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.