Page 7 of Off Court Fix

“Damn straight.” I step between them, checking the taller one with my shoulder.

“Watch out, man!”

“These are the steps of the Lord’s House, asshole,” I snarl, reaching for the door.

For a minute after the door closes, I stand there, making sure neither goon walks in. There’s an anonymity to New York City that I’m sure most famous people appreciate. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t sharks lurking in the shadows, sandwiched between halal carts and bodegas, waiting for a shot. I once saw Clint Eastwood down an entire hot dog on the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art while holding his middle finger up the entire time to a group of paparazzi before he turned the lone digit on me, sitting a few feet over. You shouldn’t stare at famous people either, I suppose.

That’s what I’m doing now. I’m staring at Maxine Draper, who has taken a seat in a pew in the middle of the cathedral. The other people sitting around seem too involved in their guilt and repentance to notice, and the others lingering on the sides lighting candles keep their attention turned elsewhere.

I click my tongue, my mind returning to my earlier thought. Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed, Crosby, I remind myself. But at this point, what’s one more?

Sinking into a pew, I watch, wondering if Maxine Draper is waiting for a savior.

* * *

In the twenty minutes that have passed since I sat three rows behind Maxine, people have come and gone, and she’s risen from the pew four times, walking to the front of the church to peek around before returning to her same spot.

She doesn’t kneel to pray, nor does she appear to be crying anymore, judging by how her shoulders seem steady when she returns to the pew, sitting as if she’s waiting for someone.

Maybe I’m not the only person who came to a church to commit a crime tonight.

After returning again to the pew, Maxine pulls off her black leather jacket and places it next to her. It’s not practical enough for a very chilly February night, and neither is the dress she wears beneath it, which is also black. And short.Justthe right amount of short. She’s got killer legs, but that’s no surprise, given they probably never stop moving on the court.

And here I am once again wondering about her footworkoffcourt, and I shake my head because I’m notthatmuch of a creep and also because after Maxine takes two steps forward, she takes three back. Right to me.

“Excuse me?” she asks. “Is there confession now?”

Confession?

Maxine purses her lips as she stares, but she might as well open me up and swallow me down with the look—her dark brown eyes, two black holes, floating islands beckoning lost causes to jump right in. And I’m nothing if not the patron saint of lost causes.

It only takes me about three seconds to wonder if those eyes would be my undoing—either tonight or well into the afterlife. I’m not sure what’s better or worse, but I’ve learned in life to keep my expectations low to avoid disappointment.

Maxine tilts her head, waiting for my answer.

“Do you need a priest?” I ask.

Her eyes only leave mine to move down, perhaps in search of a collar. “Are you one?”

“I’m probably closer to Satan than I am to Christ.”

I’ll admit, it wouldn’t be my choice of introductions were this any other woman in any other place, but I’ve got to work with what I have. I more than expect Maxine to scoff loudly, back away, retrieve her jacket, and leave, but this girl, she surprises me because shesmiles.

I take it back about her eyes. It’s all about her mouth. It’s Maxine’s smile, the way her full lips flattenjustenough that they don’t totally lose their shape, the way she lets out the lightest laugh, a whisper that will still echo loudly in my mind years from now when my hearing abandons me... it’s her mouth that captivates me.

I smile back and laugh too, because the moment between us is intense, even for me. “I’m kidding. I mean, I’m no altar boy. But I’m a stranger who isn’t half bad at listening. And I’m better than a priest.”

Maxine cocks her head to the side. “How’s that?”

I lean forward and whisper, “I don’t judge.”

She looks around before returning her gaze to me. “What’s your name?”

“Crosby King. And you are?”

I see the wheels turning in her head. She’s wondering if I recognize her or if anyone does. My eyes scan the near-empty church, but the few patrons are dwindling as night approaches. Not even the most obnoxious tourist comes to a church for celebrity scouting.

“Amy Matthews.”

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