Page 5 of Off Court Fix

When one man calls out my name, I duck my head lower, clutching my phone tightly as it vibrates with my father’s call.

“For god’s sake,” I relent and stuff it into the pocket of my leather jacket I now regret wearing because of how cold the night has become.

Some heads turn, perhaps confused by the rush. But no one, not anyone, says anything, and before I know it, tears are flowing down my face, and I don’t know why—I have no idea why I’m crying or why anyone in this city thinks it’s okay for two grown men to chase a woman down Fifth fucking Avenue with a camera and not say one word about it.

I quicken my pace one more block, and that’s when I see it—sanctuary.

I instantly growcomfortable the moment I enter a church, despite the hard wooden bench I sit on at an unnatural 90-degree angle with little space in the pew for my long legs, which leaves my knees bumping into the hymnal and devotionals. I spent a lot of time in churches growing up, racing my matchbox cars along the aisle and carving my name into the leg of a bench with my fingernail. I came with my mother to all her organ practices, even though it was far too late at night for me to be there. But she never left me alone at home when I was young, and my father often didn’t return until well after midnight, no matter what day of the week it was.

Organs, gaudy stained-glass windows, golden crucifixes, and the smell of incense all remind me of my mother, or at least of who she once was as opposed to who she is now. A resident at Rolling Meadows, a soon-to-be statistic in the battle against Alzheimer’s disease everyone ends up losing. I know—judging from the phone call I just had with her care team—that she’ll be losing very soon. And yet here I am, sitting against a hardback pew 100 miles away from her with a bag of cash at my feet. Maybe I do belong in a church. People come to them because they feel guilty, right?

“If you tell me you just brought fifty grand on the fucking Long Island Rail Road and the subway,” Hunter Wembly growls before raising his voice to the octave of a desperate prayer, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

A woman, a few rows up praying the rosary, gasps. She peeks over her shoulder, and I think she expects to find Lucifer sitting next to me. She’s not all that wrong—we’re a pair of Lucifers, me and Hunter. Well, him more than me, if I’m being honest. It must be a sin to lie in God’s house.

“I didyoua favor,” I tell him, kicking the duffle over. “Of course, I drove. But I had to put air in my tire before I got on 495. I should deduct from that.”

“Air is free, asshole. Or like a quarter.”

I shrug. “Hamptons air is premium shit. Besides, you’re the one who told me to come down to the city. What are you doing here anyway? Or wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Hunter shrugs. “Talking to some NBA refs about next season.”

“Of course, you’re always up to something, aren’t you? I hope you keep up the enthusiasm in prison too.”

Hunter clearly isn’t in the mood to joke so I’m not sure why I bother anyway. Can’t stand the guy now and couldn’t stand him growing up either. He’s a few years younger than me, but that never stopped him from taunting me as a teenager while I mowed his family’s lawn.

How we managed to work together for nearly a decade is beyond me. But I’ve never been happier than five years ago when I parted ways from Hunter. Or maybe, I’ve never been happier than two years ago on the day he decided to push pause entirely on his gambling ring when things were getting too hot and abandon the East Coast for California, fearing the feds. As a going away gift, I did him the favor of picking up the pieces, collecting and holding his cash until he got back.

But today is really the happiest day of my life, because I can breathe easier with this bag of cash out of my closet.

Hunter reaches down and lifts the duffle, holding it for a minute before dropping it to the floor with a satisfied nod, as if the idiot knows what fifty grand feels like by weight.

“All good?” I ask.

“Oh, sorry. Was I interrupting something?” Hunter’s icy blue eyes bounce between the altar and me.

“I was praying,” I lie like a reflex and then scold myself internally. But I guess it’s the least of my worries.

Now the asshole laughs. “Don’t waste your breath, friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“You’re right,” Hunter agrees before grabbing the duffle again. “You were my employee.”

I don’t need the reminder, but appreciate the past tense. “Yes, Iwas.”

“You could be again,” Hunter says.

I scoff. “No. I don’t think so. You left town because you were worried about thefeds. You can’t be dumb enough to set up shop again, so I hope you were talking to the basketball referees about anything else other than working for you.”

Hunter shrugs. “There’s money to be made, Crosby. Think about it.”

“I’m thinking about leaving the past in the past.” I have enough put aside to support my mother’s care until the end of the year, which will probably be more than enough.

I’m back to just Crosby King, country club manager, part-time tennis umpire. I used to be something else too, someone of importance for Hunter and his family, who happened to run the largest sports gambling ring in the Northeast. And I was something important—little old me, the guy who once mowed their summer home’s sprawling, lush lawn with my dad, who ran a landscaping business. That kid on the John Deere, who could trim back hydrangea bushes better than anyone on the east end of Long Island, would eventually make the Wembly family tens of millions of dollars. How? Fixing tennis matches.

Really, it’s my dad’s fault. Doesn’t God punish us for the sins of our fathers? He did in my case. Sure, I should be grateful my father gave me life. And without him, I can’t say for certain I would’ve ever set foot on a tennis court during a professional match. But I also never would’ve inherited hundreds of thousands of dollars of gambling debt when he died unexpectedly of a stroke. And interest racks up, even on corpses.

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