Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“The media likes to paint us as rivals,” he says, “but we’ve known each other for years. He’s actually a good friend of mine. I was the best man at his wedding two years ago. Of course ESPN didn’t mention that.”
“Does it bother you? Having no say in the way you’re portrayed?” I think of the video of him storming off the interview set.
“It used to.”
“I’m going to be honest with you, after I learned you were Lucia’s donor, I googled you.”
He looks to our daughter, then back to me. “And what’d you find out?”
“Mostly that you have a temper … and a thing for beautiful women.”
“Or maybe beautiful women have a thing for me …” He winks. “It’s hard to meet people. I train most of the year. And when I’m not training, I’m playing. When I’m not playing, I’m fulfilling endorsement deals and other contractual obligations. Half of my relationships have been set up by PR companies. And most of the photos you see, those paparazzi pics of us grabbing coffee or dining outside at some trendy café in New York? Those are staged.”
Well, I feel deceived …
I make a mental note to cancel my US Weekly subscription.
“Why not just try to meet someone the old-fashioned way?” I ask. “And then keep it on the downlow. Plenty of celebrities lead private lives.”
“Success—especially in the world of sports—has more to do with relevancy than anything else. If you don’t keep people talking about you, if you don’t make sure your name is constantly in the news, they’ll move onto the next hot thing and forget you exist. At the end of the day, we’re all replaceable. There’s always going to be someone waiting, ready to take your place.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you kind of a legend? You’ve set world records. People aren’t going to forget that.”
He frowns. “Tennis buffs will remember. I don’t know about everyone else. “
“Is that important to you? To be remembered?”
He hands Lucia the block by his feet. “A man’s legacy is everything.”
“So someday when you’re gone, you want to be remembered for breaking records and being really, really good at tennis?”
“When you put it in simple terms like that, it makes it seem so trivial.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I place a palm out. “I’m not trying to downplay everything you’ve done to get to where you are. It’s just … when I think of legacies, I think of families. Crazy stories being passed down. Reputations being alive and well long past the date on your headstone. Memories. Personal photographs. That sort of thing.”
He nods, silent like he’s absorbing this.
“I never met my great grandmother on my father’s side,” I say, “but the way everyone talks about her, I feel like I know her just the same. To me, that’s a legacy.”
“Guess we have different definitions.” He swipes the rag off the carpet and folds it once more.
Before I became a mom, I used to be a neat freak. Now I choose my battles. You can only pick up a living room so many times in a row before it becomes a fruitless and epic waste of time.
Abandoning her perch near Fabian, Lucia crawls to me, sidling into my lap and reaching for a strand of my hair like she always does when she’s sleepy.
“She’s getting tired,” I say as she cozies against me and releases a big yawn. The weight of Fabian’s stare anchors us into place. “Is this all you wanted? Just to see her?”
He bites his lip. “Yeah.”
“If you want to hold her, you can. I mean, I’m okay with it …”
Fabian shifts in his seat, as if the thought of taking Lucia into his arms makes him uncomfortable.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
Straightening his shoulders, he says, “No, it’s fine. I want to.”
Rising, I carry Lucia over and place her in his arms, distracted by the fact that his biceps are the size of her head.
She squirms at first, a flash of panic in her eyes when she realizes she’s been handed off, but eventually she settles against him.
“You can sit back and relax, you know.” I laugh at his rigid posture. “She’s not going to break.”
Sliding back against the couch, he cradles her closer, lips skimming up enough to reveal a flash of a dimple in the center of his chiseled cheek. It’s a tender, albeit bittersweet, little moment.
I don’t know him well enough to know what he’s thinking, obviously, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t capture this moment for Lucia.
“Hold on.” I launch toward the kitchen to grab my phone, and when I return I have my camera cued and ready.
Only the instant he sees my crouching photographer stance, all the sweetness fades from the moment like a deflated balloon.
Lifting a hand, he says, “No pictures.”
I don’t mean to, but I laugh because I’m positive this is a joke. I’m not some paparazzo and this isn’t a celebrity photo op.