Page 127 of Off Court Fix

“The movie,” he says. “Grab a sweater. It’ll be chilly in the theater.”

I look down at the hat, and then Crosby’s palm pops into view with a bag of sour candy, and I can’t keep the smile off my face.

He takes the hat from me and plops it onto my head. “Try not to fall asleep this time, yeah?”

I don’t fall asleep in the movie because, unlike last time, rest is not what I need. What I need is to sit in a crowded theater, crossing and uncrossing my legs so they don’t go numb, leaning against Crosby, and eating most of the popcorn. What I need is a taste of what we’ll have when we come out the other side—normal. Movies. Dinners. Quiet nights alone only because we both want them, not because they’re our only option.

And I know one day, I’ll have the moment I want most, no matter if I win or lose—a hug from Crosby for all the world to see.

* * *

“Ma’am? We’re here.”

I pull myself out of the daze I’ve been in since we left Midtown Manhattan and smile at the driver. “Thank you.” I grab my bag, heavy from rackets still wrapped in plastic—fresh grips, taut, clean strings.

I’m greeted by a tournament official who ushers me through a side door to sign in. I’m met with more greetings than I anticipated, ones that swell me with emotion.

I’m happy you made it.

We’re rooting for you.

What you did in Cincinnati was incredible.

You’re one tough lady.

I smile with each statement, but I’m trying to bite back the way my mouth wants to pool into a puddle of trembles. I’m struggling to feel like anything remotely close to tough because the truth is I’m terrified.

I’m terrified of accidentally losing this match in a way that leaves Hunter the winner.

I’m scared my father won’t pull through.

I’m afraid everything will come to an end.

My heart pounds in my chest as I make my way down the hall, trying to get my breathing to match my steady, slow pace as I shake off this fear. But then I see a sign for the umpire locker rooms, and I remember—I can be brave for the ones I love. I can trust them too.

With a good three hours before my match is set to begin, I have my usual time to tape up, warm up, get on the court, and hydrate. I sling open my locker room door, but what I see sitting on the bench in front of me steals my breath away and leaves me stalled in the entry.

With a smile on my face that runs so deep I feel it in my chest, I let my racket bag slide from my shoulder. I walk forward, pick up the mason jar filled with purple hydrangeas, and smell them. They’re fresh, fragrant, and familiar—like home, like Crosby. I have no idea how he managed to hide these from me in the hotel or how he somehow got them into my locker room. My heart rate finally slows when I inhale the flowers again, and I smile against the petals. This small dose of ordinary magic of stopping to smell the flowers is exactly what I need.

I turn the jar in my hand, finding the small note taped to the side of the glass.

For my forever favorite pick of the tournament.

Play big and loud.

I wokeup this morning well before Maxine. I kissed her sleeping face and left a note on the nightstand to let her know I’d be watching, as we planned initially, from a TV down in the hotel lobby. She’s set to inform on me any minute—another thing we planned because I want today to be her day and not about me. I know as soon as she reports me, my presence around the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center will be noticed quickly by officials and that will change the narrative.

But when everything in this relationship has to be carefully calculated and risk assessed, I want to do something spontaneous, something Maxine doesn’t expect, and I know she’ll be surprised to find I’d been in her locker room—sort of.

“Alright,” Dave says, approaching me. “You’ve really got some explaining to do. Having me cut hydrangeas from your house at six this morning—”

“You did a great job with the stems, by the way,” I interrupt, leaning against a wall behind a row of food venders prepping their stock.

Dave scoffs, shaking his head. “Is there something I need to know about?” I’m contemplating how much Dave really needs to know when he presses me. “Crosby? If you tell me you’ve been having—”

“It’s Maxine, the woman I’ve been seeing. The one I told you about.”

Dave takes a step back, stunned into silence.

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