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)
My phone rings again, but once more I silence it.
I’m here to spend time with Lucia and Rossi—everything else can wait.
“Maybe it’s the mattress people?” Rossi asks. “What time did you say they were dropping it off?”
“Between three and four. You want some wine?” I uncork the bottle and pour two generous glasses.
“So what’s your schedule going to be like while you’re here?” She serves Lucia another mouthful of dark purple mush.
“Practice five mornings a week,” I say. “With the occasional Saturday. But afternoons and evenings are for Lucia. And for you.”
Getting to know my child’s mother is just as important as getting to know my child—in their own regards.
Lucia shoves away the next bite Rossi offers, making a mess of the purple-brown liquid.
“Shoot,” she says. “Can you grab me some baby wipes out of the picnic basket?”
A second later, we’re wiping up the amazingly large mess that came from the tiny human and the microscopic spoon, and Lucia’s relaxing between us on her back, trying to shove a foot in her mouth.
“She’s very flexible,” I say. “Pretty sure she gets it from me.”
Rossi laughs. “One hundred percent.”
The sun peeks out from behind a paper-white cloud and thaws the spring chill around us, enveloping the three of us in an otherworldly warmth. Out here, I’m not thinking about my next win. I’m not mentally replaying the last thing they said about me on ESPN. I’m not fielding fans or getting reamed by my coach for having an off day.
I’m simply existing.
I imagine this is the sort of thing people are referring to when they say money can’t buy happiness.
Rolling to her side, Lucia reaches for a handful of grass, ripping it at the roots and attempting to shove it into her mouth—until her mother intervenes.
“You’re not hungry, but you’ll eat dirt and grass?” Rossi brushes the earthen debris out of the baby’s fists.
Scooping her up, Rossi lies on her back and holds Lucia over her, making her “fly” as she attempts to make a sound akin to a single engine airplane in distress. Fighting a chuckle, I sip my wine and bask in the carefree moment taking place before me. Rossi doesn’t care what I think, she doesn’t care how ridiculous this looks—she’s simply a mother doing what it takes to put a smile on her child’s face.
“Your turn.” Sitting up, she offers Lucia my way.
I take my daughter, reluctantly. “I’m really not good at this.”
“Play peek-a-boo or something.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. It’s like stepping onto foreign land and not knowing an ounce of the customs.
“Okay …” Clearing my throat, I ignore the fact that Rossi’s observing me with an incredibly entertained smirk on her face, and then I hide my eyes with one hand while supporting the baby on my lap. “Peek-a-boo.”
“Come on.” Rossi tucks her chin against her chest. “You can do better than that.”
“What was wrong with my peek-a-boo?”
Laughing, she says, “Everything.”
“Fine.” Sitting straighter, I try it again, louder this time. “Peek-a-boo!”
Lucia startles, craning her little neck to ensure her mother’s still nearby.
“Now you’re scaring her,” Rossi says, biting her lip as her eyes twinkle.
“I told you, I’m terrible at this.”
“You hear this, Luc?” Rossi leans in. “The world’s best tennis player is a terrible peek-a-booer.”
“Doesn’t help that I’m performing in front of the world’s toughest crowd.”
“Try it one more time,” Rossi says. “And I’ll look away since you’re so sensitive.”
“Perfectionistic.”
“Same difference,” she says, turning away. Though I don’t need to see her face to know she’s probably holding in the biggest shit-eating grin. Not that I blame her. If I weren’t me, I’d find this entire thing ridiculous.
But this is my daughter.
“Peek,” I say, pausing and adding a higher inflection in my tone. I’m sure I sound like an idiot, but whatever. Hiding my eyes behind my palm, I wait a few seconds before the big reveal. “A-boo!”
Lucia’s chocolate eyes light and she claps her hands before promptly shoving them in her mouth.
My heart flutters—something it’s never done for a baby before.
Confidence bubbling, I do it again. “Peek … a-boo!”
God, I’m cringing inside … but I’m also living for this.
Lucia claps again, bouncing in my lap.
With every gummy grin, my body grows lighter, my cares unimportant. And I get it now, why adults make complete and utter fools of themselves for something so frivolous as a laughing baby.
Turning back, Rossi winks. “Told you …”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hand Lucia back to her mother, polish off the rest of my wine, and stand to stretch. The last time I sat on the ground to eat was at a Michelin star restaurant in Tokyo several years ago.
“You want to walk the trail?” Rossi asks.
My muscles scream from the brutal training we did today—Coach gave it to me twice as hard since I’d missed a couple days the week before and because he claims I’m not focusing like I should be.