Page 84 of Off Court Fix

I pull up to the house. “That’s exactly why I need to play there.”

A thick, heavy moment of silence descends over the line, and I stare ahead at the house through the windshield, looking at the hydrangeas that, as Crosby had promised after he tended to the soil, have begun to change colors, shifting toward pink. Some of the petals are now making their way toward purple.

“They can be anything you want them to be with a little encouragement.”

And suddenly, Dad is talking, but I’m not listening. I’m so far deep in my head I’m swimming in brain matter, digging for the switch that makes me not such a doormat. I’m looking for that thing inside that changes the outside, the thing that makes me purple, and not blue.

“How about lunch tomorrow?” Dad asks. “Hot as hell in the city. I’ll pop up late morning, let’s go grab a bite, hm? We’ll talk everything through. You always have to stay one step ahead, remember? This campaign, it’s a big deal.”

The swimsuit campaignisa big deal, but it’s an interruption, a detour away from everything I’ve worked and suffered for, everything I did to make mydadhappy in the first place. And all I’m hearing is that it’s not enough. I could do more, be more, be different.

But I’m upset because it’s not that I want to be different. I just want the world—and my father—to accept me as I am.

I enterthe code to Maxine’s gate and drum my fingers against the steering wheel, less out of impatience and more from sheer annoyance at the lack of consideration, avoiding my call and not responding to my messages fromhoursago. I park beside her car and head to the side, which I find locked. I knock with a heavy hand, but it goes unanswered. I raise my fist to repeat the action with even more force, and that’s when I hear it, the hard press of a racket slamming into a ball coming from the backyard. The top of the wooden gate bites my skin as I jump to reach the latch, and I curse under my breath when I walk through it. I’m angry—rightfully. So angry I don’t even stop to consider that Maxine might not be alone.

Her father could be here.

Her coach.

Her hitting partner.

But I don’t care. I don’t even give the smallest shit as I walk, stomping across the grass, past the patio, and over to the court. I find her donning a white knit cover-up over what looks like a red bikini as she reaches into a large—nearly empty—basket beside her, tossing one ball after another into the air. Maxine’s serve isn’t clean—it’s fierce, it’s brutal.

It’s as angry as I am.

“Hey,” I call out, and it’s two more serves before she turns around. I hold my arms out.

Cheeks flushed, Maxine shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “Shit. I’m sorry,” she pushes out before looking lamely at her watch. “I lost track of time. Let me go shower—”

“It’s too late,” I cut in, and she can save the puppy dog eyes. I continue, “You just had to let me know, that’s it. A call, text, carrier pigeon, whatever.”

I’m about to turn on my heel and fume back the way I came when she sighs. “I had a bad day.”

Here is where I give Maxine a chance. I wait, holding my breath. I wait for her to tell me something, anything.

But she doesn’t, only shaking her head once more. “I’ll make it up to you, alright? Just... let me be right now.”

“Let you be?” My eyes fall to the racket still gripped by her hand, her forearm flexed and tight, glistening with sweat.

Something in my tone must get under her skin because Maxine bites back. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Crosby, but I have a lot going on right now. I’m sorry I was late—”

“You didn’t show up,” I’m quick to remind her. “After you were the one who went on about needingtimewith me.”

“I do,” Maxine relents. “I also need a minute to myself. I need time for me, todealwith everything.”

Maxine’s voice is as hardened as her stance is guarded, and it fills me with rage as much as it makes me fuckingsad. I want to go to her, grab her by the shoulders and remind her that’s not how she should be with me.

“Talk to me, Maxine.”

Her eyes fall, and I curse under my breath, glancing around at the balls littering the court.

“Is this you dealing with everything?”

Judging by the tenseness in her shoulders, the way her chest heaves, I can only guess she’s bogged down by something. And I don’t want her to drown in it.

Placing my hands on my hips, I look around the court before stomping across to retrieve one of her extra rackets. My fingers wrap far around the well-worn grip, but that’s okay. Even with a perfect size racket, I’d be lucky to return one or two of her shots. But I can try. For Maxine, I’ll give it my best.

“What are you doing?” Maxine asks as I turn away from her and head to the other side of the court, kicking clay into my Top-Siders.

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