Page 4 of Off Court Fix

“Where are you?” she asks when I answer the call.

That means Dad called her, and I’m not surprised.

“Max?”

I sigh. “I’m still in the city.”

My admission must have stunned Alyssa into silence because she’s quiet on the line.

“I just needed—”

“We’re going out.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Alyssa—”

“Max,” she begins with a huff. “First of all, you’ll never make it to the airport before the flight. Second, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Let’s go out and have some fun.”

Pressing my lips together, I nod in agreement. I shouldn’t be sitting alone across from a bar on the night of my brother’s birthday, staring at all the half-empty liquor bottles. I shouldn’t be wondering if I can remember the taste of a rum and coke, of a dirty martini, a draft beer. But that’s what I’m doing. I’m wondering if it would feel the same—tongue tingling, mouth prickling, deliciously tempting.

I’m wondering just how much I’d have to drink tonight to not feel so sad. But I know I’m more terrified of what one sip might lead to for me than I am curious.

“Max,” Alyssa begins, and I hate how she says my name—sad, sympathetic. “Please, please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m just totally beat. It’s been a long day.”

“Come on, let’s have fun,” Alyssa practically begs. “Oh, let’s do the thing where we give you a fake name and pretend you’re a completely different person and watch the guys get all confused. We haven’t done that in forever.”

She’s right, and the memories make me laugh. Dazed, confused, and questioning faces of men who knew I was Maxine Draper, even though I introduced myself as Laura, Kelly, or Rebecca.

But when my laughter of the past fades, I’m somber faced in the present. Maxine Draper, sitting alone, wondering why on the day I should celebrate the person my brotherwas, I’m hating the shadow of a man he became.

I hate him for using and lying about using. I hate him for stealing. I hate him for being sobadthat I was so desperate to begood. And I was. I had good manners. I did well in school. And when I picked up a racket out of frustration over my brother’s addiction, I becamegreat.

I’ve never had more of a desire to reclaim my life than I do in this moment, sitting in a restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, dodging awkward gazes, trying not to overhear whispers of patrons dining beside me.

That’s Maxine Draper, right? She’s prettier than she is on TV.

I want to reclaim my career and remind people I’m an athlete. Period. I want to remind my father of this, most of all, that my quick feet and backhand got me to play in eight Grand Slam tournaments, and not my long dark hair or ass. I want to remind him of how hard I can fight on the court, hard enough it was only a few days after my brother overdosed and choked on his vomit that I played in a match and won a tournament.

I want to reclaim my heart and mind, so battered by my brother’s addiction I wonder if I even know who I am anymore.

But that can wait.

“Oh my god,” Alyssa cuts in. “Do you remember when you were Amy? That guy, he was from Canada, right?”

I hardly remember the guy because I was drunk. Innocently drunk, but drunk enough. But the bulk of what I remember from that night is that I feltgood. It felt good to play pretend.

“Alright,” I say to Alyssa, and I lift my head to the waiter, who—surprise, surprise—is already staring, and motion for the check. “I’ll get in a cab now. Let me know where you want me to meet you.”

I don’t bother to wait for the billfold as I pull cash from my wallet and rise from the table with a renewed purpose. I’m determined to be someone else tonight. I don’t care who she is or what she calls herself. All I know is she’s carefree, goes with the flow, says yes, and pushes the limits I’m currently strangled by. All I know is that it can’t come soon enough.

But I wish I was braver in theory than I am in practice. Because as I walk out of the restaurant, heads turn and whispers rise into louder voices. I’m suffocated by attention, and when I step onto the sidewalk and turn my head, looking for a cab to take me downtown to the safety of my best friend and the promise of an alias, I’m met instead by men with cameras determined to capture therealme.

My feet beat the sidewalk so hard I feel that familiar painful pinch at the back of my left ankle, but I continue, heading uptown against traffic. I try to take quick steps and lose myself and them in the crowds of tourists hanging around Rockefeller Center before I run across the street, barely dodging oncoming cars.

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