Page 52 of Off Court Fix

I immediately tongue my cheek and can see by the protruding on Maxine’s face she’s doing the same thing. “Next question,” I tell her, reaching again for my drink.

“I hope you asked Brandon Summers how he felt about being considered a ‘cover boy,’” Maxine quips.

I quickly spit the iced tea back into the glass, watching the surprise on the reporter’s face as Maxine gives him a pat on the shoulder and backs away. She tosses her visor into the crowd before twirling again and waving to fans cheering for her well-earned victory.

“That’s my girl,” I whisper, and when her hand fingers the necklace full of what’s left of her from that day, I almost feel as if she can hear me through the TV and distance.

The idea evokes a smile, and I’ll admit it—I like that she’s wearing the necklace. I like that she touches a piece of me while celebrating.

But then that smile slowly fades, and for the first time since this whole charade with Maxine began, I’m struck by the realization that it’s separately—and never together—that our highest highs and lowest lows, on and off court, are going to happen. And it’s not only my epiphany that strikes me, but how I feel about it.

I think I might hate it.

* * *

A low-low comes days later when Maxine’s victory streak on the green grass courts of Wimbledon comes to an end as she loses in the quarterfinals.

You played great.

Not great enough.

True, or you would’ve advanced to the semis. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t play great. She just played better. On to the next one.

I tongue my cheek, waiting for her response, and sigh before sending another message.

How do you feel?

Like I could use a hug.

I’m not one to sit and feed into woe-is-me moments. There’s no time to sit and wallow for anyone. Life is too short. But the truth is, I find myself wishing I was with her in the hotel in London, so she could woe aroundme, and I could be the one she leans her defeated head on.

There’s one waiting for you when you come home. But I’m only giving you a 30 second long pity party.

I’ll see you in a few days.

I frown because I was expecting her to be on the next flight back to New York, which would be tomorrow morning, meaning I’d see her in the evening. Shifting my mouth back and forth, I contemplate askingwhyshe’s staying in London but decide against it. Instead, I pocket my phone and open the door.

This morning I came into work late so I could watch Maxine’s match at home, undisturbed. But there’s another reason. When I left the club last night and walked through the courts, making sure all gates were locked up, I stopped at the grass court—the one with the baseline now beat down and dried out by Max’s hard work—and realized thatIwas the one moping, and not because I lost anything except her presence around the grounds.

Shaking my head, I toss the thought from my mind even though I’m bothered by it, now realizing and feeling the constraints of the relationship we’ve formed—tight-lipped and secretive, much more for her benefit than my own.

But I wouldn’t be without total loss. I could lose my umpire license. Even though I ref far fewer matches than I used to, the potency of the thrill that strikes me when I sit in that chair, commanding respect, recognition... it’s second to none.

Or maybe, just one.

But it’s not lost on me that more eyes will be on Maxine, and not just because she’s the player—but because she’s a woman. And maybe because I’m the other piece of that puzzle, but for the first time in my forty-three years on this earth, I’mbotheredby that, enraged even.

It’s not that this started out innocently—maybe there were impure intentions, but notbadones, on my end or hers. But the world—especially the tennis world—will likely have a next to impossible time seeing that.

I head into the clubhouse, up the stairs to my office. I’ve got a meeting with the organizers for the gala, and I can already feel the headache coming. By the time I switch on my computer and check my email, the headache is in full force because I’ve got messages from members listing complaint after complaint.

I rub my temple as my cell rings, and it’s Rolling Meadows calling.

“Fuck,” I say before answering. “Hello?”

“Mr. King, it’s Dr. Greenberg.”

The neurologist. I hold my breath.

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