Biting my lip, I scoot back in, pull up Google, and hesitantly type in Fabian’s name, one reluctant keyboard peck at a time.
Despite the fact that this feels every variety of wrong, suddenly my curiosity is in the driver’s seat and she’s throwing caution to the wind in the name of personal interest.
The first result is his official website. One click of the mouse and I’m met with a shiny black page highlighted with neon accents and peppered with modern, sexy fonts. Various menu options offer up videos, articles, and ways to get in touch with his team. I click on the image gallery, soaking in the highly-edited action shots as well as a few menswear pictures that have probably graced the glossy pages of GQ and Esquire at some point.
I study the sharp angles of his jaw, his straight nose, and the perfect angles of his eyebrows which are neither bushy or unmanageable and identical in shape to Lucia’s.
I’ll never forget lying on that cold table, my feet in stirrups, a fluorescent light stinging my eyes overhead.
“All right. Time to make a baby,” Dr. Wickham said as he perched on the rolling stool at the foot of the exam table and his associate handed him a long tube full of donor sperm. It wasn’t exactly magical. Definitely not romantic. And of course it wasn’t how I imagined starting the journey to motherhood. The doctor told me to lie back and relax—impossible, but I tried. Thirty seconds later, it was over. Ambitious Athlete’s unfrozen seed was officially inside of me. The rest was up to my body.
We did a natural round, no hormones necessary since I’ve always had an impeccable twenty-eight day cycle. The doctor told me I had a fifteen to twenty percent chance of it working in any given round, and not to be disappointed if it took two, three, four, even eight rounds.
But she took the first time.
Nine months later, I held Lucia in my arms, my mother and sister beside me, each of us weeping tears of joy—save for Lucia who was simply hungry.
I’ve occasionally daydreamed about meeting her donor someday, but in these scenarios it’s always when Lucia is older. Maybe she does a DNA test and discovers a half sibling or two. They meet up. Her biological father is there. That sort of thing. And in these daydreams, I’m there, too—but only because I want to thank him for the beautiful gift he gave me.
Running another search on Fabian, I glean that he has no children of his own. Only a string of relationships with young, beautiful, international models. A deeper search shows he wasn’t making headlines until closer to his mid-twenties. His life before that is a mystery, save for a one-paragraph personal life summary on his Wikipedia page.
Fabian Catalano was born in Chicago, Illinois. After attending Wakecrest University on a tennis scholarship, he moved to California to train under famed tennis coach Reed Cartwright. His parents are the late Grace (DuBois) and Gianni Catalano. He has never been married, is currently single, and keeps a primary residence in Los Angeles.
That’s it.
Mere scraps.
I spend the rest of the afternoon combing through various interviews he’s done on talk shows—and I stop when I get to the one where the invasive, chatty blonde host asks if he and his then-fiancée (who happened to be his long-time coach’s daughter) had thought about how many kids they wanted to have after they tied the knot. And before he had a chance to answer, she rattled off some witticism about how beautiful their babies would be.
Fabian scoffed, going off on the woman for assuming that every couple who marries automatically wants children. After that he yanked the microphone off and stormed off stage while the host gathered her composure.
This particular interview took place a mere two months ago.
It’s impossible to know when he donated his sperm. I can only assume it was during his college days. Maybe he needed some extra cash? Men that young aren’t necessarily thinking about the long-term repercussions of their actions.
I re-read the letter one last time, letting the realization sink in that he had recently requested the remainder of his sample be destroyed.
Tightness floods my chest when I think of my daughter someday knowing who he is and having her heart broken when she sees this interview. The man clearly has no desire for children. Which is fine. That’s his prerogative. But if a nosy little interview question about babies sets him into a hot-headed rage on a television set, how would he act if his own daughter were to someday reach out to him?
I glance at the file cabinet, and I decide to tuck this entire day into the recesses of my mind.
We never needed him anyway.
And we never will.
Chapter 2
Fabian
* * *
“Hey, you have time for a phone call?” My new assistant, Taylor, sashays across my private tennis court.
While everyone in my camp assumes I hired her because she’s got perky tits and a tight ass, I simply chose her because she’s young and malleable. There’s nothing worse than hiring someone’s used assistant and having to break them of all their old habits. This one’s fresh out of college, and this gig is officially her first job.
I have hope.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I nod toward my coach on the opposite end of the court. “I don’t know, Taylor. Does it look like I have time?”
I almost feel bad biting her head off like that, but this is how she’s going to learn.
That and I’ve only reminded her six separate times since she started last week that my court time is sacred.
Coach Cartwright tosses his hands in the air, his annoyance taking the shape of a grimace on his face.
Biting her overinflated lips, Taylor skips closer, phone in hand. “They’ve called several times in a row. I let it go to voicemail at first, but then they kept calling. They said it’s urgent.”
“Take a message … that’s what I pay you to do.”
“I tried, but they insisted.” She pouts like a damned toddler. Hesitating. Then she steps closer, tucking her chin. “It’s a doctor’s office.” Her attention spans to Coach and back. “Dr. Wickham. In Chicago. It’s a fertility—"
Before she can finish her sentence, I shove my racket at her and trade it for the phone, heading inside to deal with this nonsense. Last month I had my attorney draft up a destruction mandate for some sperm I donated back when I was a broke college kid. At the time I was barely twenty-one, a senior in college, and in desperate need of cash to replace the catalytic converter in my piece of shit Oldsmobile. A clinic in the next town over was offering five hundred bucks per donation—all I had to do was fill out an application, submit some bloodwork, and if accepted, it was easy (if not awkward) money.
I must have donated half a dozen times that year—and that summer Cartwright hand-selected me as his next “project.” He’d seen me play in some college invitationals and was convinced I was going to be the next big thing in the tennis world.
He wasn’t wrong.
“This is Fabian,” I answer once inside and out of earshot of staff.
For the past sixteen years, my life has been a whirlwind of beautiful women, trips around the world, endorsement deals, and fat checks.
It wasn’t until the catastrophic end of a recent engagement that I remembered the donations I’d made to that clinic outside Chicago. While the contract I signed at the time was ironclad, I hired one of the most powerful law firms in that area to draft up a proposal to destroy any remaining donation. My attorneys said it shouldn’t be a problem given my “celebrity status,” but legally, they owed me nothing.
“Hi, Fabian, this is Rhonda Bixby. I’m the clinic manager at Dr. Wickham’s office.” Her voice is saccharin-sweet, dripping with honey. Sometimes people get like this when they’re starstruck, but in this case I’ve said a mere three words. “We received your request last month to destroy the rest of your donation.” She pauses, clearing her throat. “And I’d like you to know that we have done so.”
“Okay … so why are you calling?”
She clears her throat a second time. �
�We’ve had a little … clerical mishap.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“The letter that was intended to you,” she says, “was actually sent to a recipient of your donation.”
I take a seat in a leather armchair, massaging my temple. “And what did this letter say? Exactly?”
“Well, it had your name on it.” She chuckles even though nothing about this is funny. “As well as your donor ID number. It was just a confirmation that we had fulfilled your request.”
“So you’re saying that because of a careless mistake your clinic made, there’s a woman out there who now knows that I’m the biological father of her child?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, Mr. Catalano.” The sweetness in her tone is gone. Now it’s all business. “I want you to know that Dr. Wickham and I, we understand the gravity of this breach of information, and we’re prepared to offer you a settlement.”
“Money’s the last thing I need.” I sniff, insulted. “And it sure as hell isn’t going to fix this.”
“Yes, we realize that, but the law states—”
“—the law is nothing more than a liquid guideline,” I interrupt. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I examine my options. I could sue the hell out of that place until they’re forced to shutter their doors, but that would mean putting innocent people out of work. Not to mention, taking this to court would make it public record. Neither of those options are going to undo any of this. It’d be a lose-lose-lose situation.
Rising, I pace the space in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, my coach stands in the middle of my tennis court on a phone call, waiting patiently while I sort out this shit show.
If the recipient of my “donation” realizes who I am—and if she’s got half a brain cell, she will—she could try to extort me in exchange for her silence. And if that doesn’t work (and it won’t), she’ll go to the news. She’ll garner enough publicity to make me look like the villain, not the clinic. I’ll be painted in every light imaginable. “Cancelled” on social media. The kind of jerkoff other guys laugh about in locker rooms.
“I want to meet her,” I say.
“You want to meet … the recipient?” Rhonda asks, over-enunciating.
“Yes.” I check my watch. It’s not quite noon here. I could hop on a flight and be to Chicago in hours—assuming that’s where she lives.
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s possible, Mr. Catalano. You see, if I give you her name, that is a breach of privacy for her and the child as well.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“I see what you’re saying, but unfortunately it doesn’t work that way,” she says. “Like I was about to say before, Dr. Wickham is prepared to offer you a generous settlement for this … inconvenience. I can give you our attorney’s information if you want to pass it along to yours.”
My skin heats.
Nothing infuriates me more than being brushed off.
“You’re not hearing me,” I raise my voice, though I’m far from shouting. “I don’t want your money. I want to meet my child’s mother.”
“I heard you perfectly, Mr. Catalano, but like I said, legally we aren’t allowed to give you her information.”
“Then call her.” I switch my phone to the opposite ear, head to the kitchen, and grab a bottled water. “Ask if she wants to meet me.”
I don’t know what her situation is, obviously. She could be a single mother or she could be a married mother raising six of my genetically perfect offspring. Either way, all I need is a private meeting where I can speak to this woman, adult to adult. I can explain to her that I’ve no intentions of pursuing custody or being in any kind of fatherhood role, but I’m happy to ensure that the clinic establishes a healthy college fund for any and all children that came from this arrangement. I’ll even insist the clinic throw in a new car and a little something special for her. A family vacation or something. After that, I’ll have her sign an NDA and we’ll both be on our way.
It’ll almost be like it never happened.
“I can try,” Rhonda says. “But I can’t make any promises. And you have to respect her decision.”
“Just make the call.” I hang up, chug my water, and head back to the court, ready to hit some balls.
“Everything okay?” Coach asks.
No—but it will be.
I grab a ball, toss it high, and deliver one of my signature, impossible-to-hit serves.
“Jaysus,” he says, ducking. “Take my head off, why don’t you?”
Smirking, I lob another one at him—this time it’s gentler. “There. Better?”
He returns it with a hard smack—and I fucking miss it.
“See what just happened?” he asks. “You just let someone get inside your head. And you allowed me to manipulate you. Don’t do it again.”
Chapter 3
Rossi
* * *
“Come on, I know you like this …” I lift a spoonful of pureed butternut squash to Lucia’s mouth, but she puckers up, refusing it. And then to make it worse, she grabs the spoon with her chubby little hand and sends the goopy orange substance flying everywhere. In her hair. On the wall. All over me. “Baby girl. You literally ate this last week. Three jars, I might add.”
Rising, I grab a rag by the sink and attempt to clean what I can before it dries and I have to break out the Magic Eraser.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Hawaiian Delight it is. Again. But tomorrow you’re getting peas, sister.”
Heading to the pantry, I pull out a glass jar of her favorite baby food and grab a clean spoon from the drawer on my way back to the high chair. No sooner do I sit down when my phone rings. Ignoring it, I feed my daughter—and she doesn’t miss a drop. When we’re done, I sneak her a couple bites of my Greek yogurt because girlfriend needs some protein in this fruity equation. Lord knows I do too. I’m still holding onto a little bit of pregnancy weight—not that it’s a major concern of mine. This little cherub was worth all the late-night Snickers ice cream runs.
My phone rings again.
“Ugh.” I steal a glance at the Caller ID—only to be met with WICKHAM FERTILITY CLINIC. “Oh.”
Clearing my throat, I press the green button. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bianco?” A woman’s voice asks.
“Speaking.”
“Hi, this is Rhonda Bixby at Dr. Wickham’s office. Do you have a moment?”
Lucia kicks in her high chair. She’s over the confinement, ready to crawl all over the living room and try to stick her fingers in places they don’t belong.
“Um, I have a couple of minutes.” Thinking quick, I grab a baggie of yogurt melts from the cabinet and place a small handful on her tray to keep her occupied. “Is this about the letter I received in the mail earlier?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Okay?” I don’t know what she could possibly say in this situation other than they’re sorry for the privacy breach, but I’m not the one they should be apologizing to—unless they sent my name to Fabian? Though I can’t imagine why they’d do that. I haven’t communicated with them since they discharged me to my OB after the first trimester almost a year and a half ago.
“Have you had a chance to look over the letter in any detail?”
“That’s an odd question.” I imagine she’s trying to get me to say whether I realize Fabian is my donor because if she admits it first, that could come back to her. “If you’re asking if I matched up the donor number on the letter with the donor number on my original papers, the answer is yes.”
Rhonda exhales into the receiver. “All right. That’s what I was wondering. And that’s also why I’m calling. I just spoke to your donor, and he would very much like to meet you.”
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Absolutely not,” I counter before I have a chance to think it through. A man with all the money in the worl
d can hire the best lawyers that money can buy. “So now that he’s aware he has a child, he wants to be in her life? What—does he want some kind of split custody arrangement? Does he want to suddenly be her father? Why would he want to meet us?”
For a flicker of a moment, I’m taken back to my painful divorce a decade ago. My ex got the house, our dog (a black Labrador retriever puppy he claimed was his exclusive hunting dog), and over half of the furniture we bought together (because it was placed on a credit card in his name). As soon as everything was finalized, I vowed to never let a man take anything away from me again.
“He … he actually hasn’t mentioned the child yet. He simply said he wanted to meet you.”
“Obviously I’m the gatekeeper to said child.” I lean over my kitchen island, watching my daughter pick a half-melted yogurt dot off the back of her hand. Our eyes catch and she flashes a smile that half-melts my heart. “My baby isn’t a pawn. We didn’t ask to know who her donor was. And even after getting that letter yesterday, I have no expectations of having Fabian Catalano in my life in any capacity.”
“I completely understand,” she says, though her tone is less than convincing. “This situation is less than ideal for each of us. And the clinic is extremely sorry for the complications this is causing you. In fact, I just spoke to Dr. Wickham a few moments ago, and he’s prepared to offer you a generous settlement.”
Money for nothing?
I’m not exactly hard-up. My car is paid off. My mortgage is very much affordable thanks to a recent refinance. My retirement account is healthy for my age. And my business has grown leaps and bounds in the last few years, to the point where I’m going to have to hire an assistant.
The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance Page 3
