Page 125 of Off Court Fix

I tilt my head. “You kind of did.”

“When you went down in Cincinnati, I went into the tunnel. I thought you’d ask for a withdrawal.”

I sit straighter at this news.

“I’ve never been prouder of you than that moment. I know you were hurting, and I know you let yourself keep hurting. But you really showed me you never give up. And that’s life, kiddo. It’ll throw you a curve ball for sure. When it knocks you to the ground, get right back up, alright?”

I nod.

“How’s the foot?”

Looking down, I raise my left leg and rotate my ankle. “Hanging in there,” I say. “But the swelling is down finally after a few days of ibuprofen.”

Dad holds my gaze. “That’s good.”

It is good, I think to myself. Because if I’ve learned anything from what happened in Cincinnati, it’s that I can face my fears—even ones people find irrational—with a little support if I let people know I’m struggling. I can be strong and still ask for help. “I just have to get used to playing on the weak side. I’m not sure it’ll ever really get better.”

“It might not. But you will, Max.”

Our eyes meet, and we give each other a small smile.

Dad looks at the phone in his hand.

“The passcode is zero-two-one-seven,” I tell him.

“Mason’s birthday.”

I think back to the day of the photoshoot when Dad didn’t acknowledge it at all. But he knew, even if he chose to ignore it.

“There’s only a voice memo on there. I don’t know if it’ll hurt me or—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Dad repeats. “Don’t worry.”

For the first time in a long time, I don’t.

Shifting in my seat, I move to stand, but Dad stops me.

“Do you have a dollar?”

“A dollar?” I ask before fumbling with the zipper of my bag. “A five.”

“Give it to me.”

I hand over the bill with a raised eyebrow.

“Attorney-client privilege. You’ve retained me at a discount.” Dad winks. “And one other thing, come.”

Hesitantly, I follow Dad as he stands and slips across the pew toward the walls of the church, where he makes his way to the alcove filled with rows of small red glass jars holding tiny candles. Dad slips the money I gave him into the box and reaches for a long match, handing it to me.

“For Mason. And your mom,” he says.

I nod and take the match, holding it to a tiny flame before I light two candles, pausing before I light a third.

“For Crosby?” he asks.

I snort. “Honestly, he’d need more than one.” Dad’s laughter comes to a halt with my next words. “For you and me.”

I think back to the firepit at Crosby’s house. That night, I used a match to rid myself of the old Maxine. And tonight, I’m holding one and praying she keeps burning, no matter what.

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