Page 25 of Unrivaled

My mother is disgusted that I didn’t let her help decorate this place. But I don’t care that I have a secondhand couch and no throw pillows or artfully arranged lap blankets or that my mattress sits on the cheap metal frame I got with it from the mattress store. It’s just me here in this one bedroom, and I don’t need anything fancy.

What’s Tiffany’s house like? Does Ben have his own room there, overflowing with toys?

My mind is still blown over the fact that I have a son. An actual living, breathing child running around wearing a face that looks just like mine. It’s … amazing, shocking … infuriating.

But I don’t even know where to direct my rage. Not at Tiffany. I already confirmed the truth of her story. The messages she said she sent me were still there in my Others folders, and I finally found them four years too late. She gave me her number—the same number she still has—telling me to get in touch, that it was really important that we speak. And finally, in an obvious last ditch effort, the bald truth:I’m pregnant. You’re the father.

Five little life changing words.

She did everything she could to get in touch, to give me the chance to be involved, only to get no response, and then to be told by my coach that I said I don’t even know her.

That fucker.

Standing, I pace my living room—three steps one way, turn, three steps back—my hands on my head, my muscles taut and flexing as I try to channel my anger somewhere. Coach Lawson retired a couple years ago. Even if I wanted to get in touch with him, to confront him for fucking around in my life, I wouldn’t even know where to find him.

And if I did, what then? He’d probably just tell me he did me a favor and that I should stay away from her.

I can almost hear the words in his gruff, no-nonsense voice.

Grabbing my keys, I slam the door behind me and head out for a jog. My training is scheduled to a T, and my body doesn’t need the additional wear and tear of an unplanned jog, but if I sit in my apartment with no outlet, I’m going to start punching holes in my walls.

Jogging is definitely the better option.

Flashes of today keep playing in my head—Tiffany confronting me, ready to bust my balls about abandoning her, and I can’t help but feel a surge of attraction. Her fire is intoxicating. Her fierceness. Her unwillingness to be cowed. Mama bear in action. And I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have all that fire on my side instead of turned against me.

I got to experience it once. A little. That night we were together and she was all flirty and forward, wrapping herself around me, kissing me like that. Sure, she just wanted to get back at her boyfriend for dumping her or something, but she knew what she wanted and she went after it without any second thoughts.

I can already tell she’s brought the same spirit to motherhood, raising him herself and going to school at the same time. The way she gives him her full attention when he talks. The way she takes care of him.

She’s a good mom. It’s obvious they love each other. I don’t want to do anything to mess that up.

I just want to get to know my kid.

* * *

Going to the pharmacy to get a home paternity test feels strange. Worse than the potentially awkward exchanges when buying condoms. Because this means I might’ve knocked up some chick but I’m not sure it’s actually mine.

It sounds like something out of a crappy reality TV show. And this is my life now.

W. T. F.

Fortunately, the cashier doesn’t bat an eye as she scans the box and drops it in a bag, delivering the total in a bored voice. After paying, I give her a tight smile as I take the bag and head out.

Yesterday’s sunshine is a distant memory, and January has decided to get back to normal with a low sky full of drifting snowflakes and wind that finds any opening in your outerwear to try to freeze your nuts off.

I get to run drills in this soon. Yay.

But first I get the pleasure of texting Tiffany to let her know I have the test. Maybe I should see if the dentist can fit me in for a root canal next. It’d fit with all the rest of today’s shit.

I hurry to my car, turning it on as soon as I close the door, grateful that it’s still fairly warm from my drive to the store. Its ability to block the wind is enough to make it feel at least ten degrees warmer anyway.

Now it’s time for my evisceration at the hands of my … son’s mother.

Part of me still balks at thinking of him as my son. How could I even have a son? A three-year-old son at that?

But it’s true. He’s mine. It’s as clear as day. The test is merely a formality in case anyone tries to question it.

Like my parents, for example. I’m not sure how they’ll react. But I sure as hell know they’ll want more proof than similar baby pictures.

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