Page 18 of Off Court Fix

“You’re a control freak.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Dave.” I pull my sweatshirt over my head, hot from the manual labor. “What do you want?”

Dave leans against the path’s banister, flanking our grass courts, and looks to his left, out at the ocean. I might complain about actually managing the club, but there probably are worse places to work than a spot right up against the Atlantic, even on a cold day in early March.

“Feel like heading to the city for the weekend?” Dave asks. “Late night fun?”

Dave is newly divorced and in the phase of grabbing the bulls—or any woman willing—by the horns when it comes to going out when he doesn’t have his kids. Lucky for me, with no wife, nagging ex-wife, or spawn, I’m always in that phase—or at least I’d always been—until a few weeks ago.

“I’m in a city slump,” I admit and continue when he raises an eyebrow. “Had too much of a good time, now, nothing there interests me.”

What I should say is that I’m in a sex slump. Because it wouldn’t have mattered if my rendezvous with Maxine two weeks ago happened in a damn barnyard and not in Midtown Manhattan. I’d still be in a slump.

“Oh, come on,” Dave begins. “Let’s go to The Palm. I’ll buy you a fillet.”

“You’re the cheapest rich motherfucker I know. So that means you want something.”

I’ve known Dave since he ate glue in kindergarten, so it’s safe to say, I know when he’s about to ask for a favor.

Dave kicks a leaf. “You’re going to get a call today.”

“Do you need an alibi?” I ask. “Because my policy is the same as it was in high school—”

“No, asshole. I do need you to cover for me out in Indian Wells.”

My ears perk up instantly, and it’s not only because that would include an all-expenses-paid trip out to Palm Springs. But it gets me back to my happy place—the high-set chair on a hard court, where I haven’t sat my ass since early last summer.

But Dave shakes his head side to side, and I know what he’s going to say isn’t what I want to hear. “Ladies semifinals.”

I lift my head to the sky and groan.

“You’re an alternate, relax. But Sophie’s got a basketball tournament, and I can’t miss showing up for my kid, Cros.” He grins stupidly and folds his hands. “Please?”

The idea of potentially umpiring a match—even if it’s between two screeching women—tickles my fancy. Italwayshas since the first day I watched a tennis match on the grounds of the club I stand on. The memory is clear in my head—a teenage me and my dad taking a break from working the side lawn and catching averyamateur match. But it wasn’t the game I fell in love with. I didn’t have the same reaction as everyone else when a perfect shot was made. I hardly watched the players at all.

Where were my eyes? On the umpire. I watched how when he spoke, he made the rules, the callings. He couldn’t be challenged. No one knew if he came from boatloads of money—like Dave—or from a house built on mountains of debt—like me. He was the most important person on the court.

“Imagine that, Cros,” Dad says. “Imagine having the power to make the rules and break the rules.”

“Come on.” Dave yanks me from my thoughts. “Free trip, hardly any work. Tons of California girls, you know, blonde ones.”

I’m in an overall women slump too, and while I’ve never been one to discriminate against any female based on hair color, I suddenly don’t like the idea of blondes. I’m into brunettes with hair so dark it’s nearly black, brunettes with long, shapely legs and a firm body, who struggle over how hard they aim to please—and better—how much they like it.

What I had withAmyis long gone, but for a second, I wonder if there’s a chance for me out in the desert with Maxine.

And then I remember that’s a bad, bad idea.

“You two are hard at work. Court looks great, getting nice and green. Can’t wait to get on it in a few weeks.”

Dave gives George Callahan an obnoxious pat on the shoulder. “It’s waiting for you,” he tells him as he walks toward the clubhouse with a guest, presumably for lunch.

Offseason, the club is quiet, but not enough to not give me a headache. I’ve got luncheons to plan and manage, bridal showers, weddings, meetings, you name it. I’m important whenneededbut not respected, so the idea that there’s a chance I can get my fill of umpiring, well, it should be a no-brainer.

“Oh,” George says, coming to a stop. “Crosby, I forgot to mention. Your guys were fixing the irrigation system out front, and I stepped in it. Left a bit of a mess on the front steps.” He points to the bottom of his shoe. “You might want to mop it up.”

And apparently, I also need to clean the messes of grown-ass, spoiled children, even during the offseason.

I flash him a smile. “I’ll take care of it.” I hold the look on my face until he continues, heading up the walkway. I turn my head to Dave. “When do I leave?”

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