Have you heard the one about the impulsive American grad student and the broody Brit who argued about which kind of football was better?



It’s a good story, especially because it ends with me clutching a pregnancy test in my tiny Oxford flat.



In my defense, it was never meant to be more than a harmless flirtation. But he was just sitting there, with his accent and his muscles and his tattoos, telling me that his football was better than the one I grew up watching my brother play. Next thing I knew, that flirtation got a whole lot hotter and even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again—my mystery Brit—it was the kind of night a girl goes to her grave remembering.



You know how the story goes though … a few weeks later, the impulsive girl gets a little pukey, and sees a sports headline featuring her mystery Brit kicking the black and white ball that got us into this mess.



Trust me, I didn’t see it coming either.