Page 17 of Off Court Fix

It wasn’t just the pleasure, god, how my body practically wept with it as Crosby moved inside and deeply. It was the uptick in my pulse, my eyes battling to stay open to peek through the windshield—our only privacy the curtaining rainfall. My brain was in overdrive, knowing we could get caught, that I could hop out of the car and someone would easily put the pieces of the puzzle together—a woman adjusting a short dress after hopping out of a car that was moving, bumping while in park.

But the thrill of it all made it worth it. The amazing sex, unlike any I’ve ever had, was just a really, really good bonus, for Amy at least, who I washed away in the hotel shower when I got back to my room. But I carry ghosts of her rendezvous with Crosby, not just through the evidence of my rug-burned knees. His touch along my thighs, between them, the feel of his fingers gripping my waist, all of it is still so strong and fresh. And I hope it lingers a little longer so I can remember the night I was brave and daring, the night I did what I shouldn’t. Because something is telling me, I’m going to need to be pretty brave.

And that something is my father’s face when I get downstairs.

“A few housekeeping things before I head off,” he says before dipping a chip into some guacamole. “Day after tomorrow, we’ll head over to Miami—”

“Why?”

“I want you to have a sit-down with that Brazilian hair care company.”

I look down at the ratty ends of my hair in question.

Dad dusts crumbs from his hands over the bowl. “They’re interested in you being the face of their campaign. It’s rolling out at the end of the summer.”

Hair care. Sure. Coming from the girl who uses whatever is in the hotel shower without a second thought.

“One day?” I ask.

“We’ll leave after you hit with Carlos. Back before dinner.”

I sigh. I don’t want anything on my calendar that doesn’t involve a racket or sprints or a recovery massage. Judging by the look Dad gives me, he knows that.

“I was hoping to meet with Jerry tomorrow,” I say, referring to my coach, who I don’t see regularly apart from the buildup before a tournament. “He’s supposed to be flying down.”

“He can wait a day. It’s a big contract, Max.”

Since my injury—and since I lost my largest sponsors and endorsements—everything has been about contracts with my father. The bigger, the better, but he never says no to a meeting, which made my recovery even more exhausting. And it made me wonder if he ever was truly invested in my recovery in the first place.

I dip a chip into the guacamole. “I guess, since it’s only a few hours. You know, I’ve got a good feeling about Indian Wells,” I say. “Areallygood feeling.”

Dad nods, offering a very blasé, unenthusiastic “great.”

I shake it off because I know when I show up out in Palm Springs ready to play andslay, the enthusiasm will come.

“What else?” I ask.

“We need to talk about your grandma’s house. I spoke with the realtor yesterday. Paint is finishing up this week, and then she’s ready to stage it. She expects it won’t stay on the market very long. Places on property like that never do.”

My toes curl, remembering running along the lush green front yard, racing between the house and the thick shrubbery lining the property. It makes me sad to let it go. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go back. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to enjoy the refurbished pool, the garden, the shaded hammock, or new court I put in. I don’t even think I’ll be able to see those things even when they’re right in front of my face. I imagine I’ll just be looking for traces of Mason’s blood along the smooth, flat stones of the patio instead.

“Okay.”

Thinking about the house fills me with more emotion than I know what to do with, as does everything involving Mason. So, I swallow the hard words and tough memories down as I always do, and I try to remember that everything happens for a reason, and maybe Mason’s premature death spared me from more trauma and heartache.

I clear my throat. “She can put it on the market,” I agree. “No sense in keeping it.”

Dad smiles. “Good.” He pushes off from the barstool at the counter and pats me on the shoulder. “You make my job so easy, kid.”

“What the hell are you doing?”Dave asks as I heave the mower.

“Those guys you brought in cut it too damn short last time,” I mutter, looking out at the grass courts.

The truth is, no one at the Hampton Racket and Beach Club plays well enough to really hit on a grass court, apart from Dave, who oversees all tennis programs, and his team of pros. I use pros loosely. They’re a bunch of knuckleheads from Australia who are almost always snacking on edibles, wondering if they have a chance with any of the club’s newest divorcées. And surely, none of the members who pay tens of thousands of dollars annually to have access to one of the most elite clubs in the Hamptons have the skill to return a decent serve on this grass.

I shut the shed. “You’ve got to find new guys before the season starts. This isn’t part of my job description.”

I wear many hats at the club—sometimes I’m a caterer, a secretary, a bartender, or therapist—but the landscaping hat I retired a long time ago when I had to deal with the fallout of my father’s company going bankrupt after he died. But damn, I can’t stand crooked lines on a court.

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