Page 22 of Off Court Fix

I purse my lips because I don’t want to admit I lost my professional resolve a bit. “It’s against code of conduct.”

“Bullshit,” Maxine spits, and she moves off the door. “You did that to punish me. You never would’ve penalized a man for doing the same thing.”

She isn’t backing down. She’s trying to call my bluff, and maybe we should’ve had this conversation anywhere else but a hotel room because now the only thing rivaling the tightness of her dress is the feel of my pants. I liked Amy, who was quick-witted. But I like Maxine, who is forward and sharp, even more. Part of me enjoyed that she was ticked off on the court, that I saw a spark in her I hadn’t seen earlier. And damn. She’s got me right where she wants me.

“You played better after it.” It’s a lame offering, but it’s all I have at the moment.

“Because I was imagining your head was the ball.”

I wait for a break in her tough, angry exterior, but I know she isn’t joking. Her chest heaves slightly, and the difference between her and the redhead is Maxine doesn’t have to try to get my attention. She already has it.

I see the faint discoloration, the evidence of the night I had her bent over in the car, her knees angrily rubbing against the carpeted mats on the floor of my backseat, so much so the evidence still lingers two weeks later.

“I wanted to punish you, you’re right,” I admit, not looking up. I hold my hand out, beckoning Maxine closer, watching as she slides her feet along the carpet with curious hesitation. “Because how fair is it that I’ve been inside you and haven’tseenthis.”

Rubbing Maxine’s sides when she comes into reach, I press my head to her stomach, which I’ve only had a glimpse of on the court. Not a kiss, a lick of the smooth skin. I take a deep breath of the material of her dress, and when Maxine’s hands touch my shoulders, I sigh in victory, gripping her waist and forcing her down so she’s straddling my thighs.

With my face pressed into the fabric covering her chest, I smile when a hard nipple brushes my cheek. “This body... I’ve beeninthis body. And I don’t know what you did to me that night, but it’s all I think about.” I lift my head, watching her sink her teeth into that damn perfect bottom lip. “Ishould see it before everyone else.”

“You should?” Maxine slides further up my lap, and I buck my hips instinctively and hum my response against her collarbone. “You think you have some kind of claim on me?”

“Fuck,” I hiss when she starts to rock back and forth in small movements, her dress riding up without much of my help. “For one more night, yeah. I want to.” I’m dizzy from her and grip her ass, trying to hold steady.

Maxine purrs. “We agreed it was a one-night thing.”

“That was before I knew.”

She winds her fingers into my hair and pulls my head back. “Knew what?”

That mouth, I’m desperate for it. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more than I do her. Slowly, I push forward. “That you’d be the end of me. If I’m dead and gone and on my way to hell, Maxine, come along for the ride.”

Pulling back, Maxine shakes her head, and I’m thinking it’s only about the kiss. I’m prepared to make my case this time because I refuse to make the same mistake again, but she stands, turning away from me. Taking in her shape, I lean back into the chair, sucking the air between my teeth.

“You, Crosby King,” she begins, reaching behind her to tug the zipper down, and my eyes beeline on more warm, tanned skin and a toned back.

The zipper clicks when Maxine hits the last of its teeth, and I’m prepared to pounce, to stain every inch of her with my mouth, my tongue. I’m nearly drooling at the thought. Suddenly, I haven’t been in a fancy resort hotel for a week. I’ve really been out in the bush for a month, and I’m parched. And Maxine? She’s a tall drink of water I plan to guzzle down.

Every. Last. Drop.

Quickly, Maxine turns on her feet. “It’syouwho’d be the end of me,” she whispers, her mouth so close to mine. “My career. My reputation. You would end all of it. I hope you enjoyed the show because it’s all you’ll have. Now, get out of my room. This tournament will be the firstandlast time you’ll ever step foot on my court again. I’ll make sure of that.”

We stare off, but Maxine doesn’t budge. And I’m sitting a reach away, hard and throbbing, but I can tell by the clenching of her jaw, this is a match I won’t win.

I can’t fucking stand it that, for the first time in forever, I’m powerless against a woman. And worse, powerless to one I want so intensely.

With what little dignity I have left, I stand and stomp to the door, unlocking it. “Congratulations on your victory, Maxine.”

I shiftagainst the reclined seat, looking at the screen in front of me, watching the plane floating somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I follow the path, taking off from Paris, where my trip was cut short when I was knocked out of the quarterfinals in the French Open. I hadn’t made it to a final in months—not Miami, Madrid, Monte Carlo. I hadn’t felt any victorious rush since my victory at Indian Wells months ago.

But that victory was short lived, and instead of being labeled as the winner, showing the world I was back and ready to take on anyone on any court, I became a martyr for the fight against the sexism women face in professional tennis.

Every interview following that tournament victory began the same way.Maxine, how did you feel when the umpire penalized you for changing your shirt on court during the match? Are you aware that Brandon Summers changed his shirt twice in the quarterfinals of that tournament?

How I felt then—disgusted, shocked even—in no way compares to how I feel now—enraged.

Because I can’t get it out of my head, the idea some stranger—alyingstranger—thought he had some sort of claim over me andmybody. The irony isn’t lost on me. Crosby had penalized me unfairly for showing my body, and now, it’s all people want to talk about.

I reach for my phone, grateful for the Wi-Fi on the long, trans-Atlantic flight, and google my name. My losses come up first as news—that’s fair. But all the headlines sing the same tune.

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