Page 27 of Off Court Fix

“Thanks for coming out here.”

I haven’t hit with Jack in years, since before Mason died, but I was happy he agreed to meet with me on the court during the week.

We both turn toward the dunes flanking the court. “Go take a polar plunge. That water is like fifty degrees this early.” I look down at my watch. We’ve been hitting for nearly two hours. “Can I steal you for another fifteen minutes? I’ve got a few more serves in me.”

Jack tilts his head to the side. “You can, but you shouldn’t.” He looks down at my ankle. “I’m less worried about your shoulder and more worried about that.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been dragging it the last twenty minutes.”

I straighten quickly on solid feet. “Everything drags on grass.”

“Max—”

“Jack, I’m okay.”

I am okay, but what I don’t tell Jack or my father or coach oranyoneis that my baseline for being okay isn’t very high. I know the only person who understands just how much pain I’m in is my physiotherapist, who receives the full force of my cursing before offering me a towel to bite on.

He sighs. “Don’t you have weights after this?”

“In a few hours.”

Jack presses his lips together, shifting his mouth side to side.

I groan. “What?”

“Nothing. You just need to take it easy.”

“I’mfine. I get up every day, and I hit, I do the work. Rinse. Repeat. I’m stronger every day,” I tell him with grit and determination.

“I see you hit. I see you hurting,” Jack cuts in. “Just take it easy. You aren’t going to do yourself any favors running that ankle into the ground before you even get to London.” He reaches out, squeezing my shoulder. “Tomorrow. I’ll get here fifteen minutes early if you go put your foot up and pop some Advil. That leg is angry.”

I huff.

“Ice,” he orders. “And Advil.”

I nod because I will ice it, but I won’t swallow any pill beyond a multivitamin.

Jack grabs his bag. “See you tomorrow, slayer.”

Giving him a wave, I look around at the court, at the basket of balls we had just collected, and wait until Jack is out of sight before I head for it.

The truth is, I don’t know how many balls land in the service box and how many others fault. I don’t even care. All I want is everything raging inside me—exhaustion, pain, defeat, infinite frustration—to get the hell out of my head and, more, the hell out of my heart.

I want to scream, but I don’t. I leave it on the court, like Dad always tells me to. I listen, like a good girl.

Say it with your serve. Say it with your stroke.

I say it silently through action because when I speak, no one really listens anyway.

I drop my racket and pace up and down the base line, pausing when I feel it, that similar peace and company I felt in the church that night, like maybe there really is someone to listen and I’ve just been talking to the wrong people.

Turning my head, I find Crosby at the side the court, just behind the bench. I quickly make my way to the ball hopper.

“I can get someone to do that,” he calls out.

I ignore him and focus on pressing the metal cage to the ground, lifting ball by ball, collecting everything I hit.

---