Page 104 of Off Court Fix

“Oh, it’s nothing. I... I definitely can get behind the cause.” Her eyes lift to me. “We should all get behind it.”

I clear my throat. “Dave is gone for the night. I’ll look at the net on my way out. Make sure it’s ready for you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Maxine resumes practice after taking some much-needed rest.

“You know, I’ve held Crosby hostage. It’s very late.” Susan gathers her papers and bag. “I think we’re in good shape. We’ll chat over email about the outstanding things. And Maxine, I’m happy to hear you’re heading to the Open. We loved watching you play in Cincinnati.”

Maxine flashes a grateful smile. “I hope the next one will be worth watching.”

Susan moves to the door. “I’m sure it will be. Have a great night, you two.”

I wait until the sound of Susan’s footsteps grows muted. “Anything wrong with that net?” I ask Maxine, who has taken Susan’s seat and reaches for a pamphlet from First Step Group that leads withThere’s No Shame in the Problem.“Maxine?”

She looks up at me and shakes her head before she turns to the door. “Can you get me her number?”

* * *

There’s an elephant in the room at the gala. One everyone chooses to ignore while dressed to the nines in their tuxedos and gowns, kissing and greeting one another as if they hadn’t seen each other that morning on the golf course or at the patio for lunch. The women ooh and ahh over each other’s dresses in one breath and in the next, run their eyes up and down in a river of judgment. The men, they head to the bar—where the elephant lives. The elephant in the clubhouse, out on the terrace filled with high-top tables donned with delicate, clean floral arrangements—it’s everywhere. The thing no one wants to talk about is that all of these people are getting wasted at a fundraiser benefiting a rehab facility.

I at least acknowledge the irony while I go behind the bar and pour myself a glass of scotch. It burns more than normally—perhaps because with Maxine around, I rarely reach for a glass, even though she tells me it’s fine. But I don’t, and that’s not because I’m trying to prove something to myself or her. I don’t drink with Maxine around because nothing is really missing, nothing needs to be enhanced, made more enjoyable.

But since we’re not together, and instead thrown back to the ping-pong rally of small, stolen glances across club grounds, I decide I need a drink becauseshe’smissing even though she’s right in front of me, looking gorgeous.

I down the contents of my glass in one more gulp, hoping my swallow takes all the things I wish were different about the moment—the hope for us together, happy and unable to be scrutinized.

In that perfect world, I’d press my hand to the gentle slope of her lower back, feeling the softness of Maxine’s white gown, second only to the feel of her skin beneath it. I’d tease her about the black Converse she wears, even though they’re the option needed to keep her ankle stable. We’d gaze around the crowd, whispering imaginary gossip about other people, and she’d come up with such a story I’d have to bite my tongue to keep my laughter at an appropriate level, pressing my mouth into the skin of her shoulder to help mute it before leaving a kiss there.

In a perfect world, we’d be able to do all those things, and no one would give it a second thought. And one day, we might. But patience has never been my strength.

As soon as I put my empty glass down, my phone rings, and I’m reminded again of how unfair the world is when I see Rolling Meadows calling me. At seven thirty on a Saturday.

I silence the ring, fill the glass again, and wind through the crowd and down the stairs to the path that winds around the clubhouse to the grassy lawn parking lot. I’ve surrendered my spot for the sake of valet and trudge across the lot, closer to the maintenance building where I find my car.

“Hello?”

“Mr. King? It’s...”

In between heavy sips of my scotch, I only catch bits and pieces of what the doctor is telling me. It’s time for hospice. They were trying to wait until morning to speak with me, but my mother can no longer walk without assistance. She’s going on day three of being unable to dress herself. Chewing has become a challenge. They want to begin hospice immediately to make her comfortable—comfortable enough to die in case something happens, like aspiration or infection. And more, she hasn’t spoken since yesterday afternoon, is making poor eye contact.

I contemplate for a minute to tell the doctor she already left a long time ago.

“I’ll come as soon as I can.” I down the rest of my drink and jump when there’s a tap on my window. I unlock the door, watching Maxine peek over her shoulder before she slides in and shuts it behind her.

“Are you alright? You ran out—”

I’m not alright, but instead of admitting that to Maxine, I kiss her hard.

I’m out of sorts, unsure of which way is up, which is down. All I know is Maxine is no longer missing right in front of me, like she just was, like my mother has been for years.

She’s present, gorgeous. Her taste is better than any drink, more powerful than the scotch I downed way too quickly. Her sweetness floods and fills me, beams me up, far and away. I continue to crush her face to mine, my hand gripping her hair, knitting as much of the dark locks between my fingers as I can, so I take her with me when I’m filled with a high so strong I float away.

“Crosby—”

She whimpers when I kiss her harder to shut up. Because now it’s my turn. I know what it’s like to want to be someone else. I don’t care who I am as long as I’m not Crosby, the man who suddenly feels like nothing but a boy, unsure of the answer to anything.

I don’t know what happens when my mother dies.

I don’t know if anything I’ve done was worth it.

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