Page 116 of Off Court Fix

“I wasn’t going to give it to you... but no secrets, no kid gloves, right?” Crosby motions for me to take the envelope, and after hesitating, I reach for it. “This is Mason’s.”

“Mason’s?” There’s weight to the envelope I’m surprised to hold.

I unfold it, the thick paper cracking. Inside, I find cash.

Immediately, I hand it back to Crosby. “Take it.”

Crosby doesn’t make any move. “Maxine—”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want drug money or whatever...” My head starts to spin, and I throw the envelope on the mattress and push off from it. “What is that, Crosby, and why doyouhave it?”

His chest rises as he floods it with air. “Winnings owed. From years ago. He never showed up to claim it. From Hunter’s group. Apparently, he used to pop in there from time to time. And the last time, he won big, but never came to collect.”

My eyes drop back to the envelope. I have a strong urge to drive by Hunter’s house, place it on the front step, and set it on fire.

“There’s twenty-five thousand dollars in there.”

My eyes shut, but the last interaction I had with Mason flashes across my mind, just a week before his overdose.

“I told you it wouldn’t take so long.”

I turn quickly on my heel. “You were right. I just thought it would take more than five minutes! Did you even unpack?” I know Mason didn’t detox, that’s for sure. Because he’s strung out, a pile of pale skin, greasy hair, a sheen of sweat covering his body.

I reach for the phone. I’m beyond annoyed. Because here I am, days after winning Cincinnati for the first time. I should be wrapped up in my own kind of high, not drowning in his.

“What are you doing?” Mason stalks over to me.

“I’m calling them and telling them you’ll be back first thing in the morning. And then I’m booking you a flight and—”

I can’t finish my sentence because my words fly as the phone does, asIdo when I’m pressed up against the fridge. One of Grandma’s magnets presses into my shoulder. It’s pointy, maybe it’s the magic castle from Disney World. I remember that trip. She came down to Florida and took me because Dad was busy and it was spring break from school.

Mason was in rehab at that point for the first time. And now he’s standing in front of me after a poor attempt ataninthtime.

I push him off easily because Mason is no more than a sack of bones, so even if I wasn’t training as hard as I am, it still wouldn’t take much effort. He spins, slamming into the kitchen island, sending the stack of mail I had brought in to the floor.

“Does this make you happy?” I scream. “Does pushing your little sister around make you feel good, Mason?”

He stands, clutching his side, a greasy lock of hair falling across his face. “None of these things make me happy. Do you think Ilikebeing like this, Max?”

I watch as his hand leaves his side and he scratches at the raw scabs on his arm, undoubtedly left behind by the poor stick of a needle. I turn away because I can’t watch him disintegrate anymore, right before my eyes. And what I see on the fridge hits me just as hard—because I see how far Mason has fallen from the photo of me and him when we were younger.

He went from a bright-eyed, wonderous kid to a shell of a man.

I went from looking at him like he was the one who hung the moon to looking at him with disdain for keeping my world in perpetual darkness.

“You know what, I won’t call them. And I won’t call you, either.” I look away from the photo and turn back, picking up the phone Mason knocked out of my hand and returning it to the base. “Stay here with Grandma. But don’t you dare pick up that phone and cry and beg how you want help, how you want to get better, only to run out of whatever rehab I can convince to take you to andpayfor. I’m done with that. I have a tournament coming up.”

Mason takes a step forward, but I’m no longer afraid. I simply ignore him even though my heart aches and my arms are desperate to hug and shake him at the same time.

“You, you’re on your own now, Mason.” I grab my racket bag from where I dropped it by the door when I was so surprised to find him at the house and not three thousand miles away in a rehab I had just spent twenty-five thousand dollars sending him to.

I came up to Southampton to spend some time with my grandmother, to have beach days and long walks, give her a breather from being his constant caretaker. And I’ve got the Open to think about.

“Dad was right. You’re too far gone, and I can’t keep coming back to rescue you when you don’t careat allabout me.”

Frantic footsteps come from behind me. “I’m going to pay you back every cent, Max, Iswear. I’m working on a way to do that.”

This is how I know Mason is too far gone. Because he thinks what I said is about money when it’s not. It’s never been.

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