Page 15 of Off Court Fix

Now that he’s in the front seat, I can see more of his face. His lips press into a thin line, and he adjusts his glasses. Maybe that comment wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and now I know why I’ve never had a one-night stand—the painful, uncomfortable aftermath. “I... I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

I’m still adjusting my dress when Crosby reaches out. “Shit. Your knees.”

Quickly, I shift my legs toward the door so Crosby’s hand falls from my burned, raw skin. “I’ll manage.” With my fingers gripping the handle, I take a deep breath. “Drive safely.”

I hop out of the car, slamming the door behind me. My legs nearly give out—not from the rug burn or my bum ankle, but because I’m stunned by how empty I feel deep inside. It nearly throws me off balance.

I’m walking as fast as I can, hardly looking both ways as I cross Madison Avenue.

“Amy.”

Crosby’s Range Rover pulls up beside me, and he rolls down the passenger window as I stop in the middle of the crosswalk.

“Don’t feel bad about it.”

I keep walking. “I don’t.”

I hate that I liked it so much. Because too much of a good thing can be wonderful, but too much of a bad thing? Depending on who you ask, it can too.

I’ve spenta good chunk of my life down in Florida, but Jupiter has never felt much like home. But it’s practical for me—good weather all year, a solid tennis infrastructure with the best training programs. But every time I come back after being away, even for the shortest bit, I’m reminded that apart from the success and growth I’ve had in tennis, I actually hate it here because no place ever felt like home the way Grandma’s house in Southampton did.

It should’ve been an easy decision to move my life up to my grandmother’s house after she died. I imagine if Mason’s blood and soul didn’t stain the home and he were sober, we probably would’ve lived together, arguing over changing the countertops, what size TV to put in the living room.

Instead, I hired a designer and contractor to make upgrades and prepare to stage the house to sell. Given the beautiful property, it will go fast. After that, my only home will be the Spanish-style villa I’m pulling up to with a pout on my face—it’s awful to feel homeless at heart when you lead a privileged life.

When we make our way up the driveway, I spot two cars—neither are mine, which is parked in the garage. My father’s sleek silver Mercedes sits in front of a Jeep belonging to Carlos, my local hitting partner, who shouldn’t be here at ten a.m. I had asked him to come later in the afternoon so I could nap before we took to the court.

“Thank you,” I say as the driver unloads my luggage, bringing it to the front step.

I push the door open with a sigh.

“Oh great, you’re here.” My father’s voice sounds from deeper into the house. “Carlos is out back.”

He’s pretending it’s any other day. On any other day, I would be out back on the court with Carlos. I would’ve woken up at six thirty, had a cup of coffee, taken a jog. I would’ve had breakfast and done a long solo yoga session out back on the grass before Carlos arrived. We’d hit for two hours and have lunch together, followed by agility and conditioning and a shower before I did rehab or had a massage. Every minute of my day—apart from Sundays—is curated, detailed.

As hard as it is, it needs to be that way if I’m going to make a comeback.

My father appears in the foyer as I put my bag down. “Run up and change. I’ve pushed everything—”

“I asked Carlos to come this afternoon.” I already canceled everything else but my physiotherapist later in the evening.

Dad pockets his hands. “I know. I ran into him this morning at the gym, and he told me. There was a miscommunication, it seems. I told him you were running a little late.” He glances at the Rolex on his wrist. “Go on and change. I’ll tell him you’ll be down in a minute.”

I don’t head to the stairs. I move around my father and head to the kitchen. I’m famished and dehydrated.

“Maxine.”

I open the fridge and yank out a Gatorade.

“Maxine.”

“I need to take a nap. I had about four hours of sleep,” I tell him over my shoulder, and I step into the pantry, grabbing a nut-free protein bar. Four hours was rounding up.

“And whose fault was that?”

I eat the protein bar in two bites, ignoring Dad as he looks at his watch again.

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