I chuff. “She’ll have to sift through the bullshit to find an ounce of the good stuff, and even then no one writes about half of it. The charities, the foundations, the youth camps I’ve held. The kind words I’ve said about my quote-unquote adversaries. None of that is printed. If she ever looks me up someday, she’ll find a highlight reel of my hot-headed meltdowns. A handful of unflattering interviews eternally preserved on YouTube. Some gossip articles chronicling a string of failed relationships with some of the most vapid humans on earth. A collection of all of my stats and winnings. But I don’t want her to know me for those things.”
“To be fair, Fabian, I don’t even know you …” Her pretty face angles to the side. “There’s not much I could really tell her other than what’s transpired today. But maybe that’s enough? It says a lot that you wanted to meet her. You could’ve walked away completely and pretended she didn’t exist, but you didn’t. Maybe that’s all she needs to know?”
I gather a lungful of the vanilla-blackberry scent of her home and let it go. Would that be enough? I’m sure it’s more than most anonymous donors do for their progeny, but now that I’ve met her, now that I’ve seen her face and held this beautiful, tiny creature in my arms, now that I know she exists—is it enough?
Enough for her?
Enough for me?
For the rest of my life, a piece of me will be walking around out there in the world, and I’ll have no clue if she’s safe, if she’s okay, if she’s being eaten alive by this man’s world we live in. While I’m hardly dad material, I can’t deny this heavy protectiveness that floods through me when I think of her sweet smile.
“You’re quiet,” Rossi says. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just thinking about how I’ll be walking out of here any minute, and I’m never going to see her again. I thought it’d be easier.”
“Was it easy the first time?” she asks. “When you did it an hour ago?”
“I didn’t really think about it then. Guess it didn’t hit me until just now.”
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you … about the custody thing?”
“God, no.” I speak louder than I meant to, and Rossi shoots a worried glance toward a hallway I assume leads to the nursery. Lowering my voice, I add, “Nothing like that.”
The last thing I need is to get embroiled in some legal situation—one involving a child, no less. It’d be yet another PR nightmare keeping me up at night when the only thing I should be worried about is killing it in the next tournament.
“I wish there was a precedent for this kind of thing,” she says. “Or some kind of crystal ball, so we could know how this is going to affect her twenty years from now.”
“Maybe,” I begin to say something I may come to regret. “Maybe we could stay in touch? I wouldn’t have rights to her, obviously, but maybe I could be a part of her life? In whatever capacity that makes you comfortable?”
She bites her lower lip and her shoulders fall. “It’s a great idea. In theory. But it’s also a slippery slope.”
“How so?”
“What if everything’s great for a while—then you lose interest? When the excitement of all of this passes—”
“—you think this is an excitement thing for me?” I laugh through my nose. “Nothing about this is exciting. Terrifying maybe. Unparalleled. Strange. You think I’m going to get bored with this and ghost her?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“What can I do to put your mind at ease then? How can I convince you that’s not going to happen?”
She shrugs. “Like I said, Fabian, I don’t know you. And the only way I can get to know you is if we spend more time together … which is obviously out of the question. So—”
“—wait,” I lift a palm. “Why don’t I fly the two of you to Atlanta next week? I can get you front row seats at the Rosemont Open. We’d have to be discreet about everything, but now that I’ve had a glimpse of your life here, this would be a chance for you to have a glimpse of my life.”
“A nine-month-old baby at a tennis tournament?” She winces, clearly not a fan of the idea. “And having to sneak around to see you?”
I steeple my hands at my nose.
She has a point.
“When’s your next tournament?” she asks.
“Four weeks. Why?”
“Maybe …” She hesitates. “Maybe you could stay here? With us? I have a guest room. And I know this isn’t exactly the Ritz Carlton, but you could spend a lot of time with Lucia and I could get to know you a little better? I don’t know if that’s even an option, but I’d be open to it if you were?”