Page 28 of Off Court Fix

“Your phone is ringing.”

I know it’s Dad, so I ignore that too, as much as I ignore the pain radiating up my leg.

“Do you need ice?”

Now I know I’m walking funny.

Six balls left. One. Two. Three.

“Maxine?”

I jump because Crosby is now beside me. “What?”

“I got it.” He takes the ball hopper from me. “Do you want a bag of ice?”

Gritting my teeth, I shake my head and leave him to pick up the remaining balls before I walk—forbidding the limp my leg wants to fall into—back to the bench where I sit and pull off my sneaker to rip off the tape. My phone continues to ring from my bag.

Crosby drops the full ball hopper and stands in front of me. I peek up enough to see the brown hair painting his tanned legs. “Are you sure? Maybe it will help.”

There’s a softening to his voice, a tone that marks it more casual than how he spoke with me yesterday after Alyssa and I finished lunch. I don’t know why, but it makes me angry, the way he pretends to care about my well-being now after what he did to me on the court.

I roll the tape into a ball and throw it into the trash can and stand, lifting my sweat-soaked shirt over my head.

“What are you doing?” Crosby asks, taking a step forward, for what, I don’t know. To shield me? Cover me?

I pull off my shorts and toss it into my bag with my shirt. “I’m going for a swim. What areyoudoing?” I ask back, and I can see how his arm has tightened by his side, like he’s about to reach out and grab me—forbidme.

“You can’t just walk around here like that,” he hisses under his breath, even though there’s no one to overhear our conversation.

I look down at my black sports bra and black, full coverage underwear. “This is a beach club.”

“With a dress code,” Crosby snaps. His caramel eyes flicker to the side where a few of the building and grounds crew have slowed as they walk along the path.

Shrugging, I bend to pick up my bag and swing it onto my shoulder by one strap. “Try to write me up here, Crosby. I’ll give you a better view to enjoy while you do it this time.”

“What do you mean afracture?”I feel bad that I’m practically screaming at the woman on the other line from the nursing home. It’s not like she pushed my mother and knocked her down.

She stammers for a moment before she speaks. “Mr. King, I know it’s upsetting to hear—”

“She’s supposed to have round-the-clock care,” I remind her sharply, putting my wallet and keys on my desk before sitting in my chair. I eye the business card that has slipped from the leather fold, that of Samantha, the journalist in Palm Springs, unsure of why I held on to it. I open a drawer, sliding it in, along with my belongings. “That’s what I’mpayingfor.”

It’s what I’ve put my life on the line for.

“Mr. King, I know it’s upsetting, but it was an accident. She stood from her chair and tripped. She landed on grass. You have to understand, people in your mother’s age have very brittle bones. The fracture is hairline and minor. Under normal circumstances, the doctor would only splint it. But we don’t want it to get worse before it heals, so they opted for a hard cast instead.”

I rub a hand over my face, trying to rub away the frustration. “And how is she?”

There is silence over the line before the representative speaks. “She’s fine now. The whole ordeal was a bit upsetting for her, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

I can. I can totally imagine it. My mother—who has very little grasp on reality as is—surrounded by different doctors, nurses, caretakers, her arm being restrained, in pain, confused. I am of sound mind—most of the time—and just thinking about what life must be like for her overwhelms me to the point I have to will myself to snap out of it.

“She’s having a bit of a down moment right now. She’s not feeling very much like participating in today’s activities. But it was an exhausting day yesterday. We’re letting her rest and take her time. There’s no sense in pushing her.”

I hum. “Can you make sure she has as much time as she wants on the piano today?” I shut my eyes, remembering the sleek, well-in-tune baby grand in the salon at Rolling Meadows, a decorative item until my mother became a resident.

More silence.

I groan. “I get you run a tight ship and your place is all about the importance of schedules and routine but—”

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