Page 59 of Off Court Fix

“I wouldn’t call itbarelyanything,” Crosby scoffs before he reaches for my hand. “But less than you, yes. Especially after Indian Wells. It’s definitely way less.”

“Just remember that the next time you penalize an athlete for how short her skirt is,” I say, turning my head to face him.

Crosby nudges closer to me, cupping my cheek. “For the record, if one person in the crowd made any comment about you on my court—even about your game if you were playing like shit—I’d have them removed.”

“Who said chivalry is dead?” I joke. “But don’t think you’ll get that opportunity again. Got it?”

Crosby nods and seals the deal with a kiss. “Spectator only.”

The conversation closes as smoothly as Crosby gives his apology, and yet I sit and stir uncomfortably against the rug. It’s not that I’m even the slightest bit concerned about the kind of unprofessional behavior Crosby exhibited back during my match in Indian Wells. I think he more than learned his lesson, and the truth is, since Iwonthat tournament and the tension about the altercation between us has died down, I’m not even mad about it anymore.

What I am feeling is shit out of luck because I can’t actually be mad at someone who listens to me, considers what I say, and apologizes for wrong-doing. Crosby pulls my thigh across his lap and breaks open another edamame pod with his teeth, and everything suddenly feelseasy. There’s no drama over our conversation. Helistened, apologized, and made a fair point. I briefly wonder if it’s due to his age—that he’s man enough to accept when he’s wrong but stand his ground on what he believes in. And I feel unlucky because why is it fair for me to find that in the one person I shouldn’t have?

I let Crosby pull me closer to him but tilt my head at the Ping-Pong table, remembering no matter what, we came out of that match win-win. But when I think of outside this house, on and off court, I realize the odds stacked against Crosby and me are only the damned if you do, damned if you don’t, lose-lose type.

I continue hittingat the club with Jack nearly every day, though we’ve moved away from the grass courts and onto a different surface, preparing for the hard-court press of the season. And really, it’s become a two-for-one special because this gives Crosby and me some extra time in the early mornings.

There are nights at my house, some at his, but I’m finding my calendar seemingly more and more booked with events each week—some in the Hamptons, others in the city. I need at least seven straight hours of sleep a night, and my father knows this better than anyone. Yet on nights that involve Alyssa doing my hair and makeup, a stylist sending over a rack of dresses, I’m pulling in five or less.

And I’m paying for it on the court. Jack can tell.

“That’s it,” he says, approaching the net. “Let’s call it a day.”

I look down at my watch. “It’s barely been half an hour,” I tell him, lifting a ball with my racket.

“Max—”

“Come on.” I hit him the ball. “And don’t go easy on me.”

I’ll power through because I always do.

And for the next twenty minutes, I barely do just that.

“Whatever point you’re trying to prove is the wrong one.” Jack heads over to the bench, and I follow, catching the bottle of Gatorade he throws my way. I’m quick to guzzle down the electrolytes as he frowns. “Look, Max, this isn’t about your ankle. You’re not even here.”

He’s right, I’m not. I’m in a million different places. I’m thinking about training, about how much dry shampoo I might need in case I won’t have time to wash my hair tonight before the dinner I’m supposed to attend out in Montauk. I’m leaving myself a mental note to bring a pillow in the car so I can catnap to and from the event.

And I’m thinking about Crosby, who opens the court gate cautiously, holding a bag of ice. He’s sweaty from his run, his hair matted back off his face, glasses sitting lower on his nose than usual. And even though I’m exhausted, I have this newfound energy to walk up to him, push up his glasses, and taste the beads of sweat from his neck.

I sigh. I’m thinking about Crosby too. A lot.

I’m constantly wondering how to squeeze more of him into small pockets of time I barely have. That’s why I stay at the club. Because of these moments when he brings me a bag of ice after hitting so I can put my foot up and rest after I’m done with Jack—I take these moments of seeing him. I look forward to the delicious chill that a brush of his touch against my skin will leave, the looks that say a promise of later—if we find time alone.

“You two done early today?” he asks, stepping on the court, the early sun casting a shadow of his tall, lean body against the green concrete.

“No,” I say at the same time Jack verbally disagrees with me.

Jack slides to the side, slipping his racket into his bag and making room so Crosby can move past. He takes off his hat and fans his sandy blonde hair. “We’re done for today. Someone was out past curfew.”

I roll my eyes. “It was for charity.”

I think. I’m so exhausted I can’t remember if the dinner last night was for the ASPCA or if it was the launch of the newest issue ofHamptons Magazine. Both are equally unmemorable because both have nothing to do with tennis.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Max. We fine to start a little later? Eight thirty?” he asks Crosby.

I open my mouth to object before Crosby answers. “I can keep this court clear until eleven-thirty.” He looks down at me. “Why don’t you start around nine?”

I scowl at both of them as Jack swings his bag over his shoulder. “Get a nap in today, Slayer. See you tomorrow atnine thirty,” he says as if it’s a compromise.

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