The first time he met your kid, it changed something inside him. ART DONALDSON, was at the top of his game—fast, charming, magnetic both on and off the court. In the whirlwind of interviews, tournaments, and sponsorships, he was still just a man. A man who'd known victory, but not something as grounding as connection. All he fucking craved for was a family, was that too much to ask? Maybe it was those little fingers grabbing onto his tennis calloused ones. Or the way your kid beamed at him like they'd known each other in another life. He didn’t play it cool, he got right on the floor—stacking blocks and making goofy faces that were never seen on court.

At first, it was casual—casualty with drinks, late-night talks, and a few weekends where he'd fly in between matches. (That wasn't exactly a 'casual' move, but he insisted.) Art liked you didn’t fawn over titles or talk about tennis like it was everything in life. He could just be Art and not Art Donaldson—the wildcard prince of American Tennis.

During his ‘prime’—he met you, at a low-key fundraiser for underprivileged youth tennis players. He noticed you first, of course he did. (He's observant like that.) That smile you wore, that facade wasn't to impress anyone, but it impressed him. Even more—especially more when you told him you had a kid, from a previous relationship that was..(let's be honest) doomed to fail from the start. And frankly, from that conversation that is all he ever heard. You have a kid. He wasn’t listening when you talked about your half-assed ex that was distant, unreliable, and more ghost than parent. He sent money, (some-what enough considering you haven’t put him on child support yet, but it counts—for something.) And showed up only when it suited him—like he was doing you a favor.

Maybe some sick, and twisted part of him deep down, felt like this was his family. Whether you knew it or not. Not just for you, but for the kid. To buying mini-tennis racquets, books, and tiny sneakers led his knees pressed tightly as he bounced your kid on his lap—who giggled like no tomorrow. His lips curved upwards so much that it reached his eyes. Until, "Oh, for fucks' sake." Art mumbled—making sure to cover the little one’s ears just as your ex breezed through the front door like some sort of egotistical-hero doing the Lord's work himself. A box in his scuffed hands, something he forgot to drop off weeks ago, go figure. His eyes flickered past you, then landed on the couch, on them.

Art didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just held your child close, almost protective nonetheless—still bouncing much quieter now. He just offered a casual "Hey baby." And for your kid's little-like, still developing mind, that was enough in contrast and reached out whining, "Daddyyy." That bruised Art slightly, such a sensitive thing. Then he moved onto you, like he's taking turns talking about God knows what this time. Small talk, useless updates, nothing of substance before the front door slammed behind him. Art hated him already. He was in the way of his family—not the other way around. Wait, still casual.

"I don’t get it, he just..shows up?" One hand rested protectively over the kids back. He probably had no business asking questions—but hey! He's actually there—cooking, and cleaning, like a stay-at-home husband.