Page 50 of Off Court Fix

“No. You’ve sat in the umpire chair so long you just think you’re a know-it-all.”

His laugh turns into a sigh. “I know you’re holding back. That doesn’t mean you’re not good on the court because you are. But after everything at Indian Wells... well, you played like an all-outthreatfor each point when you had a fire under your ass.” Crosby’s voice drops. “When I lit a fire under your ass.”

“Are you going to surprise me and show up to call one of my matches at Wimbledon? Because if that happens, I’ll make sure to play in a thong and change my skirt on the base line.”

Crosby runs his thumb over the back of my hand. “No. I want to give you something to carry with you in case you’re down and you need a swift kick in the ass to get back on the up.”

He drops my hand and presses something to my palm, a small velvety pouch.

“Queen of the ashes, remember?” Crosby tilts his head down to whisper in my ear. “When I watch you play on TV, I want to see a fire under your ass. Wear this and get angry, Maxine. Forget that this is supposed to be a gentleman’s sport. Whoever told you tennis was for the polite and quiet never held a racket the right way. The handshaking comes after the match, not during it. Remember that.”

I look down at the small pouch with question.

“Wear it if you can,” Crosby says, stepping back and motioning toward the street where the car waits for me. “You should go. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

I nod, folding my fingers over the velvet, and I wait for just a second to see what boundaries are safe to cross in an empty public park in a sleepy summer town late at night. And judging from Crosby’s firm stance, none are safe at the moment.

“I’ll text you when I land,” I say, turning on my heel before he catches my arm and spins me.

I’m suddenly up against his chest.

“A kiss for good luck never hurt anybody,” he whispers, and there’s not one part of me—except for maybe my heart—that could ever be wounded by Crosby’s lips dusting across mine, hovering for a minute before capturing my mouth more firmly.

And I wish there was a match to play right now at this moment, because Crosby kissing me like I’m both delicate and a force to be reckoned with has the blood pumping in my veins at a dangerously high speed. I’m shot with adrenaline, with an eagerness to battle. And if I didn’t have a driver waiting and a flight to catch, I wouldn’t give in so easily and let him win this set.

“Go.” Crosby trails his lips to my ear. “I’ll be watching. Be a good girl and make me proud.”

With a deep breath, I return to the car and settle back into my seat as the driver heads out of town toward the highway, leaving Southampton and Crosby behind.

I finger the velvet pouch, loosening the string and emptying out the contents. A delicate, gold chain holds some sort of clear, acrylic small tennis ball. I need to take out my phone to use the light from the screen to see the murky gray coloring inside that shifts when I spin it between my fingers. Holding the pouch with my other hand, I feel something still inside it. With curiosity on my face, I pull out a small piece of paper.

I bet phoenixes carry a little bit of the ashes they rose from with them. You need to feed the fire to keep it burning.

I tapthe stack of invoices on my desk before placing them in a folder and unmuting the TV mounted to my office wall when the live coverage of Wimbledon comes back on the screen.

“Thank you for joining us at the third round of the Wimbledon Women’s Tennis Tournament. We’re live, watching Maxine Draper of the United States take on Spain’s Paulina Gonzalez. Now, Janice, this match has been a bit of a surprise. I’m not sure anyone expected Draper to go toe to toe with Gonzalez. We’ve got a few minutes of a break before this match goes to its third and final set—this is a tiebreak. Can’t believe I’m saying that. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, this morning, I would’ve put everything all in on Gonzalez taking Draper out in straight sets.”

I reach for my iced tea, bringing the glass rim to my lips. “Never underestimate the fight in the underdog,” I mutter.

“You’re right, Paul. Look, I’ve followed Maxine’s career since she first came on the scene. And let me tell you, she’s got raw talent. But I remember watching her play as a teen, and as she matured, so did her game. She got more precise, more on the money, more strategic. And you know, years ago, we were looking at her remaining consistently in the top ten on the circuit. But when injury hits in this sport, it can hithard,physically and in terms of the rankings.She really plummeted after that terrible Achilles injury. I think her coach and manager said it was a grade four? I mean, you’re looking at a totally severed tendon. For me, it’s a miracle to see her back playing not even a year out from that injury.”

The camera pans in on Maxine on the bench, her ankle taped tightly, as Paul chimes in.

“That’s what they were saying. I remember watching coverage of that match, and when she went down, honestly, I thought it was her knee, Janice. I just remember seeing this sort of unbelievably stoic look on her face. She crawled to the bench, do you remember that? I think a line judge quickly came to help her, and she waved him off. Andcrawled.You don’t see that in professional tennis every day.”

I frown as these two semi-well-meaning morons laugh.

“But do you know what you also don’t see in tennis? A story like this, especially for women. You know, we see the injuries take them out andkeepthem out more than men. It’s a fact. And what Maxine went through was a brutal injury. So, I’m as surprised as anyone to see her here really hanging on. And she’s giving Gonzalez a run for her money—”

Paul quickly interrupts.

“In Sportscalled it, didn’t they? Lots of shake-ups in the rankings now for men and women after the sea of retirements last season. They gave her the cover, maybe they knew something we didn’t. You saw that, right?”

“I did.”Janice’s voice trails off. “It was a great article. You really got a sense of the recovery and work she’s put in. But I might’ve gone in a different direction with the wardrobe.”

Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “So much for women supporting women.”

“Well, I won’t comment on that. But despite having a hard time in Europe earlier in the summer, Maxine clearly is here, and let me say, I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

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