Page 23 of Off Court Fix

TOLD TO COVER UP, THE SILENT SLAYER MUST’VE THOUGHT THAT UMPIRE MEANT HER GAME.

“Don’t waste your time with that stuff,” Dad says from the seat beside me. “You were outplayed. End of story.”

I was outplayed because Iletmyself be outplayed. I keep scrolling.

Dad reaches for his drink. “Let’s get you on some fresh spring grass as soon as we land. Wimbledon is coming up.”

I’ve always loved playing—and training—for Wimbledon. Grass is a surface I practice on the least often, but I find the hard work the most rewarding. I won’t lie, I know this preparation and the historical, classic tournament will be one of the most challenging for me given my injury. I scowl, throwing myself an internal pity party as I continue to scroll,stillfinding photos capturing Crosby and me beneath the desert sun in Palm Springs, ones of me mid-change, stills of video showing Crosby’s face while he watched me do it.

I wish for a second that I had his phone number, so I could send him all these articles and remind him that in an effort to teach me some sick lesson in covering up, the world continues to watch me change on repeat.

A flight attendant comes around with a cart of dessert. “Nut free?” Dad asks, accepting for the both of us when she nods yes.

The last place I would want to use an EpiPen is somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The other times have included a birthday party when I was six, my grandmother stabbing me in the thigh before I could even register what was happening, that my breathing was funny, my throat tight. The other, I remember, was at a restaurant as a teenager when my dish had been cross-contaminated with bits of someone else’s Pad Thai.

“You’ve got some time to get yourself together. Take a few days off, get over the jet lag. We’ll start fresh.”

Looking at my phone set on the thick armrest of the first-class seat, I grow further annoyed. This entire season was meant to be a fresh start for me. But Crosby, hetookthat from me. And I know my focus should be on tennis, but tennis is nearly all mental, despite what some people think. It’s about knowing your opponent, their strengths and weaknesses, how to get in their head and make them tick.

On the digital map in front of us, I see Miami, where we’re flying into, Atlanta, Charlotte, Washington DC, and... New York.

I bite my lip. I know my opponent off court has a weakness—me.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Grandma’s house. I’m not sure I want to sell it. I thought maybe I could have one more summer out in Southampton. I’m feeling suffocated in Florida.”

It’s not too much of a lie.

“Is that so?” Dad doesn’t do well with even the slightest deviations, so I prepare myself for his no, but he nods in agreement.

“I mean, I’ve got a brand-new clay court at the house, and I think... remember that charity match I played in a few years ago? It was at the Hampton Racket and Beach Club, right? They have hard and grass. Maybe I could join there, hit in the mornings. It’s only a short ride away. Takes me forty minutes to get to a grass court in Florida.”

Dad tilts his head in question.

“Plus,” I add, “all those events or meetings in the city I won’t have to fly up for. I could go to more.” I offer a compromise, and I know it was the right move when Dad agrees.

“You’re right.” His eyes round in clear understanding, and he hands me back my phone. “I’ll give them a call tomorrow and see if we can set something up, check who is around to hit with you.”

I drop my phone into my lap and look back at the screen in front of me, catching the shape of Long Island, and I smile. I’m struck with anxiety over the thought of returning to Grandma’s house, but I take it as my summer in the Hamptons will kill two birds with one stone. I’ll get over my fear of what that house still holds, and I’ll have my chance to give Crosby a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

I talk a big game, even to myself. From the moment I step out of the SUV that has driven me out from JFK and stare up at Grandma’s house—which is technicallymyhouse—I feel so queasy I might pass out.

I look at the well-maintained yard and frown at the hydrangeas flanking the front of the house. They’re wrong. Years ago, they were purple, not blue. This shade of blue reminds me of Mason’s old Ford Bronco, and I look over at the detached garage, where I see the car peek through the window. Catching even the smallest sight makes my legs buckle. Like grandma’s house, it’s another thing I associate with the highs and lows of my relationship with my brother.

One high? Him driving it with the top down on Montauk Highway, blasting The Red Hot Chili Peppers while he headed to spend the day further out east, just the two of us. I was fifteen. Between stints in rehabs two and three, Mason held onto his sobriety the longest—94 days.

A low? Him waking me up at midnight when Grandma was out of town, telling me he needed to pick up a friend at the train station. The friend was a drug dealer and their meet up was poorly timed, resulting in arrest. I was 11 and spent the night sleeping on a couch in the lounge of the police station.

The lows were low because of Mason’s need to be so high he couldn’t see how I sank right along with him.

I turn away from the Bronco and hydrangeas, looking up at the house. This is what I wanted. I think.

Heading around to the small side porch and up the stairs that no longer creak, I slide the key into the door leading to the mudroom, stepping in slowly. It smells like a new home, like fresh paint, and even though I’ve spent so much of my life in this house, it feels like a completely different place—wrong and wonderful at the same time.

I run my finger along the marble countertop, remembering how it was granite, and open a cabinet to the side of the new oven, one that my father has made sure is fit with spices and seasonings. The white finish of the wood is pretty, simple, a far change from the dark cherry wood.

I offered to buy all the staging furniture, and I’m pleased with what the company presented. It’s light and airy. Gone is the couch with the stain from a Sharpie marker, the worn-out leather club chair that was in need of more than a little TLC.

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