Page 93 of Off Court Fix

I pull my hand from his face. “No kid gloves.”

Crosby looks to the floor. “If he loved you like heshould, it wouldn’t be so easy. But biology isn’t synonymous with parenting, Maxine. Some people, they aren’t meant to be parents beyond donating genetic matter.”

His curtness makes me laugh. “Genetic matter?”

Crosby lifts a finger to scratch his head. “Forgive me. I don’t really relish the thought of discussing anything about your father, particularly his—”

“I get it.”

He scratches his jaw. “You want me to be honest? You probably have all the good parts of him already. You’re searching for something else that doesn’t exist in him.”

I press my lips together.

“Tell me something good about your dad.”

I’m shocked at the idea that Crosby wants to hear anything positive, given how an hour ago he was looking at my father like stabbing him wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Shrugging, I think for a moment. “He’s a hard worker.” I admire my father’s drive, the way he devoted himself to clients as a lawyer, how much he does for me, even if it’s the wrong things. But I frown. Maybe that’s my answer because it’s all I really know about him.

“No one works harder than you.” Crosby squeezes my knee. “No one.”

“He’s determined. He’s like a dog with a bone.”

Crosby leans forward and whispers, “You’re ashark. I’ve seen it more than once. And I’m not the only one. And sharks? They don’t need other sharks.” He pauses. “That’s what your dad knows that you don’t. He knows you’ll be okay without him onandoff the court. What he’s doing? It’s emotional abuse. There’s nothing else to call it.”

Taking a shaky breath, I nod because I know, deep in my bones, none of this is right. And I know that if I hadn’t felt so rock-bottom alone since Mason died, I might feel—andbe—different. I might have no issue appeasing my father, being the daughter who continues to say yes when she really means no, who will go to any lengths necessary to make him happy, even if that means putting my happiness on the back burner.

But now? I’m not alone. And that’s not the only difference. For the first time in my life, I’ve spoken up for myself, and it feltgood. For the first time, I’ve felt as strong off the court as I have on it. And I’m going to keep going—on my own during matches and with Crosby by my side when time and space allows.

I want to put my words out there so my actions chase them and take no prisoners.

“I’m going to win Cincinnati,” I manifest.

The kind of grin that creeps across Crosby’s face lets me know he believes me before he even says it. “You will. And I’ll be there watching.”

This takes me by surprise. “You didn’t say anything.”

Crosby shrugs. “I didn’t want to get in your head. I’m already scheduled for the men’s tournament, so don’t worry. I’ll stay off your court. But you should know you’re going to have someone in your corner.”

“Not my father,” I admit.

I sit with the words for a moment, and I’m okay with it. And I know, as the adrenaline begins to fill my veins even though the tournament hasn’t started yet, I’d be okay if Crosby weren’t there either. But I’ll take the bonus where I can get it.

I straighten and hold Crosby’s gaze. “After I win, the only thing I’m going to call it with my father is quits.”

There’ssomething monumentally torturous about finding a groove with Maxine where I’m able to have her—even for small, hidden pockets during parts of our days—to going to staying in the same hotel and not being able to speak. We’re back to the old dog and pony show, and our performance, given that we’re at a tennis tournament, needs to be amplified to the highest degree. Umpires, in no way, shape, or form, are meant to associate with players beyond their interactions on the court.

When I meet Maxine in the elevator, riding down to the lobby early for breakfast on the tournament’s first day, I barely give her a curt nod. I don’t try to brush her fingertips with mine because there are others in the elevator—her coach, for one, who is burning a hole into my head with the flames he’s shooting out of his eyeballs, and Brandon Summers, for another.

“You know, Max,” Brandon begins as I watch each floor light up on the control panel, “I’m actually digging the do.”

Maxine tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

Brandon shuffles closer, and I want to throw my arm to the side and pin him against the wall. “I mean, I was a little more into that Amazonian hair, but I could get used to this.”

I don’t have to smack Brandon upside the head because Maxine does that with her words. “If I really gave a damn what you think, I would’ve shaved my head when we first met so you’d leave me alone.”

I try as best I can to cover my snort under the guise of clearing my throat as we exit the elevator and make our way to breakfast. My phone vibrates in my hand, and I should’ve known Hunter wouldn’t waste a second.

---