Page 44 of Off Court Fix

“I’ve got a breakfast meeting set the morning of the eleventh.”

I open my mouth to speak, but it takes a moment because I’m at such a loss. “You scheduled a potential business meetingduringone of the most important tournaments I’ll play in?” I take his silence as affirmation. “Dad—”

“They’ll come to you,” he says, as if it’s fine for my attention to be on anything other than tennis as long as I don’t have to battle London traffic.

I think for a moment, mentally running through my calendar. “That’s the day of the semifinals,” I say, and then I realize that maybe Dad scheduled it on purpose.

Maybe he doesn’t believe I’llmakeit to Wimbledon’s semifinals.

And then I think long and hard about all the tournaments I played in before I got injured, when Dad’s only purpose was to make sure I was focused on tennis and nothing else.

No friends.

No birthdays.

No relationships.

Nothing but training and strategizing, nutrition and strength, grit and determination.

And now, the idea that Dad has scheduled abusinessmeeting during one of the most important tournaments of my comeback has me understanding Dad’s belief in me as an athlete snapped in half that day on the court along with my Achilles tendon.

My sinking heart stirs painfully in my gut.

“Their distribution ishuge,” he says as if I should care. “You’d get design inputandbe the face of the campaign.”

And there it is.

Dad must understand the silence in my voice means I’ve finally caught on.

“Maxine,” he says with a deafening sigh. “Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

A ball of emotion takes up prime real estate in my throat.

As a manager, he has never steered me wrong. He believed in my raw talent as a kid. He got me the right coaches. He found companies to sponsor me based on my talent, not my then semi-awkward teenage appearance.

But, these days I’ve realized, as a father, the only direction Dad has ever steered me is toward a way to keep him my manager.

Tilting the phone away, I try not to make it so obvious that I have to clear my throat because it’s beginning to lock up with all the words I’m desperate to say.

No. Are you out of your mind? I’m going to London for tennis and tennis only. I’ve been working my ass off to get back here. I’ve been playing through not just aches and pains but agony. How can that not be enough for you?

But I can’t say any of that. Because I wouldn’t be here without my father. And I know deep down, his love for me has to be deeper than the pockets of whatever company wants to offer me an endorsement because I happen to have “the look.” I have to trust he knows best. Because everyone in my life, at one point or another, has left. And it has to mean something that Dad is still here.

“Put it on my calendar.”

* * *

“Nice. You brought the good bagels.”

I look up from the ocean, canopying my face with my hand so I don’t have to squint at Crosby, who drops his sneakers beside the blanket I’ve laid out.

“You’re late,” I tell him as he plops down next to me, peeking in the brown paper bag.

I’m actually relieved Crosby is late, so I could have a few minutes to myself on the beach. I try to breathe out the pent-up frustration the phone call with my father has filled me with and let the waves sweep it away.

“Am I? Sorry. Damn flock of wild turkeys were having their own picnic in the middle of my street.” Crosby leans closer, and I can smell the toothpaste on his breath. “Slept through my alarm,” he confesses. “Don’t take that as a testament to how much I wanted to do this.”

“Do what?” I ask, shifting on the blanket before turning back to him.

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