Page 41 of Off Court Fix

It’s a war of bodies and wills, of tongues tangling, teeth nipping andfuck—her nails scratching the back of my neck leave me panting, clutching her harder, closer. Maxine isn’t just taking my breath away, she’s filling me up with her taste, her touch, her smell that cuts through even smoke.

And I’m absolutely feral in a way I’ve never been. I’m drunk, I’m high, I’m desperate to guzzle down every last damn drop of her until there isn’t anything else to give.I’m left parched when we both jump at a crack behind us. Maxine gasps against my mouth, and it’s then she melts, softens against me as I step back farther from the fire pit, bringing her with me.And I like it, that in a moment of surprise and shock, she needs me, that her hand presses to my chest, her fingers clutching my t-shirt.

“It’s alright.” I slide my hand from Maxine’s waist to the small of her back leaving soothing circles. When she turns her head back to face me, my lips brush the top of her head, and there’s something about the move that makes it seem an accidental promise of protection.

Maxine looks down at her hand clutching my shirt and releases it, smoothing the wrinkles. “I don’t know what it is about you. I shouldhateyou, Crosby,” she confesses, her voice a whisper.

I know, not just from the kiss, but by the way our bodies relax into each other—and how much Ilikeit—that there’s no room for hate between us.

“And this,” Maxine continues. “It could cost me everything.”

This is where age should kick in. I should make the responsible choice and back away, and let everything that happened between us become nothing more than a vague memory. But I’m still dizzied by Maxine, still running my hands along her body, and there’s so much I’m yearning to learn, to memorize by heart so that when this—we—become a memory, I’ll be able to hang on to it longer.

And if we were doomed before we even begin, well, then there isn’t all that much we can lose if we’re careful. And no one knows how to be careful quite like me.

The fire flickers again, and I look at it with a sigh, my eyes finding a piece of the magazine that dodged its demise. I step away from Maxine to retrieve the paper, unfolding it to find a strip of her bare torso. When she comes up beside me, I hand it to her, and she crumples it tightly into her fist before tossing it into the now simmering flame, giving it the smallest boost. And then she links the hand that rid a piece of her she doesn’t like with mine.

I sink into the depth of the hard Adirondack chair. “Rest in peace, beauty queen.” I find Maxine staring. “Hello, queen of the ashes.”

Her swollen lips flatten into the proudest smirk, and I tug her to my lap, my body swept with a satisfying, tingling sensation. And it’s enough—this kind of fix. The delicious weight and warmth of Maxine’s body against mine, my tastebuds still holding onto her flavor... it’s enough. Because I know I’m surrendering to her fully in this match, and I’ll have to learn to take what I get, when I can get it.

On court, off court... it will have to be enough. But I’ll savor these moments when she’s with meinthe chair and not below it playing.

I press my lips to Maxine’s ear. “Now, go and show them—everyone—who rules the court.”

* * *

“Mr. King?”

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. A little foggy headed. I was up early to make the drive.”

I also was up late—too late—and not because of Maxine, who I sent home around eleven with a mason jar full of clipped hydrangeas because she made yet another comment about them. But in bed last night, I was plagued with the anxiety of tomorrow—the same I feel right in this moment.

I know if today were a normal day, I would’ve slept fine, floating in a cloud of Maxine, and that would’ve been more than enough to keep me in dreamland. But it’s not a normal day because I’ve come to visit my mother at Rolling Meadows. Last night, I tossed and turned, got up to pace in the pitch-black. Lights aren’t necessary when you’ve lived in the same place for four decades. The furniture might’ve been upgraded, but not the floor plan, even though the truth is the TV would be better suited in the corner, the couch and chair angled to make more room to access the doors leading out to the backyard.

I suppose I never bothered changing it because even when Mom’s disease advanced, I always held hope that I’d bring her home and return the house to her. She’d find it the same—safe, secure—on the off chance she might recognize it, might remember the plank against the kitchen island is loose, so loose I used to hide my buried treasure beneath it as a kid. When I’d revisit it, I’d often find a new baseball card, a pack of gum, small treats from mothers that leave big feelings, even if they’re fleeting, in children’s hearts.

Life is full of fleeting moments, and I struggle to hold onto them, and I have a brain that isn’t disintegrating. But my mother, who I hardly recognize sitting by the windowsill, overlooking the lush, green lawn, has a life that is only one large fleeting moment.

Life... it can also be so unfair.

“You can go on in,” the nurse tells me, offering a kind, sympathetic smile. “She just finished breakfast.”

I clear my throat and nod my thanks, tapping lightly on the door frame so I don’t startle Mom. When she doesn’t turn or acknowledge me, I knock a little harder. “Hey, Ma.”

We lock eyes for a minute, and when she doesn’t show any fear or outward tension, I step forward.

I’ve been doing this long enough that I know the calm, though sullen, look in her pale green eyes can change in an instant, so I don’t move to join her by the window.

I pocket my hands and rock on the heels of my feet. “How’s your arm?”

My mother looks down at the cast as if she’s forgotten she had it all along, her eyes widening in surprise. “It’s a real cramp in the dick.”

I choke on my laughter. “Yeah, I bet.”

She returns her gaze to the window. “They took the bird feeder away,” she says with a sigh.

I can’t remember if there ever was a bird feeder outside her window here, but I know better than to question her. “Maybe it broke.”

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