Page 127 of Top Scorer
The championship comes down to tonight’s game. The Mavericks lost at home in game five and won in Seattle in game six. Apparently no one read the “home ice advantage” memo. I can’t be there in person, but I can still show Tristan how proud we are of him.
Ami swaps out the dirty burp cloth draped across my shoulder for a clean one.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like they’re playing Hungry Hungry Hippos and my nipples are the target.”
“Eww.”
“Like a cafeteria that never closes.”
“I see you’re just getting started,” she drones, familiar with my rants.
Just at that moment, Olivia actually latches fully and the warmth of liquid that flows from me to her takes off the sting.
“Ate, she’s doing it! Good job, Olivia!”
My baby girl’s eyes meet mine. She stays latched but slows down, like she’s wonderingwho is this face attached to my foodsource? And then she releases an adorable baby sigh before refocusing on feeding, her contentment the best balm to my discomfort.
Orlando, meanwhile, is in Ami’s arms, grinning with the smug satisfaction of someone who just released a fart as loud as a truck backfiring.
“Someone had a big breakfast,” Ami says to him, affection and awe in her voice.
After we burp and clean both babies, my sister spreads newspaper across the kitchen table to create our surprise for Tristan. I wrangle the baby-safe paint and then place the poster board over the newspaper.
“This is going to end in disaster,” she says, rolling up her sleeves.
“Chaos, yes. Disaster, no,” I correct her. “Babies don’t sign autographs with perfect penmanship.”
Orlando kicks wildly when I dip his foot in blue paint, squealing like I just invented the coldest spa treatment known to mankind. His footprint comes out cute and crisp, though. Olivia, however, curls her toes and drags blue streaks across the paper.
By the time we’re done, the poster is an abstract masterpiece that reads in big uneven letters:We’re cheering for you, Daddy! Love, Olivia and Orlando.The words are surrounded by mismatched handprints and footprints akin to alien hieroglyphs.
We bathe the babies. Orlando relaxes like he’s half fish, eyes fluttering closed. Olivia kicks and is surprised when water lands on her face. Finally, both clean and dry, they’re swaddled into perfect burrito bundles and placed side by side in the crib. Miraculously, the twins drift off together, fists curled, lips twitching with baby dreams.
Now that I’m hands-free, I send the Mavericks’ PR people pictures of the twins in their tiny Mavericks onesies. Orlando mid-yawn with his fist jammed in his mouth. Olivia sticking her tongue out like a miniature rock star. And a special one with their dad.
I close my eyes for just a second, picturing Tristan walking into the locker room, spotting our messy masterpiece taped over his locker.
“Can you take the poster to the arena sometime this afternoon?” I ask, rubbing a hand over my sore shoulder. I give her the contact info of the locker room staff.
“Does this remind you of all the times you pranked him by sneaking into the boys’ locker room?” Ami asks with a chuckle.
“Yeah, right! Although the NHL has way stricter rules about putting shaving cream in skates.”
It’s amazing how long Tristan and I have been in each other’s lives. Our love came later, but I can’t imagine my past or my future without him. And I don’t have to.
We’ve discussed Tristan’s plan to stay here, no matter the outcome of contract negotiations. So, yeah, we’re raising our family minutes from where we grew up.
Yet, somehow, it feels like the biggest adventure in the world.
“You should sleep while the babies are napping,” my sister says on her way to the kitchen. “I’ll tidy up.”
“Thanks,Ate. I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me too, Ligaya. Now go lie down.”
With my feet up and my eyes closed, I daydream about Tristan tonight, playing the game of his life and knowing we’re with him in every way that counts.
