Maybe I could run into her at the dog park where she films. I mean, I don’t have a dog, but I’d be willing to get one if it gave me an excuse.
Wait, why am I thinking about this? Until three days ago, Hannah LaRosa hadn’t crossed my mind more than once or twice in the past dozen years. I rarely dwell on things from my past. Now I’m internet stalking her, thinking about ways in which I can casually bump into her.
This ain’t right.
Even though I know it, I can’t stop my mind from racing with possibilities, which is why I find myself on the treadmill at 11 p.m., trying to work my already tired body until I all but collapse from exhaustion. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since Hannah texted me, and I can think of little else.
But the next day, it’s no better. I scroll back through our text messages. What does she mean by “no thanks to you?” What could I possibly have done to her? Why is she blaming me for giving up her dreams?
Normally, I’m patient and even keeled. To be a successful goalkeeper, you have to be.
However, this feels anything but normal. Oh shit, what if she got pregnant that night? She wasn’t sleeping around, that I know for sure. So if she did, it would be mine. Not even a gold-digging false accusation this time.
I try to picture it, Hannah, with a small child in tow. Except he wouldn’t be small, would he? They. Them. They’d be about eleven or so, right? I don’t know if it is a boy or a girl, but in my head, I’m definitely picturing a boy. Does he play soccer? With our combined genes, he would be a standout, for sure. But competitive sports are expensive. How is she affording the travel soccer leagues and all that goes along with it?
It takes a lot of sacrifices to make a D1 athlete, let alone a pro one, which is part of the reason I give my parents a pass for their attitude toward me. They sacrificed a lot. I owe them.
I scour Hannah’s social media again. There’s not much in there. Definitely no kid, but I know some people try to keep minors out of the public eye. My heart swells a bit. Hannah’s a good mom.
If any of my one-night stands had to actually have my kid, she would be the one I’d pick.
But then I realize how incredibly douchey that sounds. Jesus, I am a douchebag of epic standards at this point. She obviously didn’t get in contact with me for a reason. I bet she thought I’d be a bad father.
Let’s face it, I probably would be. My marriage only lasted about nine months, and Katherine’s number one complaint was that I didn’t pay enough attention to her. That, and I wouldn’t give her unlimited access to my bank account. Considering she always had something going on the side, I thought that was in my best interest.
I look down at my phone again, but there’s still no response from Hannah. I’m fairly confident that I won’t be hearing from her again. Whatever it is, she must not need it that badly.
Which is fine if it’s not about something big, but why else would she reach out to me? And she said it would help me out too.
Damn, it’s got to be a kid.
I need to find her. Boston’s a big city though, so where would I even start? A quick internet search reveals seventeen off-leash dog parks in Boston and Cambridge alone. Who knows if she’s in one of the outskirts?
But then I see it. The Instagram post pops up. It’s an artsy, angular view of The Tower, where we had our reception prior to the playoffs. The caption, “I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.”
She works there. And—I verify the time stamp—she’s working now. As a goalie, my reaction time is stellar. It’s what I get paid to be good at. I put those skills to work and within about three minutes, I’m in my car, heading north on I-95. Google Maps said it would take thirty-nine minutes. I’m there in twenty-five.
Parking’s normally a bitch, but I luck out and see someone pulling out only a block away from the venue on Arlington Street. I hop out of my Rover and practically run the block.
And ... now what?
What am I supposed to say? Hell, I’m in joggers and a hoodie, so it’s not like I can even pretend I’m there for an event as a coincidence.
Then it hits me. I was here. Was she? Did she see me? She could have told me about our kid then and she didn’t?
That was only like three weeks ago. What could have changed thatnowshe needs my help? What if he’s sick? What if he needs a kidney? I can’t give him mine. I mean, at least not for another few years until my career is done. Maybe she just needs health insurance for him.
I can’t let my kid die because I’m sick of being used. No one’s ever going to call me father of the year, but I take care of my own. Hannah should know that.
Of course, when she tried to ask for help, I shut her down.
I have to make this right.
She’s here, working her ass off to provide for our kid who’s probably dying or something. The media would certainly have a field day with this one. No, I’ve got to fix it. I have money. I have connections. It’s time I use my soccer career to help out.
