Page 43 of Off Court Fix

“Lack of sleep.”

“Do you ever take a day off?”

She shrugs. “No rest for the wicked.”

A laugh escapes my throat, and I glance around the parking lot, hardly full considering it’s only late morning and camp drop-off already happened. Giggles of kids come from the opposite side of the tall hedges.

Maxine leans against her car, folding her arms across her chest. “You okay? You look... off.”

I chew on my lip. Ifeeloff, and I’m partly annoyed that Maxine has picked up on that, but I won’t lie, it brings a smile to my face knowing she notices. I rub my jaw and wipe it away.

“Had shit to deal with this morning.”

I know she isn’t satisfied by my answer, but I’m grateful she doesn’t push it.

“Okay,” she hums and moves off her car, but I reach for her hand.

Maxine jumps before I even clasp her fingers in mine, as if my touch is supposed to burn her. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she lets her eyes flutter around before squeezing my hand back.

“Can I see you later?” I ask.

Maxine frowns. “I have a thing in the city tonight. I need to go home and shower before heading down. I won’t be back until pretty late.”

I nod, sweeping my thumb back and forth over the top of her hand. “Alright. Another time. I should probably hit the hay early anyway.”

Maxine takes a step closer to me, and I wish she didn’t—because I’m remembering how good it felt to just stand with our bodies together. If I close the gap now, I’ll blow the cover of whatever this is before it’s popped off.

“Do you eat? Before your run?” Maxine asks, and I’m confused by the question. “If you were to start your run tomorrow down by Ponquogue Beach and happened to find something delicious sitting on a blanket, would you eat it?”

“That depends. Will it be you?”

Giggling, Maxine pulls her hand free and tugs on my shirt. “6:30?”

I don’t really care if I’m in need of twenty-four hours of sleep. I’ll be on the beach tomorrow at the crack of dawn, come hell or high tide.

“It’s a date.”

“What’s that noise?”Dad asks over the phone as I duck out of the bagel shop, which is already bustling early in the morning.

I pull down my sunglasses when the man entering Goldbergs does a double take. “I woke up starving. Grabbing a bagel, then heading to the club to hit.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m hitting today, but not until after eight. “Why are you up so early?”

Dad clears his throat. “Had a few calls. I just got off the phone with Stripewear in London.”

I know where this is going, and I should redirect the conversation, ask about the weather, see what hotel we’ve booked for Wimbledon.

“They want to meet with you,” he tells me.

“Aren’t they a swimsuit company?”

“Yes.”

Anything I’ve endorsed during my career—apart from charities—has been sports related until the haircare company, but when Dad continues, I sense we’re turning a corner here and going down a direction I have no interest in traveling.

“They’re looking ahead at next season, capsule collections. There might be room for your input.”

I don’t know what a capsule collection even means.

“My input? On bikinis?”

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