Page 29 of Off Court Fix

“Mr. King, your mother’s cast would make it difficult to play the piano at the moment.”

Pursing my lips angrily, I lower the phone and fume out a deep, steamy breath from my chest. Because how is it fair that my mother has to lose the only thing she’s managed to hold on to?

The Rolling Meadows representative clears her throat. “You might want to think about visiting in the next day or two if you can. It might help put a little pep in her step.”

I nod over the line even though she can’t see me. I don’t want to visit. I don’t want to walk into Mom’s room or meet her out on the back lawn and have her confuse me for John, who ran the choir at the church where she was an organist, or Caleb, who was the butcher she bought steaks from. Or worse, she won’t confuse me for anyone at all, as if the face of her son draws no memory or tie to any single thing or person on this planet.

Ending the call, I toss my phone on my desk and lean back into the chair, lifting my face to the ceiling.

A knock on my door annoys me more than the entire situation at hand. “Come in.” I groan quietly and right myself in the chair but groan louder when Hunter walks into my office. “What do you want, Hunter?”

Hunter flashes a stupid ogre-sized grin and shuts the door behind him. “Can’t a guy come and visit his old friend? I miss you.”

“Can’t say the feeling is mutual. What do you want?” I repeat.

Hunter pockets his hands, bouncing on his feet. “Haven’t been in here in a while. You redecorate?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Hunter looks around before plopping down into a chair in front of my desk. “You always keep things so... clean?”

“Stop wasting my time. What do you want?”

Hunter folds a leg over his knee. “You umpiring Wimbledon?”

My eyes widen. “Wimbledon? No. I don’t referee international and you know that. And before you tell me anything else that will land me a key witness for the district attorney, shut up and get out. Last time it was a final favor.”

Holding his palms up, Hunter chuckles. “Relax, Crosby. I was just making conversation. Saw you got that girl here, Maxine...”

I’ve never been the kind of guy tosnarl,but I nearly do hearing her name come out of his mouth. It shocks both of us—judging by Hunter’s face—but more so me, because the sound came instinctively, like a reflex I developed over night—or in the time that’s passed since St. Patrick’s.

Hunter shakes off the confused look and I’m grateful, even though he continues to make Maxine the subject of conversation.

“Thought that was funny, you know, her working out at your club after you told her to put her goddamn shirt back on.” He laughs, and I want to shut him up with my fist, and I would’ve if he didn’t change the conversation. “I know she’s been off the circuit. Bad ankle, yeah? Heard she lost some pretty big deals by not playing.”

I know where this is going. Hunter thinks Maxine can be bought.

“Not going to happen.”

Hunter crinkles his brow. “Why?”

I point out the window that overlooks the grass courts. “She’s atopplayer even on injured leave.”

“And?”

“Hunter,” I begin, speaking slowly to make sure he’s following along. “That shit doesn’t work at that level. Get the idea out of your head. Besides. She can’t be bought.”

“Oh. So you looked into her then?”

I cock my tongue to my cheek.So to speak.

“Trust me on this one, alright? Don’t even approach her. And besides, I’m—we’re,” I pause, correcting myself. “We’re done.”

Hunter grins, and I can still see remnants of his lunch stuck between his teeth. He stands. “You know something, Crosby. You can put lipstick on a pig, and it’s still a pig. You can pretend you’re out all you want. But you’ll never bedone.” He smirks at me, and I clench my fists. “You look after yourself now. I’ll catch you downstairs by the bar.”

* * *

I’m a simple kind of man. I like a good scotch, a thick, well-seared medium-rare steak. I appreciate the occasional cigar, a one-night stand that doesn’t even last one full night. And I love order. And schedules.

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