Page 83 of Off Court Fix

Crosby holds my hand to the opening of his shirt as I peek at the mark one more time.

“Does it make you feel good?” he asks, and I can feel the thumping of his heart beneath my skin.

Raising my gaze from his neck, I lock eyes with him and nod because it does. It’s there, hiding in plain sight—my claim.

“You’re mine.” I cock my head to the side and smirk. “Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“You can put lipstick on a Crosby,” he begins before sighing. “But he’ll beyourCrosby without it too.” Bending his knees, we now stand eye to eye in the dim light. “I’m yours.”

Crosby’s admission prickles my skin with a shiver of delight, and suddenly I don’t care about Alyssa and Dave and whatever blonde twins are at the table. I’m about to cover him in my lipstick—from head to toe and everything in between.

But Crosby takes my hand and presses it to his mouth, hiding a kiss in my palm before cupping his own cheek and rubbing his stubbled jaw. Tenderness breaks through the haze of lust again, and my breath hitches in the back of my throat. And now I want something else.

I want Crosby to add analwaysto those words, so we can manifest how the hell we come out of the place we’ve buried ourselves in instead of digging it deeper with more secrets, more lies. But Crosby can’t promise me anything I can’t give him as well.

“I need more time,” I admit, almost shamefully. “I need more time with you.”

“Tomorrow, the boat. You and me all day, alright?”

I nod, sighing. “I should get back before Alyssa comes looking.”

Crosby holds me in place for one more moment. “I’m yours,” he whispers, and even though that’s all he actually says, his eyes in the dim lighting say something else.

They sayforever.

* * *

“When are you planning on coming back out?”

Alyssa grabs her bag from the trunk and groans, “Ugh. I’d stay here the whole week if I didn’t have this photoshoot tomorrow afternoon. But maybe Wednesday. I hate leaving. It’s just so beautiful out here.”

I know the feeling. As much as I love tennis, I’d give anything for just a pause out here, with no schedule, no plane to catch, no tournament to play in.

“Well, you’re welcome whenever. You do have a key. Let me know. If I can pick you up, I will.”

I give Alyssa a quick squeeze and hop back into my car, heading home to change quickly and grab my things before I head over to Sag Harbor, where I told Crosby I’d meet him to hop on the boat. I drum my fingers anxiously against my steering wheel, eager to be wrapped around him under the sun in the middle of wide-open spaces. I go over the list in my head so I can move as quickly as possible. Sunscreen, extra towels, a hair clip so my hair doesn’t end up matted like last time, my EpiPen—even though I gave one to Crosby already after he insisted. I bite my lip, thinking of what else, slightly annoyed I didn’t pack everything before I dropped Alyssa at the jitney so I could leave from there instead of backtracking home. Preparing earlier, beyond throwing on a bikini and cover-up, would’ve drawn questions from Alyssa.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer his call via Bluetooth as I wind my way down quaint, tree-lined streets.

“Oh good, I caught you. Got some time for a short maintenance call?”

I slow as I approach a stop sign a few blocks from my house and sigh. “Of course.”

I wonder if he can hear the annoyance in my mind as I hear him rattle off a few business issues. I agree with everything—because I know Dad is calling less to ask for my opinion and more so to just hear me agree with him. I drive up to my gate, waiting for it to open, continuing to yes him to death.

“And we have to talk about Cincinnati.”

“What about Cincinnati?”

He clears his throat. “We’re going to have to withdraw.”

I appreciate what my father has done for me and my career, but when he says ‘we’ as if he’s out there with me, putting the work in on the court, suffering through it, I have to count to three before I respond. “And why doIneed to withdraw?”

“Scheduling conflict,” Dad says. “You’ve got the photoshoot for Stripewear on what will be the third day of the tournament. We’ll be doing the photoshoot down in Miami—”

“Ineedto play in Cincinnati.” After my disastrous European tour, I’ve been running myself ragged playing anywhere I can. “I need the rankings.”

“You’re already going in low,” Dad painfully reminds me.

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