skirt up off the floor, and in doing so she offers me an amazing view of her ass.

  Man, this blows.

  I watch as she gets dressed again, in everything except for her panties, which she wads up and puts into her handbag.

  When she’s all dressed and ready to go, I get up so I can walk her out.

  “So, can I get your number?” I ask.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  What the fuck?

  For a moment I’m stunned speechless. Chicks never refuse to give me their numbers. Never. Not once has this happened before. I have no idea what to say, or even what to think.

  Luckily, I pull myself together so I can ask, “Why?”

  “I go to school in California and you live here. What’s the point?”

  “I travel a lot. We could easily see each other again if we really wanted to.”

  “Let’s just leave it where it is. I don’t know about you, but I had an amazing time, and I know I’ll look back on it as one of my fondest memories,” she says with a placating smile.

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  I’m not about to start begging her to give me her number. I know this is going to sound totally douche-y, but there are thousands, maybe even millions of chicks who would love to be in Margaret’s boots right now. I could have another chick in my bed in a matter of minutes if that’s what I wanted.

  “I really did have an amazing time, Eric,” she says, circling her arms around my neck and tilting her head up for a kiss.

  I kiss her, of course, and even though it’s a goodbye kiss, it’s charged with enough electricity to get my cock twitching again.

  Fuck.

  This chick sucks so much. I get it that she has to leave, but why is she so determined never to see me again? It doesn’t make any sense.

  When I pull back, she’s got a dreamy, dazed look in her eyes, and I actually wonder if she’s having second thoughts. Before I come to my senses, I break out of her embrace and grab a card from the top drawer of the hall table.

  “Here,” I say as I hand her the card. “I know you don’t want to give me your number, but here’s mine if you want it.”

  “Okay.”

  Thank fuck she took it. I’m not sure if my ego could really handle it if she refused.

  “Can I call a car service for you?” I ask.

  “Already done,” she motions to the screen on her phone. “The guy’s just coming up Third right now, so I should really be heading downstairs.”

  She must have arranged the Lyft right after getting off the phone with her mom. Well, I’ll say one thing for Margaret. Once she makes her mind up to do something, she gets it done.

  “Okay, then.”

  Without another word, she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug. I haven’t got a stitch on, and I love the feeling of her warm and woolly layers pressed up against me. I hold her close and stroke her soft hair, wishing it didn’t have to end so soon.

  “Take good care of yourself, Eric,” she says.

  “You too, Margaret. I hope we can meet again someday.”

  I don’t hear it, but I can feel her sigh, and after a moment, she pulls away from me and reaches for the doorknob. Without another word, she opens the door, steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind her.

  Well.

  I guess that’s that.

  I head back into the bedroom and pull on a tee shirt and a pair of sweats. Once I’m dressed, I grab my phone and flop down on the sofa to text the guys and see what they’re up to.

  Ben responds right away.

  We’re still here at the bar.

  What about you?

  Did you bang that chick?

  With a roll of my eyes, I text back:

  Yeah, but she just took off.

  His response is:

  DUDE. Are you that bad in bed?!?!?!

  I laugh and text him back:

  Fuck off, you piece of shit.

  Piss me off & you’ll be sleeping at the Y.

  So should I come join you guys?

  Or do you want to head back here or what?

  After exchanging a few more texts, it’s decided that Ben and Nathan are going to head back to my place, and I’m grateful for that. We have plenty of time to party over the weekend, but I really need a good night’s sleep for the game tomorrow.

  When they show up, I make every effort to put Margaret out of my mind and enjoy the time I get to spend with my old friends. Still, my thoughts keep drifting back to her, wondering why she was so dead set against the idea of us getting together again.

  I wish I could just forget about her, but in the short time I’ve spent with her, it’s clear that she’s gotten under my skin.

  Ugh. This really fucking sucks.

  6. MOLLY

  “Since when are you so interested in the game?” asks my brother-in-law, Michael.

  I glance briefly at him before returning my gaze to the TV screen. “I’m not ‘so interested’ in the game. I’m only watching because it’s on.”

  “If you say so...” he says with a laugh.

  I know wit
hout even looking at them that he and my sister, Tricia, are exchanging a look. No doubt they’re wondering why I’m sitting here with them. I haven’t watched the Thanksgiving Day games for years—not since before I started high school. Traditionally, you would find me stretched out in the window seat on the other end of the living room, listening to my headphones and texting my friends.

  But I’m not worried about what my sisters and their husbands might think of me acting out of character. I know there’s no way in hell any of them would ever guess what I did last night, much less who I did it with.

  I still can’t believe it happened. Sex with Eric Wenzel was the single-most exciting experience of my entire life, and I’m not even exaggerating.

  He’s in fine form today, and he looks hotter than ever in that sexy, grass-stained uniform. He had scored a quick touchdown, after which the Vipers got the field goal. He had gotten the touchdown by sailing over a tackle, catching the ball while he was mid-air. When that happened, it was all I could do not to start clapping and cheering, but luckily I managed to control the urge to do so.

  That sort of reaction would make my family wonder.

  “You should really go help Mom,” Tricia says.

  “Why don’t you go help?”

  I can’t take my eyes off the screen. As the camera scans the crowd, it catches Eric on a water break. He looks sweaty but really happy. My heart soars for him.

  When Tricia doesn’t answer—and when the cameras go over to the commentators—I turn to face her. She meets my gaze with an exasperated look and the arch of an eyebrow. She’s got one of her tits out, and my eight-month-old nephew is chowing down.

  “Ugh. Do you have to do that in here?” I ask.

  Her eyes widened, she says, “I thought you were a feminist, Molly. What are you saying? You’d rather the baby and I keep ourselves locked away in confinement until he’s weaned?”

  “No. I’m just saying there are certain things you should do in private, and anything involving bodily functions would fall into that category. That’s hardly an anti-feminist stance.”

  “There’s a difference between feeding your baby amongst family and changing a poopy diaper in public,” Tricia points out.

  “Gross. Could we not talk about poopy diapers, please?”

  “Poopy diapers are a part of life,” my sister, Beth, chimes in. “Pooping is a natural function, and there’s absolutely no need to get squeamish or uptight about it. The same can be said for throw-up.”

  She would know. Her daughter—my three-year-old niece—has a very sensitive stomach. If she eats certain foods, she pukes. If she eats too fast, she pukes. If she rides in a car, she pukes.

  “So true,” Tricia says, and the two of them start cackling with laughter like a couple of hens.

  “You guys are disgusting,” I tell them.

  The game goes to commercial, so I get up and head out of the room. Sisterly taunting aside, it’s good to be home. Even though I moved out three years ago, I still think of the Brooklyn Heights brownstone as home. And it’s no wonder. I lived here all my life up until I left for college. This place holds so much history for my family.

  When I walk into the kitchen I find Mom whipping up the filling for a pumpkin pie. My two nieces have dozens of canned goods arranged in stacks on the floor. They appear to be playing “grocery store” or something. Engrossed in their game, they take no notice of me, but Mom looks up with a smile.

  “Hey, Mom. Can I help with anything?”

  “Thanks, honey, but no. I’ve got everything under control.”

  I roll my eyes. When it comes to domestic duties, she’s a hopeless control freak. Obviously, Dad makes a pretty penny by coaching one of the top ranking teams in the League, but Mom has always been dead set against hiring anyone to help her out, not even a once a week cleaning lady. She says she hates the idea of having a “stranger” in our home.

  When my parents host dinner parties or other events, Mom does bend her rules a little by agreeing to hire temporary servers, but this is only because she wouldn’t be able to perform her hosting duties if she spent the night running in and out of the kitchen. And it’s not like she ever hired a catering company or anything. She always spends the days leading up to the parties baking up a storm, making hundreds—even thousands—of canapés and soups and casseroles and anything else that could be made ahead of time.

  I have no idea why she is the way she is. She’s crazy, but I love her.

  “Oh, come on,” I say, leaning over to prop my elbows up on the countertop. “There must be something I can do.”

  “Hmm.” She purses her lips in thought and sweeps her gaze across the kitchen until it lands on a brown paper sack next to the sink. “I suppose you could help by chopping apples for the pie.”

  “On it.” I walk the few steps to the sink and grab the bag.

  “Wash them first, please. And I want you to chop them into nice, thin, uniform slices.”

  “I will.”

  As I wash the apples, Mom pours the pumpkin mixture into the piecrust and pops it into the oven. And when I start chopping, she goes from cupboard to cupboard, pulling out the necessary ingredients for the apple pie, I presume.

  “I would like one can of tuna fish, one can of peas and two cans of pineapple, if you please, kind sir,” says my niece, Bridget, in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” my other niece, Ashley, says in an exaggerated, low-pitched voice. “I’ll get your order together right away.”

  That gets a smile out of me. They are so freakin’ cute.

  “Tell me: how’s school going, Margaret?” Mom asks.

  The use of my given name makes me think of last night, and of Eric. The thrill of having had the most kickass sex of my life is at odds with the guilt I’m feeling about thinking about it while I’m standing here with my mom.

  I do my best to shake off the guilt and focus on the present.

  “It’s going really well. I’m especially enjoying the Latin seminar. Right now we’re examining the violent struggle for political power in the age of Caesar. Such fascinating stuff.”

  I gather up the first sliced apple and drop it into the bowl Mom set out for me.

  “That certainly does sound fascinating, although it’s a bit much for me to grasp. If I were in your shoes, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep up, but you—I can tell you have an understanding. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

  “Aw, thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’d do great if you were in my place.”

  I hate it when she puts herself down like this.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” she says as she packs a half a cup of brown sugar and then dumps it into the bowl. “Are you still thinking about graduate school next year?”

  And I hate it when she sidesteps serious comments or brushes them off.

  “I definitely want to go for my master’s degree at the very least, but I’ve decided to take a year off before jumping back into my studies,” I tell her.

  “Oh?” She frowns. “What do you plan on doing instead?”

  “Travel. I thought I’d rent an apartment in Athens and keep it as my home base since I’m fluent in Greek. From there I could travel to Rome, Antioch and Vatican City, to conduct a little independent research. And I’d also travel for fun, of course. You know—winter on the Riviera, springtime in Paris. Maybe I’ll spend a few weeks in County Kildare to discover my roots.”

  “Margaret, no. You can’t be serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious.” I chuck a handful of apple slices into the bowl and reach for a shiny new apple. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You can’t possibly go traipsing around Europe by yourself. I’m afraid that’s absolutely out of the question.”

  “I won’t be traipsing around, Mom. I’ll be soaking up history and expanding my horizons. And I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-one years old and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself
.

  She looks positively stricken with worry. I hate doing this to her, but my mind is made up.

  “What about...” She measures out a half a cup of white sugar and dumps it into the bowl with the brown sugar. “Are there any special boys in your life?”

  Oh my god. Yeah, I’d say Eric Wenzel is a special boy. What happened between us certainly was out of this world. But obviously my mom isn’t asking about explosive sexual chemistry. She’s thinking about how both of my sisters got engaged before they graduated from college, and she’s hoping I’ll follow in their footsteps. I can read her like a book. She’s imagining some charming young guy sweeping me off my feet—although tying me down is probably a more accurate way to put it.

  “Nope. No special boys to report,” I tell her.

  After a pause she says, “Well...we’ll discuss this later with your father.”

  Once I’ve sliced the last apple, I ask Mom if there’s anything more I can do to help. She says no, and I’m secretly happy about that. I want to get back to the living room to watch the game and hopefully catch a few close-up shots of Eric.

  I’m not disappointed. Eric is on fire today. He has now taken down the opposition, allowing another Viper the glory of a touchdown.

  “Wenzel’s good,” says my brother-in-law, David.

  Oh my god. You have no idea how good he really is.

  “Yeah,” Michael agrees. “He might be the best tight end in the League right now.”

  We watch all the post-game interviews, and I smile when Dad comes on screen. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are red. He’s got that glow he gets when his players are triumphant.

  “My boys played hard today. A Viper win is always something to be thankful for.”

  I get up from the sofa and go back into the kitchen with my sisters, following the tantalizing aromas of warm spices and roasted turkey.

  “How’s it going, Mom?” Beth asks.

  “It’s all coming together beautifully,” she says, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “The bird should be ready in about an hour. Is the game over? Did we win?”

  “We did,” Tricia confirms. “Twenty-one to seven.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  When Dad gets home, he’s brimming with energy. After they give him a chance to exchange hugs, kisses and high-fives with us all, my brothers-in-law corner him to rehash the most exciting moments from the game.