Page 16 of Off Court Fix

“Maxine. Indian Wells is coming up.Youwere the one insisting on playing there, not me.”

I toss the wrapper into the trash can and rinse my hands at the sink.

“You purposely skip your flight. You rearrange your schedule, ignore my calls—”

“I can do those things,” I remind him. “I’m an adult—”

“You’re acting like a child.”

My cheeks burn. Because I only feel like a child—atwenty-eight-year-old child—in front of my father. I felt like a child with no autonomy yesterday on set, wearing nothing more than underwear and a padded sports bra while a photographer told me to “soften my lips” but directed a fully clothed Brandon to put on his “game face.” There we were, the future of tennis—the serious, driven man and the woman with a body people cared more about looking at than what it could do when clothed and holding a racket.

But what do children need? Protection. I didn’t get an ounce of it on set. The irony isn’t lost on me that the only time I felt it at all yesterday was with Crosby.

I take a deep breath, looking back at the watch on Dad’s wrist that I had bought him for his birthday last year, knowing well enough he could’ve purchased it himself several times over from his compensation as my manager. He left a lucrative law firm partnership to look after my career.

“Go on,” Dad says, stepping closer. “I know you were upset about the photoshoot because it wasn’t what you were expecting. But you’ve got to trust me. Would I ever let you do anything that would make people think less of you? It’s a different vibe than what you probably had in mind, that’s all. But the people at the magazine know what they’re doing. And you know what they say, all press is good press. You need to remind people you’re still around, kiddo.”

He reaches out to cup my shoulder, and I look down, wondering why my father’s words feel so different than they actually sound.

“Come on now, Max. Carlos is waiting. I’ll cancel conditioning for today. Go hit for a few hours, take a shower and a nap. We’ll get you rehabbed early, and then you can get a good night’s sleep.”

I nod because I’m too tired to fight and say anything. I move past Dad to head up to my room, into my closet, and pull clothes from my dresser, slipping on a visor as I return downstairs. Dad is on the phone but flashes an approving smile.

Carlos already has my racket. “Damn,” he says as I rise from tying my sneakers. “Did you have a party foul? Those look rough.”

I look down at my knees before taking the racket. “Go easy on me. I’m running on empty.”

We make small talk over warm-up and stop to stretch.

“What are you thinking about Indian Wells? How’s it feeling?” Carlos motions at my left foot, which I rotate side to side and flex, feeling the ache that is present more than I care to—or will ever—admit.

I twist, peering down at the scar up the back of my leg. Sometimes I look at it and imagine what the surgery was like, where doctors had to uncoil a tendon and pull it back down to secure it in place. But every time I stand, walk, run, and leap—on the court or off it—it’s a reminder that even though part of me is broken inside, the day I went down didn’t break my spirit. I’m still here, still working, ready to show the world—and my father, who now appears on the terrace peeking at me and Carlos—that I’m still great.

I remember being taken in the ambulance that day, the only day I walked—or crawled—away from a match in my career. I remember the paramedic and trainer who came with me, speaking quietly as I grit my teeth, focusing on the lights above us as we pulled out of the Billie Jean King Tennis Center parking lot and wishingnot my Achilles. Please, not my Achilles.I would’ve rather looked down to see my tibia popping through my skin. There’s a reason the Trojan War ended the way it did, and I know, if Achilles himself were still around and faced the same injury on a tennis court, the battle would be over instantly—as it was for me, so everyone thought.

People think tennis is just an upper-body sport, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s atotal-bodysport, taking effort from top to bottom and, particularly, drawing strength from the Achilles tendon, which drives mobility and strength. It’s key to quick feet, a powerful stroke, an all-out battle.

When I woke up from that surgery, I was determined not to let this injury become my Achilles heel. So, I show up and practice, even in pain. I rehab, even though it can be excruciating. And I know the victories I’ll win over the next seven or eight months will taste even better because of it.

I know Dad will be proud of me because of it.

“Maxine? You good?”

“Doesn’t matter how it feels,” I answer Carlos’s earlier question. “I’m playing. And I’m going to kill it.”

Or die trying.

* * *

Cinching the belt of my white robe around my waist, I let the wet towel fall from my head, my neck still leaning even with the terry cloth’s absence due to the weight of my long, damp hair. I comb through the ends as gently as possible, wondering when I’ll next see Alyssa so she can give them a hefty trim.

“Max?” my dad’s muddled voice rings from downstairs, and I sigh, abandoning my comb on the vanity and heading into my bedroom.

“I’m getting changed! Give me a minute,” I holler back at the door before searching for clothes. My physiotherapist will be here in a minute and needs full access to my leg, so I opt for a pair of comfy cream shorts and a matching sweatshirt.

I pause in front of the mirror after tugging the shorts to my waist and catch sight of my knees, which look red, angry, and rough to say the least, just as it was with Crosby.

And I loved every second of it.

---