Page 2 of Off Court Fix

Clearing my throat, I turn away from Alyssa, hating the way she’s looking at me, like she knows the heartbreak I’m about to drown myself in. I shouldn’t be annoyed because she’s only playing her part—my best friend—but the plot here is different. She’s not trying to protect me from a guy who has simply broken my heart. Alyssa is trying to protect me from the memory of the one who shattered my soul, who left me in, and with, a million little sharp-edged pieces that pierce my skin and bleed me dry every time I try to put one or two back together.

She’s trying to protect me from my brother, whose death haunts me years after he passed, years after Mason arrived at his destination following a long, brutally isolating journey.

But that’s what addiction does. Wants grow into intense, powerful needs you’re incapable of seeing anything beyond. You don’t see the family that loves you, the sister who would do anything to see you better, the grandmother who drives you to therapy, who would be the first to start CPR, her frail wrists, decorated with liver spots and sun damage, nearly cracking from the force with which she tries to save you.

It’s easy to focus on the addict, like my mother, who hit a telephone pole with a blood alcohol level three times over the legal limit, who probably only went a day without a drink when she was pregnant. Or my brother, who continued to take pain medication that ended up bringing him nothing but agony and his demise.

Not many people—including my best friend—understand how hard it is to love someone so much even after they put you in harm’s way, after they let you risk everything for them without giving one ounce of care for your well-being. They don’t see the struggle of wanting to make everything better even when you know you can’t.

“He’d think this is so cool,” I say with a small smile.

I imagine Mason, eight years my senior, showing up at the studio, coffee in hand,wowing at everything.

My sister is on the cover ofIn Sports,he’d tell everyone.This is her year. This is her time. Watch her on the court and see.

I look at the magazine on the vanity and shake my head. I wish today were any day but Mason’s birthday. I wish I didn’t wake up thinking of him. I wish I woke up sharing the same enthusiasm I imagine he’d hold for me during one of his few sober moments.

“Maxine?” It’s George, the stylist for the shoot.

I sigh and head out the door, relieved I’m done with a huge chunk of the photoshoot already—the prep work, which was extensive before I even took my sunglasses off.

“You lookgreat.” George ushers me into another room. “I’ve lined up all your outfits in order. Go ahead and get into look one.”

When I stare at the rack, I narrow my eyes in confusion. Because I expected some sort of fashion moment here—maybe a set with the season’s trendiest color blocking, or something of the sort. But what I’m looking at here isn’t much of clothes at all.

My cheeks redden—even beneath foundation, blush, and bronzer—because what I’m looking at folded neatly over the hanger are the kinds of clothes I wearunderneathmy usual workout gear. And there’s no skirt and tank, no tennis dress in sight.

Stepping away from the rack, I pull open the curtain, preparing to ask George if he forgot a rack or if this issue ofIn Sportsreally is the swimsuit issue and someone forgot to tell me. Standing in front of me is my father, Ted.

“Oh.” He looks down at his watch. “I thought you would’ve started by now.” I step around him, and he squints at the sweatsuit I arrived in hours ago. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

I spin, facing him. “There’s an issue with the clothes.”

“They don’t fit?” Dad tilts his head to look in the dressing room. “That can’t be possible. They’re from your sponsor.”

He’s right about both things. They’re from my only sponsor at the moment. The rest dropped me after one misstep on the court left me with a grade-four Achilles tendon tear. And I know they fit because I have hundreds of pairs of them in my closet at home in Florida. I wear them almost every day—beneath my clothes, not in place of them.

“They’re notclothes,” I hiss under my breath as I move to step around Dad, wanting to find George and solve the situation.

Dad grabs me by my elbow.

“Maxine.” With just enough strength, my father returns me to my place, but what keeps me there isn’t his hand, it’s the force coming from his pale green eyes. “They’resportswear.”

“I don’t play tennis in hot pants,” I snap.

In a perfect world, the annoyance lacing my tone should strike Dad hard enough that he tells me to stay put, he’ll take care of it, disappearing to reappear with the rack of actual clothes they forgot to put in the dressing room. In a perfect world, I’ll shoot this cover wearing an outfit that says exactly who I am—a strong, determined player ready to reclaim her place at the top of the ranks. I’m here to remind the tennis world I have two grand slams under my belt, and no injury is going to stop me from winning a third.

But in the world I currently stand in, Dad stays still. I don’t need him to speak to know what he’s thinking—Be a good girl, Maxine, and do as you’re told. Even if it’s a step down from pimping out his own daughter, painting her as some sort of sporting sex symbol instead of an athlete with more than an iota of self-respect.

We hold the stare down before Dad releases my arm and moves to squeeze my shoulder gently, saying, “Don’t make this difficult. Go put on what they want you to wear. It’s an honor to shoot this cover.” He motions at the dressing room, waiting for me to return to it.

It’s the way Dad keeps his lips pressed together and his jaw clenched tight that I realize if I make him wait, we both might be standing here a while. When his hand on my shoulder tightens, I back away, keeping my eyes locked on his until I pull the curtain shut on the one person in my life left to protect me, especially on a day like today. If we were a normal family, we might spend the day together in memory of my brother and my father’s stepson.

But I haven’t seen anything on my father’s face that lets me know Mason—or the birthday he isn’t here to celebrate—is even a thought in his mind. His focus is work, like it’s always been—now, as my manager, and before that, as a top corporate lawyer known for being a cutthroat negotiator.

I strip down and go for outfit number one, furiously yanking the fuchsia, spandex hot pants over my hips before grabbing the bra, which I realize differs from what I normally wear. This one has push-up cups sewn into the material because, apparently, my barely handful of breast tissue is not enough. I’m so angry and my movements are so forceful I don’t even care that the band bites and snaps at my skin when I yank it over my head.

Ripping open the curtain, I storm past Dad. George is lingering behind the photographer shooting Brandon Summers, who reminds me just how much of a pig he is when hewhistlesas I approach. Whoever said tennis was a gentleman’s sport never accounted for Brandon.

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