Page 58 of Off Court Fix

“I suppose the nickname is fitting,” Crosby says, swirling wasabi into the small container of soy sauce. “Silent Slayer.”

I swallow but don’t look up from the table.

Crosby must sense the change in my demeanor because he clears his throat, trying to lighten the air. “Could be worse. They could call you Chatty Cathy... or worse, Yelping Yolanda.”

“They could just call me Maxine.”

“Oh, but where would the fun be in that?” Crosby teases. “Besides, I like that you’re quiet. All your colleagues tend to screech like animals in heat.”

I flick my eyes to him. “No. That’s whatyouthink they sound like. Because, like all men, you have a one-track mind.”

“When it comes to you, I do.” He leans over, pressing his lips to my neck, but I twist away, shuffling to create more distance. “What?” Crosby asks.

“I stay quiet because that’s what they said—is she getting laid or playing tennis?I was nineteen. Imagine.”I look over at Crosby and find his playfulness of the moment long gone. I sigh. “Do you know why I stay quiet? It doesn’t even matter if anyone makes a comment like that again. Sometimes I do it so that other little girls who love this game and want to be on center court at Wimbledon one day, or make it to the final of the US Open, play quietly sotheydon’t ever hear someone comparing them to dogs in heat.”

I drop my chopsticks, no longer hungry, and take my glass of water, sitting back against the couch. Crosby sighs beside me.

“I’m sorry. That was a flippant remark and disrespectful.”

The apology is quiet but clear. I’m not used to this kind of apology—one easily given—especially from a man.

“You know something,” Crosby continues, “can I offer an inside official’s perspective? What they said about you, it’s wrong. It’sdisgusting. But you, holding it in? You’re giving them what they want.”

I cock an eyebrow. “How so?”

Crosby shifts on the floor. “You’re right, there’s a sexualization to those sounds. But it’s notanykind of sexualization. People—and I mean spectators and fans, officials, what have you—they talk about it negatively because they’re trying to control the narrative. You used to joke that I’m a misogynist—” I open my mouth to cut in, but Crosby continues, “I’m not saying what I did wasright. It wasn’t, and I apologized, and I’mstillsorry. But here’s the thing, Maxine. By staying quiet, you’re getting approval from the wrong people—the ones who have pretty strong opinions about women, and they’re not ones I imagine you’d agree with in the slightest. Those people, they’re trying to make a point about how aladyshould act. On the court, off the court, in bed, out of bed—”

“Quiet.”

“Maybe you should think about the message you’re sending. Maybe you should think about what you’re holding in andwhy. You had no issue calling me a sexist asshole onnationalTV.”

I shrug. “You were a sexist asshole. I almost played the rest of the match in my underwear to prove a point.”

“So why didn’t you put your clothes on for the photoshoot to prove a point to your father?”

I’m taken aback. “You—”

“I’m not saying you should’ve needed to. But I saw your face when you got ahold of that cover. I watched youburnthree dozen of those magazines page by page. What’s the difference? You told me off because I was telling you what you could and couldn’t do with your body. Wasn’t the magazine the same thing?”

I remain silent, like always.

Crosby lowers his gaze so it’s even with mine. “Can I tell you the answer?”

“Do you mean, can youmansplainit to me?” I huff in annoyance even though I’m not actually bothered by what Crosby is saying. I’m bothered because I know he’s right.

“You aren’t really looking for approval with me,” Crosby whispers. “Because you know, I’ll take you as you are—Amy or Maxine, whoever. It’s been that way from the moment we met. What about everyone else?”

He asks another question without having to say the words aloud.What about your father?

Pursing my lips, I sink back against the couch. “Does everyone else even matter?”

“Only because I believeyouthink they matter too much. If you’re sacrificing parts of yourself for people who won’t lay the same on the line for you, you’re playing this game wrong.”

I tilt my head to Crosby. “I’m having an affair with anumpire. The same one who refereed a match Iwon. What people will say about that if they find out... well, I imagine the headlines might be something likeIs she getting laid oractuallywinning.What would they say aboutyou?”

“Probably not all that much.”

“Because you have barely anything to lose,” I remind him.

---