Page 130 of Off Court Fix

Maxine frowns.

“But I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my life.”

The smile that lights up Maxine’s face is matched only by the feel of it in my neck when she takes three steps forward, flinging herself at me, and we cling to each other, to the bubbling joy and happiness brewing in the nearly invisible space between us.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t going to let you go down for this. I could never,” Maxine insists, whispering fervently against my skin before she loosens her hold on my neck and steps back. “I wish I didn’t have to ask my dad to help, trust me, Crosby. It wasn’t easy.”

I cup her shapely shoulders and run my hands up and down her arms, feeling the heat within them from her warm-up. “I know it wasn’t. But I need you to keep me in the loop next time. Even though there better not be a next time.”

Maxine’s throat swells with a swallow. “Hunter?”

“I think we’ve closed that door. What he does now won’t involve us.” There’s disappointment on her face, and I sigh. “I know you want him topay, Maxine, but...” I pause, thinking of her father’s words. “Guys like that, they get what’s coming to them sooner or later. It doesn’t have to be your fight, not this time.”

She nods. “But it’s our time now, right?”

I press my lips together, and my instinct is to nod, but then I look down at her necklace, at her racket on the bench beside her. “No. It’s your time first.”

six months later

“Hand me that,”Crosby says, motioning at the shovel.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?”

“Do you think I’d care if we weren’t?” He holds his hand out, wiggling his gloved fingers. “Shovel.”

I hand it over, being careful where I should kneel or step. This is a gravesite, after all, and not just any—it’s Judy’s.

“What color will they be?” I ask as Crosby packs in dirt into the hole of the small hydrangea shrub he’s now securing with packed dirt.

Crosby sits back on his knees and looks at the tombstone. “Whatever color she wants them to, I suppose.”

I imagine Judy will pick blue.

“We’ll see in a few months, but I told the groundskeeper I’d come weekly to check on them, trim them back when they get too big.” He rises, turning to the side and clapping the dirt from the gloves before he removes them and tosses them into a bucket.

I move over to where Crosby stands and wrap my arm around his waist. “Do you miss her?”

He nods. “I never stopped.”

Judy died peacefully at Rolling Meadows with Crosby by her side about three weeks after I lost the semifinals of the US Open. It had been a beautiful early fall day out on Long Island. The windows were open, the sun was shining in. I imagine she didn’t just hold out for the perfect moment—she fought to wait for it.

From my place in the corner of her room, I couldn’t help but remember the day Mason died, how brutal and horrific it was, and I looked at Crosby holding Judy’s hand as her breathing grew less and less and felt an enormous sense of pride that I hope he felt too. Because he also fought to give Judy this opportunity, to pass quietly, in no pain, in what ended up being a beautiful place.

“Rest easy, Ma. I’ll see you later.” Crosby gives my waist a squeeze before leaning down to retrieve his gardening tools, and we walk to the cemetery path that leads us to the parking lot. We remain side by side until we get to his car, and only part so Crosby can step ahead, opening my door. “Where to now?”

“Home,” I wait to say when he gets in the car, starting the engine.

It’s been an unbelievably restful few months, and I’ll never get enough of the place I never imagined could feel like home for me again.

“Yours? Or mine?”

It’s something we’ve yet to discuss—the possibility of consolidating our things, creating one space that’s ours together and not separately each other’s.

“Mine. Your bed is too hard.”

Crosby scoffs. “When you get to my age, you learn to appreciate a firm mattress.”

We silently drive back toward Southampton, and where Crosby would normally take a right to head to my home, he turns left.

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