Page 89 of Off Court Fix

“Why?”

I pull up the duvet. “Is this a generational thing?” I ask. “Answering a question with a question?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

I groan and finish making the bed.

Alyssa stomps over. “You’ve been spending time with a younger girl. Maybe you already know the answer to that.”

“Maxine is an adult,” I correct her. “Not agirl.” Catching sight of my wallet and keys that fell out of my shorts and landed on the floor beside the nightstand, I curse under my breath. “Shit. My car.”

“I thought it was the gardener,” Alyssa says. “Her dad said, what kind of gardener drives around in aRange Rover. And by the way, Max is also an athlete. She was a player onyourcourt, in case you’ve forgotten.”

I grab my things and pocket them before plopping down on the bed. “Look, Alyssa. You want the whole story, you talk to your friend—”

“Oh, I will.”

“Great. But do me a favor and save the talking forlater,” I whisper. “Just... go downstairs. Can you act normal?”

“What part of this is normal?”

I raise my face to the ceiling and curse under my breath, and I’m thankful it’s enough that Alyssa sighs and moves to the door. But when she opens it, we both pause. I turn from the bed, inching closer as we hear heated voices.

Alyssa raises an eyebrow, and I place a hand on her arm so she stays still, then a finger to my lips so she stays quiet, not just to avoid drawing any attention to upstairs, but so I can make sure I’m hearing everything clearly.

“You can’t do both,” her father says firmly.

“I’m aware,” replies Maxine.

I wonder why Maxine thought it was a good idea to bring up this subject now.

“For the record, I’m yourmanager, so decisions like this—where and when you play—warrant a conversation with me instead of some kind of informal FYI email sent at two a.m.”

Fuck.

A moment of silence passes between them, and Alyssa looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head.

“Exactly, Dad. You’remymanager. Ipayyou, you work for me.”

There’s no mirror in sight, but I imagine the surprise on Alyssa’s face matches my own.

Maxine continues, “The only person I need to consult about my playing schedule is my coach and trainer. And they’re both on board because they expected me to play in Cincinnati. And now it’s booked.”

“The photoshoot—”

“I don’t want to do the photoshoot!” Maxine shouts. “I don’t want to do the campaignat all. I want to focus on tennis, that’s it. That’s what this year was about. It wasn’t about nonsporting endorsements or making a segue intofashionwhen I couldn’t give a shit about clothes, about contracts, any of it. Do you know what I want to do? Get dressed, go hit with Jack. Go to the gym, come home and shower so Alyssa can cut my hair—”

Maxine’s father huffs. “This would put you in breach of contract. There’s a clause about not making changes to your appearance. Yousignedit.”

“Well, tell them I changed my mind.”

“Oh, you think it’s just that easy, don’t you?” he seethes. “You think these things go as quickly as theycome? Who do you think is working on the back end to get these deals done, hm? You have your head in the clouds if you think multimillion-dollar deals are done at the snap of your fingers.”

I don’t like where this is going, not one bit. I back into the room, unsure what to do. But then my keys—the keys of the guy who grew up a landscaper’s kid—jingle in my pocket.

“Stay here,” I tell Alyssa as I head to the French doors leading to Maxine’s balcony.

But does she listen? No. That also might be a generational thing.

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