Page 20 of Off Court Fix

I sit back from the microphone, waiting and trying not to already look at Maxine when her opponent hasn’t even served yet. But I do—just a bit. She’s bent, waiting, trying to read Fradovic. Will she go for a flat or spin? On the line or safely inside the service box? The wheels are turning in her head, and because she’s down a few points, I feel bad that maybe I threw a wrench into her game plan.

Fradovic puts itrighton the line, but Maxine is quick to return, and a rally goes about fourteen times before Fradovic gets tricky, lobbing a balljustover the net so Maxine has to sprint, and I’ll give her credit because, wow, the girl can move. But as she slides to a stop, her racket barely touches the ball and it’s taken hostage by the net.

I turn on the microphone. “Game, Fradovic.”

On her way to the bench, Maxine looks to her team—a group of all men. One of whom with white hair shakes his head firmly at her. She turns away from them with a scowl, taking a seat and reaching for her drink placed under the bench to protect it from the harsh sun. There’s only a small break between games, just enough for a few sips of hydration, retying of sneakers. When Maxine stands, still holding the plastic bottle, she collides with an overenthusiastic ball girl, and the orange liquid becomes a failed tie-dye attempt on her white shirt.

I give them a second, trying to smile apologetically at the girl as the crowd grows louder in question, but its Maxine, even though she’s down in this match, who gives the girl’s hat a playful flick.

“Don’t worry about it. I have plenty of shirts.”

I’m sure she does, but what I don’t expect to see is Maxine pull off her visor and place her racket on the bench so she can lift the soiled shirt over her head, leaving her body—thatbody—exposed in a sports bra. And me? Maxine leaves me in a trance as I trace all the warm skin I didn’t get to see or feel in the cramped backseat of my car.

When there are hoots from the crowd, I know I hesitated too long.

“Code violation,” I say into the microphone. “Unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Maxine must think it isn’t her I issued the violation to because when the clean shirt she’s put over her sports bra is backward, she removes it again to correct it.

I cover the microphone and lean over. “Ms. Draper.”

She hardly looks at me as she tugs down the shirt, and then her movement stops when the realization sets in. “Oh, oh, wait a second. Youmustbe kidding.”

“You get dressed in the locker room,” I hiss.

“I...” She looks down at the dirty shirt. “Oh, you’re anasshole,” she spits—and not quietly I might add—because the crowd gasps. Grabbing her racket and visor, Maxine takes two steps onto the court before she rushes back at me.

“That’ssexist,” she seethes, and it appears there’s some agreement from the crowd. “So, you’re asexistasshole.”

I’m a breath away from turning the microphone back on to announce another penalty—referee abuse—but that would cost her a point. But maybe she needs to learn her lesson. No one talks to me that way on my court.

Instead, I do something I’ve never done in my umpire career. I call a referee time-out and hop out of the chair. Because anything I say to her in the vicinity of that microphone will be heard free and clear.

“You need to calm down,” I tell Maxine as she continues cursing me under her breath. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Behind Maxine, I see that white-haired man bend down, calling for another official, and I hold my hand out to Angela when she steps onto the court. I can handle Maxine.

“You’veembarrassed me.”

I lower my head so she can see my eyes. “Well, get over it. Finish your game. And your forehand is sloppy as hell. She knows it, too.”

I leave her in the middle of the court, and for the first time in my umpire career, I’m booed by the crowd.

* * *

When I arrived at the resort earlier in the week, it was quiet but buzzing with energy, an intense focus of players, their coaches, trainers, a slew of tennis professionals, and media circling the lobby like sharks, everyone eager for a one-off comment.

By the end of the tournament, all that energy had popped off, and the main bar was filled with celebratory drinks and loud voices of everyone letting loose.

And me, I’m getting hammered and not to go along with what everyone else is doing. I got reamed out by Angela and colleagues, even though by the rule book, I did nothing wrong two days ago when I penalized Maxine for changing clothes on the court. I’ve got nothing to celebrate.

But Maxine does.

After going on towinthe women’s final, she should be celebrating most of all. Instead, she sits across the room, rigid, her dark eyes beaming lasers into me, probably hoping I eviscerate into thin air. I take a long drink, not breaking eye contact, and after a moment she rises from the booth she sits at with her coach.

I take in how the tightness of her expression, caused by annoyance, and might I say, a touch of hatred for me, is only matched by her dress, something white and close to a second skin. My fingers twitch but quickly ball into a fist when Maxine slides into another booth, right next to the douchebag Brandon Summers, America’s tennis golden boy.

I concede to making small talk with a few people, and I try to ignore a redheaded reporter who asks me if I have a comment on the call that will now haunt me.

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