Page 37 of Off Court Fix

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Crosby lives on the opposite side of Southampton, in the more heavily wooded area not far from Peconic Bay. It’s a short, easy drive, and I honestly wish it was longer, so I could have a little more time to talk myself out of whatever can of worms I’m about to open.

I pull into the driveway, park beside his car, and sit with the engine turned off. My hair is still damp and clings to my shoulders. I yank it all to the side, staring at his black SUV, remembering how he had done the same thing as he had me bent over the console, the scruff of his cheeks scratching at my skin.

Swallowing, I lean against the headrest and take a deep breath.

“What am I doing?”

If walls—or in this case, windows—could talk, they might remind me that I’m not just about to enter the home of the manager of the club I joined, who I happened to have a one-night stand with that left me wanting it to be more than a one-night kind of thing.

They would remind me I’m about to enter the home of a tennis official, anumpire, who presided over a match Iwon, during a tournament I ended up the champion of.

They would remind me that if someone found out, there could be an ethics investigation into that match. And I know they would findnothing. But they would make something out of it anyway—my reputation and credibility could be destroyed.

I jump when my phone buzzes in my cupholder.

What are you doing?

Turning my eyes to the house, I find him standing on the front step, looking so... apt and belonging. He tilts his head at me, his chestnut brown locks damper than mine, and I know, even sitting in my car with the windows down, that he smells delicious, like sandalwood and clean ocean air.

I break eye contact and let my gaze float to the front of the gray shingled house flanked by light blue hydrangeas—lush and fruitful. Even though they’re the Bronco shade of blue, these ones don’t bother me. I quickly text and watch him respond.

Admiring your flowers.

If you’re all bark it’s okay. But I don’t bite...

Very hard.

I’m not even done reading his text before I open the door of my car, grabbing my sweater and purse.

Crosby smirks coyly as he leans against the railing of the small stairs, one leg crossing over the other. “I figured you hate to be called out on a bluff.”

I look away from him and back at the blue flowers.

“What?” he asks, straightening.

“Why do yours look like that?”

Crosby crinkles his brow, and I didn’t know I’d ever find myself attracted to wrinkles, but here I am, half a breath away from biting my lip over the way his maturity calls to me.

“You mean, why do they lookgood?” He makes his way down the few steps. “Because I know how to take care of them. They’re tricky because they won’t let you know they’re in trouble until it’s too late.” He sighs. “But now I hate blue. I'll have to turn them purple, like yours.”

Immediately, I shake my head. “No. Don’t.”

I imagine the blue tinge that stole the liveliness from my lips wasn’t as close to this vibrant. Though I hate to admit it, a few days ago, I was blue because I was on the brink of death. But today, my skin is warm, my lips pink, and my heart flutters around my chest because of the man who saved my life.

“They’re beautiful,” I tell Crosby, and I mean it. The blue blooms are thriving. They remind me that the label needs to be taken at face value. Blue can mean the gloom and doom as much as it can the hope and joy.

I can look a certain way and still be an athlete.

Mason can still be the brother I loved and the addict he grew into.

And Crosby? He can be bad... and also, I gather after everything, maybe good, too.

So now, looking at these vivacious flowers? I don’t really mind blue.

“Save your gardening hocus pocus for somewhere else,” I tell him, offering a smile. “These really are lovely.”

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