Page 30 of Off Court Fix

Rain or shine, winter or summer, I begin my weekdays the same way. I wake up, take a piss, have half a cup of coffee and drive to the club. I park in my spot, head upstairs to my office, and drop my keys and wallet in my desk, and then I go out the clubhouse side entrance, follow the paths through the hard courts, and make my way to the beach to run for an hour.

And now, for almost two weeks, my schedule? It’s gone to shit. Right along with my parking space that Maxine steals every day by leaving her white BMW in my spot.

But I let it go. Because it’s only temporary, and she’s trying to win a point in a match where she’s severely underestimated her opponent. I don’t give her an inch of a quick up and down while she’s on the court, every moment she bends and lets that little skirt ride up, or the moment she strips down and heads to the beach. I ignore her, within reason, because I am a man after all, and as frustrating as she is, Maxine is still gorgeous.

But today... today, I can’t ignore Maxine. Because after I take a quick shower and go to my office, she detours fromherroutine, and the whole thing throws me right off.

Today, she’s actually wearing a swimsuit—if that’s what you can call whatever bikini she slipped on tied together with something that could only compete with dental floss—and she jumps into the pool that happens to be right outside my office window. Fine. I give her that. She’s the one paying fifty grand a year, she should make use of the facilities.

But then she gets out of the pool, glances around, pulls off her top, and lies face down on a lounge chair. I make a note to fire the kid in the lifeguard chair before I rise from my desk chair and stomp out of my office, down the stairs, and out to the pool deck.

“Hey,” I bark at the kid. “Why don’t you keepwatchon the peopleinthe water?” I motion to the other side, where a woman sits on the edge, her two small children jumping off the steps in the shallow end.

Maxine hears me, without a doubt, because she smiles, her face turned toward me with her eyes shut but then frowns when I stop beside her.

“Do you mind?” she asks. “I’m trying to getridof my tan lines, not add to them. And I don’t need any more of youinoronmy body.”

She’s right about the tan lines. But I’m about three milliseconds away from giving her another kind of mark—the imprint of my hand on that high, firm ass. And damn, Maxine got me in this game, and she knows it, and I’m fucking furious because I can’t do anything about it in the middle of the place I work with children nearby.

“What?” I spit. “Your father didn’t give you enough attention growing up?”

I can tell by the way her body stills I pushed it too far. I count to ten, waiting for some snide comment, a fuck you, anything. But by the eleventh beat, Maxine stands, taking the towel she lays on with her and wrapping it around her body.

“You proved your point, alright?” I feel the need to backtrack while still moving this conversation forward, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that I’ve made her uncomfortable. “Your body. Use it, wear whatever, do whatever the hell you want with it. It’s not my place”—I pause, clearing my throat—“notanyone’splace to tell you what to do with it.”

I mean what I say, but I also mean what I think, what I’vebeenthinking since the night Maxine stepped out of my car. I’m thinking thatIwant to be the one who tells Maxine how to use her body, at least, when it’s only the two of us.

Maxine continues to grab her things, fumbling with the towel, and ignores me. She’s reaching for her sunglasses on the small table when I grab her arm, turning her to face me.

We both stare at my grip. It’s just firm enough, not enough to hurt or frighten her by any means. So why am I all of a sudden the one who is afraid? Why is it now I feel as though I’m doing something wrong when I’m trying to make things right?

And why, I wonder, does it kind of get me excited?

“I’m sorry,” I offer, releasing her arm. I know she thinks I’m probably talking about grabbing her because she moves to leave. “I shouldn’t have given you that penalty, you’re right. I wouldn’t have given it to a guy. It would’ve never crossed my mind. I’m sorry.”

Maxine turns, and I glance over my shoulder at the lifeguard who finally has turned his attention to the children in the pool. “I got possessive of you, that’s the truth. It was inappropriate and uncalled for.”

Her nostrils flare slightly before she speaks. “You should have recused yourself.”

I bite the inside of my lip to keep myself from reminding her thatnotrecusing myself was a way of protecting both of us, raising a red flag. But I also know I’m cleverer than that. I could’ve come up with an excuse that got me out of the match without putting eyes on her. It’s not lost on me that I did exactly what I didn’t want to do. I put eyes on her—not the athlete, not her game—on her body. I made her a victim. I’m not a monster. The realization sours my stomach a bit.

Maxine steps around me.

“Can I make it up to you?”

My ask must shock us both because Maxine turns, her eyes wide, and I find myself having to think carefully about my next ask.

I clear my throat. “I know you think I’m some sexist pig.”

“A misogynist,” she corrects me. “You’re amisogynist.”

“I’mnota misogynist. I don’thatewomen.” To prove my point and because I’m a tiny bit of an asshole, I let my eyes drift painfully slow down her body. “I quite enjoy them actually.”

Maxine scoffs. “I have to go. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“You might’ve considered that before joining my club.”

“It’s not your club.”

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