Page 60 of Off Court Fix

Crosby waits until Jack has left the court before he sits on the bench. “Scoot over,” he orders, “foot up.”

“I have a schedule to keep.”

“Oh,” he chuckles. “I’m aware.”

Of course, Crosby is aware. I had to cancel on him three times in the last two weeks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I... calendar just keeps getting filled up.”

Crosby’s eyes make a gentle sweep around the court, but it’s still early enough on a weekday that, apart from camp drop-off, members haven’t swarmed the grounds yet. I press my lips together when he takes my foot into his lap.

He unlaces my sneaker. “And who keeps filling it up?”

As soon as he asks, my phone rings from my bag, and I groan because I know Jack sent a message to my father, and even though I’m annoyed, I can’t blame him.

Balancing myself, I reach down to retrieve my phone, and Crosby sighs. “Guess I should’ve known.”

“If I don’t answer it, he’ll call back every forty-five seconds.”

“Go ahead,” Crosby says, pulling off my sneaker and dropping it to the ground. “Don’t mind me.”

I adjust myself on the bench and open the call. “I’m fine.”

“Jack says you’retired.”

“No one’s brought me my coffee yet.” I stick my tongue out at Crosby but pull it back immediately and wince when he settles the bag of ice around my ankle, pressing it down gently. I clear my throat, prepared to make my case to Dad, but what he says steals my voice.

“I’ll cancel your agility and conditioning for this afternoon. Take the day off.”

“What?”

“I said take the day off, Maxine.”

My eyebrows knit together, and I look at Crosby holding the ice pack to my ankle while sweeping his finger along my shin. I instinctively peek over my shoulder, but thankfully the club is still quiet.

“What do you mean, take the day off?” The concept is so foreign and ridiculous coming from my father I can’t quite comprehend it.

“I mean go home, take a nap, go to the beach.Relax.”

I look at Crosby, fighting the grin, and he shakes his head at me, confused.

“Because we’re going to LA tomorrow morning after you hit with Jack. Quick trip, you’ll be back in twenty-four hours. But I’ve got a few meetings for you out there for offseason projects, and doing them in one day eliminates extra travel.”

Shutting my eyes, I bite my lip, tempted to scream. Offseason projects? What happened to offseasonrestandrecovery?

No one cares to talk about the fact that the tennis season runs nearlytenmonths. The only project I care to have during those other two months—apart from staying in moderate shape, which involves far less training than I do now—is to have no plans apart from taking a moment or two to breathe.

Dad’s voice over the phone draws me from my thoughts. “I booked a car to take you to the airport. It will pick you up around noon.”

I’ll have just enough time to wash my hair between my late start hitting session and rushing to the airport.

“Go home now,” Dad says. “We’ll talk in the evening.”

I’m still holding the phone to my ear when the call ends.

Crosby nudges me. “What?”

Lowering the phone, I drop it to my lap. “Nothing.”

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