Page 3 of Off Court Fix

“Shoes?” I ignore Brandon and look at George while pointing to my feet.

He ushers me aside and reaches for a clean white pair of sneakers. “Should we have Alyssa cover that?” Now he’s the one pointing, only this time it’s not at my low-cut sock-covered feet but at the ugly scar running up the back of my left calf.

I gave up on the Neosporin, the overpriced special oils weeks ago. What do I care? Thousands of people in the stadium—and millions on TV—watched my Achilles tendon snap and coil down into my heel last year during the quarterfinals of the US Open. They watched me plummet onto the hard court and writhe in agony before I desperately tried to collect myself, to stand, only to fall again. I crawled to the bench with a sick grimace plastered across my face. But I did it quietly because that’s how I am. They don’t call me the Silent Slayer for nothing. They call me the Silent Slayer because I’m damn good at tennis. I just happen to be very quiet while I kill it on court.

What everyone doesn’t know is that I’m silent for a particular reason.

I try not to think about the headline that followed my first Grand Slam win at the French Open when I was nineteen. I only gave up four sets theentiretournament. That should’ve been the headline. Not the one that followed, making me never want to let a sound out when I hit a ball, no matter how brutally hard, ever again.

IS SHE GETTING LAID OR PLAYING TENNIS?

I’ve been the Silent Slayer ever since, so much so I stayed quiet during the worst, most painful moment of my life, when I thought all my hard work was for nothing and my identity stripped. I shake my head, remembering how the media didn’t miss that either.

SHE EVEN SUFFERS IN SILENCE.

I suppose I’m nothing if I’m not consistent. But I’m also hardworking and fiercely determined. I didn’t care what the doctors said—you need to understand you might never play at the level you once did. At best, you’re looking at six to nine months recovery.I recovered, for the most part, in less than half of that. And I’m determined to get back to where I once was.

“Does it bother you?” I ask George, who takes my question as all the answer he needs and backs away.

Alyssa comes up to me, fluffing my hair again. “You lookhot.”

I eye Brandon’s white collared shirt with navy piping and matching shorts. “I’d take that as a compliment if this were the set for some sort of low-budget, amateur porn flick and notIn Sports.”

“Could be, Slayer,” Brandon calls out, his dark, beady eyes lighting. “Just give the word.”

I ignore Brandon because I learned pretty quickly after we first met as teenagers that you can’t argue with stupid.

“If you’re really uncomfortable, you should say something,” Alyssa tells me as I rise, wiggling my toes in the sneakers.

I am uncomfortable. With all of it. But most of all with my father staring over his shoulder, as I stand here with goosebumps on my ass cheeks from the cool air of the studio meant to counter the heat from the lights.

But when I step forward, I can practically feel the look on Dad’s face shift and relax. I know without looking that his mouth relaxes into a small, subtle smile. This look of his saysgood girl.I’d recognize that look anywhere. I’ve been chasing it my entire life. But it doesn’t bring me the happiness it used to.

Looking at the photographer, I ask, “What should I do?”

Brandon leans over, like he’s about to spill a secret, but what he tells me is nothing new.

“Just stand still,” he says, “and look pretty.”

* * *

My phone buzzes on the table. It’s Dad calling for the fifth time. I know what he’ll say if I answer.

Where are you? The flight is boarding.

Max, whatever you’re planning, you better—

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else while you wait?” The waiter yanks me from my thoughts,again, but I can’t say I blame him. After I couldn’t shake off the ick of the photoshoot, I decided I would go back to Florida tomorrow morning and not tonight. Only I didn’t tell Dad that. He’d talk me out of it.

I’ve been sitting at this table for an hour. I’ve ordered a single thing—a vodka on the rocks with extra lime. But I haven’t touched it because it’s for Mason, and I’m too afraid to.

“Miss?”

“No, thank you, I’m alright.”

I look at the bread and tapenade spread that I also haven’t touched, and I think of Mason. He would’ve woofed down the entire basket of bread and asked for another before even ordering an appetizer.

When my phone buzzes, I contemplate throwing it across the room, but I hold back because, thankfully, it’s not my father calling. It’s Alyssa.

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