Page 92 of Off Court Fix

I lift my head to the ceiling, and it feels oddly satisfying not to have anything falling down my back. Tightening the towel under my arms, I take a deep breath. “I met himbeforeIndian Wells. And then what he didatIndian Wells... that’s why I joined the club to train at. Because I knew he worked there. And I wanted to make his life hell.”

Alyssa raises an eyebrow. “That’s why you were so weird that day?”

I shrug. “I guess I wasn’t as prepared as I thought. I wanted him to get that my body isn’t his to punish or penalize.”

A sharp whistle escapes her lips. “When did you get so ballsy?”

The truth is, I don’t know.

We both look to the door when Crosby knocks. I quickly take in his dirty shorts and shirt. “I... I’ve got to get to the club soon. Didn’t prep to take the day off. Did you call Jack?”

Nodding, I lift a hand to nervously play with my hair. “I’m going to hang out here before my trainer comes.” I called Jack to cancel, telling him I wasn’t feeling well.

And I’m not. Not at all.

“Can I hop in the shower here?” Crosby asks.

“Of course,” I say immediately, and Alyssa and I stand.

I both want him to leave and stay at the same time, exactly how it was earlier when he banged on the French doors, interrupting my father’s tirade. I wanted—and needed—Crosby there. But it was a sore reminder of just how hecan’tbe.

“You know, I’ve been up since the crack of dawn. I’m gonna go lie down.” Alyssa ticks her eyes to Crosby and wraps the cord of the hair dryer around the handle before she leaves my bathroom.

I look at Crosby, who moves to the shower without giving me another glance. When the water begins to run, I step into my bedroom and plop down on my bed, pressing a hand to my temple. I rub my head furiously, halting my efforts when I realize that the pain isn’t really coming from there, it’s merely being pumped through my veins upward. But it seems next to impossible to rub my aching, defeated heart.

* * *

I jump when a hand reaches out, squeezing my calf, and I push myself up on my elbows. Crosby is in front of me, a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water still sprinkling his neck, chest, and shoulders.

“You alright?”

I nod, but I can see by the twitch in his jaw that was the wrong answer to give.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “About my hair.”

Crosby frowns and sits on the bed. “You’re sorry about yourhair?”

I lift a hand to touch the ends. “I mean, it’ll grow back.”

Crosby scowls and curses under his breath before he tugs me into a sitting position with one quick pull of my arm. “Do you think I care about your hair?”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. It seems everyone does on some level.

“Since you have to think about it, you don’t need to actually answer, Maxine.” He sighs in clear frustration.

I know deep down I’m being unfair. Because with Crosby, it’s not about my hair, my body, my face. Despite our first encounter, it never has been.

“Remember the night we met?” I begin, pulling at a thread from his towel. Crosby catches my hand in his, tugging my thoughts and gaze back to him. “I told you I hated him. And I hated Mason. But you know what? I don’t.” My voice cracks, and what I really hate is how weakness seeps out of me from any crevice it can.

Crosby brings my hand to his face. I let my fingers scratch against his stubble. The rough texture is so familiar and comforting.

“If I hated them, it wouldn’t hurt so much, right?”

He nods into my palm.

“If my dadlovedme, it wouldn’t be this easy to see me unhappy, would it?”

This time Crosby doesn’t answer with words. But his silence tells me what he thinks, even though he’s trying to protect me from it.

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