Page 11 of Off Court Fix

I come to a halt, and Crosby does too, still holding my hand.

My phone buzzes from the pocket of my leather jacket. I know it’s Dad callingagain, but I make no move to answer or decline the call. I can’t move at all, and it’s not because I’m cold. I’m actually burning from Crosby’s hazel eyes holding mine in the dim light coming from a small lamp mounted to the church’s outside wall.

I can’t continue to focus on the light flecks that paint Crosby’s eyes anymore because it starts to pour. Forget raining cats and dogs. It’s raining elephants and rhinoceroses. Through pelting water, I barely see Crosby look up and down the street.

His voice roars before he pulls off his coat to hold it over our heads. “Come on. This put a damper on things anyway,” Crosby says, and I wondered if my silent hesitation was loud enough to hear.

We’re rushing along the sidewalk, and I inch closer to him, still finding warmth in the side of his body. There’s nothingdampabout the moment—not at all.

“This one.” Crosby stops at an SUV and lowers our soaked wool shelter, digging for his keys as we approach the car.

I jump at the hand he presses to my lower back as he opens the passenger side door, guiding me inside before slamming it shut.

The driver’s door opens, and Crosby slides in, breathing heavily from our sprint. He slops his soaking coat to the floor of the backseat and leans his against the headrest, his eyes focused on the windshield taking a beating from the unrelenting downpour.

“Maybe we made God angry,” I wonder, and my statement draws Crosby’s attention to me, his wet hair matting against the leather seat.

With the very faint light coming from the street, I’m able to see Crosby wrinkle his brow, and I fixate so intently on the mature lines on his forehead that I almost don’t hear him speak. They tell a story I’m both eager and fearful to hear.

“Are you worried about that?”

I shrug. “I’m a people pleaser by nature.”

This draws a laugh from him, and I’m both thankful for the cut of the tension and annoyed by it.

“I like it,” I begin, turning against the headrest to face him, “when people are happy with me. That’s what makes it hard when whatIwant makes them unhappy.”

Crosby takes a heavy swallow, and even though we both were shaking from the rush of our run and the chill of the weather and freezing rain, I’m hugged in his warmth—hypnotized even. I find myself inching closer even though I shouldn’t. But then I remember Max shouldn’t do that—not Amy.

“What would make you happy right now?”

His words pierce my skin and invade my bloodstream, sending a rush of warmth through my veins. I press my lips together, and for a second, I wonder if this is how Mason felt when he shot up.

I wonder if Crosby is just the fix I need—something strong but not permanent, forever out of reach when I need another hit.

“I should take you home.” He clears his throat and looking straight ahead. “But I don’t think we should drive in this rain. It’ll probably let up soon, though.”

There’s a stark difference in his voice from moments before. It’s softer, less assertive, and I should be relieved I’m no longer the lamb the lion is circling, waiting to pounce. Now, that lion is circling to protect the lamb. But I want to rewind everything—I want to be conquered, not coddled.

Crosby adjusts in his seat. He’s slid over as much as he could to create space between us in an already cramped proximity. He must think I’m afraid of being with him in the car.

“Here. Take a picture, send it to a friend.” Crosby produces his wallet, handing me his license and a business card.

I pull my phone from my pocket, ignoring the notifications of missed calls, and hold the cards closer to the lit screen, seeing his license matches his business card, and he wasn’t lying about living out east—his address and work are both in Southampton.

Crosby King

Manager, Hampton Racket and Beach Club

Peeking at the branding on the steering wheel, I wonder how a beach club employee affords a sleek Range Rover with all the bells and whistles. But I suppose, given the location of his work, it makes sense. Money didn’t know what money was until it came to the Hamptons.

“I didn’t think you were—”

“Old?”

I roll my eyes. “Really from out east. I love it out there. You can...” I pause in thought, looking around the car. “Breathe.”

I don’t tell Crosby I own a home not far from where he works for a few reasons. One being, it’s not a place I can speak easily of, even though my maternal grandmother’s house once held such fond, beautiful memories—simple childhood ones, like the feel of the slip and slide she set up in the sprawling backyard.

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