Page 39 of Off Court Fix

My eyes widen as I hold the sandwich in front of my mouth. “You really did all that?” I ask.

Reaching for a napkin, he laughs. “What? Can’t a man look after his own garden? Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

I shrug and look at the lobster roll, then take a bite, chewing both my food and thoughts. I swallow and hand him the remainder, too full to eat more. “I’m actually wondering when you’llstopsurprising me, but I guess you have an unfair advantage. I know nothing about you.”

I’m quick to remember I actually do know the most important thing about Crosby—he’s a chair umpire, and I try to fight the scowl because it’s not like he forced me to come here. I, Maxine Draper, being of sound mind and health, minus having a bum ankle and previously suffering near anaphylaxis, came to Crosby’s home knowing it was the wrong thing to do.

But I wonder if I’m really of sound mind at all when I’m around Crosby. Because when his fingers brush my hand as he takes the remainder of the sandwich and pops it into his mouth, I shiver.

I wipe my hands again to fight off any visible shaking and drop my napkin onto the plate before leaning back on the couch. “I want to thank you again, for the other day. I’m not normally so careless. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Crosby nods. “You really scared me. I’m happy I was there.” It grows quiet between us before Crosby continues, “I knew who you were that night.”

I roll my eyes mostly at myself because while I know that now, I should’ve known that then. And maybe, deep down, I knew that the smooth-talking, dark stranger I met in a church knew Amy was nothing but a poor alias, and I just wanted to believe he didn’t care.

“I just don’t understandwhyyou needed to be someone else.”

Taking a deep breath, I shrug. “You caught me on a bad day, I guess. A shitty one.” I sigh. “I wasn’t lying about my dad, about my brother. Just my name.”

“Lots of people have a hard time with family.” Crosby’s voice softens. “Everyone’s got issues. Even us regular folks. A Joe Schmo like me.”

I appreciate he’s trying to be understanding, to make me feel less alone, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand.

“Would your family pimp you out? Use you?” I ask.

The question tastes awful in my mouth—almost as awful as it felt to walk onto that set expecting to be taken seriously and leave wondering how many people would pick up that magazine and deem me a joke.

And it’s not about the magazine. It’s about my father trying to make my tennis career a stepping stone for everything else—building a brand around my face and body under the guise of all interest is good interest. But I want to curl deeper inside myself.

And with Crosby beside me, I do just that. I lean forward, running a hand through my hair, dragging it so the strands curtain around my face.

Crosby clears his throat and shuffles beside me but makes no effort to move closer. “What are you talking about?”

“When you saw me with Dave’s daughter,” I begin, sighing. “She asked for my autograph.”

“I did see something like that.”

I press my index finger into my thigh, lifting a lone crumb of toasted roll and brushing it onto the plate. “I’m on the cover ofIn Sportsthis month. I shot the cover the day I met you. With Brandon Summers. And when I got to the studio that morning, I... I mean, it’sIn Sportsand a cover feature. Me. I was going to be on it, and the article... well, what they had me wear to shoot the cover didn’t exactly align with how I want to present myself. Especially coming off an injury.”

Slowly, I turn my head. “What you did on the court—no matterwhyyou did it,” I begin, feeling the need to explain myself. “My body ismybody. You might be the first umpire to give me asexistpenalty, but not the first to give me a stupid one. I argued with you because... I don’t want to be objectified. I’m here to play tennis. If I do that in a sports bra or a ball gown, that should bemydecision.”

When I find Crosby’s eyes in the haze of dusk painting the sky, I see a storm brewing behind his glasses. He cocks his tongue strongly into his cheek before shaking his head and rising from the couch. I move to follow, but he stops me.

“No, stay. I need to run out for a second. Are you alright to hang here? Make yourself at home.”

My face twists with confusion when Crosby walks back inside to grab his keys from the counter and heads out the door.

Not one thingin my plan for tonight involved running around town, spending a fortune on magazines. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing involving Maxine has gone to plan in the slightest, not our chance meeting, not our follow-up, or her essentially taking residence at the club, wearing down one of my grass courts or parading around in a small swimsuit.

Stopping at a light, I take a deep breath and look at the stacks of magazines in the passenger seat and on the floor—all face down. I lift one and turn it over, bypassing the face of Brandon Summers and focusing instead on Maxine.

There’s no doubt she’s gorgeous, and if I didn’t know Maxine and passed this magazine on a newsstand, I’d do a double take because one look of her is really not enough. A quick glance is far too short to appreciate her dark, doe eyes, the prominent dip of her cupid’s bow above pillowy lips. And yet here I am staring, but instead of captivated, I’m uncomfortable.

I can’t appreciate the sexiness of Maxine’s pout, the amplified swell of her breasts, the smooth, tightness of her stomach, the strength of her long legs flowing out from hot pants with not much more coverage than a pair of underwear. It’s all clearly out of place compared to Brandon with a stone-cold, serious face, a racket in his hand, and even more so considering the text printed across the glossy cover.

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