Page 115 of Off Court Fix

I wave my hands when Crosby turns a corner, and he slows, cutting the engine.

“If you keep going, it will be abaldlawn.”

Crosby pops out an ear bud. “You alone?”

I nod. “Come,” I say. “Shower with me.”

Crosby looks around. “Let me finish up here. Start without me.”

He places his ear bud back in and starts the engine again. I fight my frown, wondering what he’ll find around my house to take care of next. And while I appreciate his efforts and attention to detail—like turning my houseplants on the kitchen sink twice a day—I’m starting to feel Crosby has positioned himself over the line between chaperone and boyfriend.

The altercation with Hunter at the gala might have left me uneasy, but it’s left Crosby slightly paranoid when in my home, which he’s practically moved into since that night. I should find joy and comfort in waking up to him and falling asleep by his side every night, but instead, I’m starting to inherit some of his paranoia between the double and triple checking of locking the doors and shutting the curtains.

In the bathroom, I stand beneath the shower stream and turn the water hotter, my muscles aching more than usual, and I can’t say for certain if that’s because my body is objecting to today’s workout or if it’s merely holding on to the tension of the last few days in a strangling grasp. All I know is I need to not be a rubber band that snaps when stretched to capacity in the wrong direction—like my Achilles.

With my head facing down, I watch the suds from my shampoo run down my body before they swirl into the drain at my feet. The swelling is much better, nearly gone except for a small pocket, according to my physiotherapist. But I wonder howsomuch pain can appear to look inarguably normal on the outside when it festers and eats away at me on the inside.

Shaking my head, I reach for conditioner, squirting the cream into my palm before I rub it on my ends, and I jump when a warm body presses against my back.

Crosby’s body is still sticky with sweat from the yardwork on a very hot, sunny afternoon. For late August, it feels as though summer is trying to hang on as hard as it can before it succumbs to autumn.

He places his chin on my shoulder, turning to kiss my cheek. “You alright?”

I’m alright in the sense I always am. I’m okay to play even when I’m injured. I’m alright to hold tears back as my physio works deep into the flesh of my heel. I’m alright even though I don’t want to admit out loud how worried I am about Hunter.

But I’m better in Crosby’s hold, and even though he wraps one arm across my chest, tugging me closer, his other hand making small, soapy circles on my hip, I know we’re not thebestwe can be at the moment. And maybe that’s the hardest part of everything for me to accept. Because Crosby’s touch is anxious, unsure, exactly opposite of who he is, and especially, who he iswith me.

“I’d be better if you talk to me.”

He sighs, leaning his head against mine.

I break through the hold he has on my chest and spin around as Crosby runs a wet hand down his face. After reaching for the loofah, I lather body wash on it and begin to swipe it gently across his chest. When I look up from the patch of damp and darkened hair and our eyes meet, I find a different Crosby—he looks older, as if the last few days aged him. It’s not that I mind in the least. But what I care about is that Crosby simply looks like he’s gone to war because I fired one bullet. And I feel terrible.

I drop the loofah on the shelf and wrap my arms around him, tugging him under the stream with me. It takes work, this kiss, to break through what Crosby has buried himself under. But with a few more pushes of my lips and a swipe of my tongue, he groans, pressing his hand into the small of my back to close the space between our bodies. The slick tile of the wall hits my back, and I sigh into Crosby’s mouth when he leans his other hand above my head. But there’s so much more in this kiss than desire. I taste a heavy weight of emotion with a hint of desperation, and it’s enough that Crosby doesn’t need to push my leg down when I lift it to hitch it around his waist—I lower it on my own.

“What’s going on?” I ask, pulling back. I know I said I trusted Crosby to handle things, and I do. But I can’t sit back and watch it all take such a toll on him. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Crosby takes a deep breath, and even through the steam and stream of the shower, I watch his nostrils flair. “Turn around.”

“Crosby—”

He turns me himself, tilting my head back into the water so his fingers can comb through the conditioner still weighing my hair down. Crosby remains focused on the task, ignoring my pout, avoiding my eyes that are begging and pleading to be let in.

“Go dry off.” Crosby pulls his hands back. “Let me wash up and we’ll talk.”

Even though it’s dismissive, it’s the only thing Crosby has given me in days, so I step around him, letting my fingers brush against his side as I move to get out of the shower. After toweling off and wrapping myself in a robe, I sit on the middle of the bed with my legs folded, my hair wet and screaming to be combed, but I can’t muster the energy to deal with it. Instead, all my senses focus on the bathroom and the shower running as I wait for it to shut off.

When it does, I’m bouncing with nerves until Crosby appears, hair also uncombed, a towel wrapped around his lean waist. He doesn’t even look at me.

“Crosby...”

He moves to my dresser, tugging open a drawer he’s claimed for himself and tossing the towel to the bed before slipping on a pair of gray boxer briefs. I wait for him to turn, to face me, but instead, Crosby sticks his hand back into the drawer.

He’s holding a folded manila envelope when he finally faces me.

“What’s this?” I look up from the envelope to Crosby’s face, which holds a sullen, defeated expression.

I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Because if whatever is in this envelope is making Crosby look at me like that, it can’t be good.

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