Page 101 of Off Court Fix

“Yeah,” Maxine agrees quietly. “That’s what I was thinking too.”

But the truth is, even with sacrifice comes trouble, and it’sstillmore trouble for Maxine than me.

“Back to bed. We still have a few more hours before the sun comes up.”

What I mean, and I know Maxine understands when she turns in my hold and nods, leaning on me for support as she limps to the bed, is that we still have a few more hours of together before the sun rises and we go back to apart.

“Thank you,” she says as I help her onto the bed.

When I climb in beside Maxine, her breath fans across my neck and she melts into me, her body needing rest after the stress of the match and the painful aftermath. I listen to the quiet of the room beyond her breathing, realizing justhowsilent it’s been. Apart from the hotel employee bringing ice and ace bandages, no one has knocked on the door. No one has come to check to see if she’s okay, if she needs or wants anything.

No one except me.

“I love you,” Maxine tells me with a sigh that is soft and gentle yet enough to permeate my skin and hug my heart. “I’m really happy you were the one who came.”

She gives my waist a squeeze and grows quiet again, and I feel the sleep enter her body. And my body? I’m filling up with something from head to toe, something I never thought to feel again. I feel important. Important enough to be remembered, to be wanted, to be needed. Even though I’m wearing part of my uniform, I’m not on the court. I’m not building an intangible web that turns a thousand-dollar buy-off into millions in profits.

I’m only doing the right thing for someone I care about.

I’m important in the smallest, most intimate and significant moments, right here in this Cincinnati hotel. I’m important to Maxine, just me as I am. I don’t have to command respect from above the ground over a microphone. I get it by giving it. I receive love by sending it.

Maxine has given me support through acceptance of my faults, by encouraging me to face my fears regarding my mother. It’s my time to support her now—whole heartedly and with complete devotion—and to do that, I’m the one who needs to give up something.

When Maxine’s weight grows heavier against me, I shift carefully to grab my phone from the nightstand. I open an email and begin to type.

Dear US Tennis Association,

It’s been an honor to serve as a chair umpire for the last sixteen years. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am writing to formally submit my resignation effective at the end of this current season.

With respect and gratitude,

Crosby King

* * *

It’s amazing how life goes from high to low in an instant. It’s been days since I sent my resignation, which was accepted nearly immediately with little to no conversation. There’s no doubt in my mind it was an easy acceptance to make, given what happened between Maxine and me earlier in the year. I’m quite certain there were no qualms about saying goodbye to me.

And oddly enough, I don’t have any hard feelings about it, not one bit. I don’t mind that I’ll likely never set foot in an umpire chair again, or be regarded as the most important person on a tennis court, even among the world’s greatest players. I feel at peace with the fact I’m back to being the manager of a relatively seasonal beach club, dealing with bullshit complaints from members, or discussing space constraints when using a mix of round and rectangular tables while maintaining a sizable dance floor.

I’m not upset about leaving umpiring. I’m griping internally because it’s been days since I’ve seen Maxine, who left Cincinnati after I did, only to come home and turn around to fly up to Boston to see a specialist for her ankle.

I pull my phone from my pocket, frowning at the lack of notifications. She had an MRI yesterday, and I know she should’ve met with the doctor already.

“Crosby?”

I look up at the representatives from the First Step Group waiting for my input. Given that we’re about seventy-two hours out from the gala, the tenseness in the room is palpable. “Right, so I’d go all in on rounds, and we can push them all the way back to here. If you want rectangular, they can be on the sides, but it will be too much if you add more toward the center of the room.”

We continue this song and figurative dance until the floor plan for next week’s gala is set. I’m leaving the ballroom with a headache from the forty-minute discussion that could’ve been an email when I find Dave at the stairs leading to my office.

I hold up a hand as I pass. “Whatever it is, figure it out or bother me later.”

“Word’s out, man.”

I’m halfway up the staircase when I freeze, and Maxine’s silence all day collides hard with Dave’s words repeating in my head. I run through the possible scenarios in my mind. Someone saw me follow her into the elevator at the hotel or sneak into her locker room earlier in the tournament.

I start shifting my mouth side to side, thinking of possible ways I can explain this one—lie my way out of it, for her. And I come up with pretty much nothing.

“Crosby.”

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