Page 94 of Off Court Fix

Kid’s name is Matt Peterson.

Great. Good luck to him.

Should be playing this afternoon.

What part of NO don’t you understand? The N or the O?

I silence my phone and pocket it before walking in the opposite direction Maxine does, heading to the somewhat lame cereal bar while she approaches the buffet, ready for a waffle—her favorite, I’ve learned. I make small talk with other colleagues, some of whom seem surprised to see me turn up at Cincinnati, and I can’t say I completely blame them.

“It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal,” one offers, as if expressing their condolences, but I couldn’t care less what they say.

I know there was no excuse for my behavior, and I know that, technically, I was in the right, even though it was the wrong call. It’s a flaw in the system I had every opportunity to disregard instead of highlight at Maxine’s expense.

I finish chewing my granola and dab my mouth with a paper napkin. “What shouldn’t have been made that big of a deal,” I counter, “was Ms. Draper’s reaction. The ruling I made, well, that should’ve been the focus.” I catch Maxine’s gaze across the room before she rises from her table and heads toward the table lined with an array of fresh juices in coolers. “But onward and upward, I suppose.” I chug the rest of my juice and then hold up the empty glass. “Excuse me.”

At the juice bar, I make sure to stand on the other side as Maxine fills another glass with ice.

“What are you doing?” she asks, not looking at me.

I refill my orange juice. “I wasn’t sure when I’d get a chance to see you after this, and I wanted to tell you something.”

Ever so slightly, Maxine raises her gaze to me, waiting.

“You wouldn’t get rid of me so easily if you shaved your hair off.”

Her mouth twists into a grin, and she fills her glass with pineapple juice. “The same goes for you, you know. I’ll still be around even when that hairline recedes even more.”

My hand flies to my hair, which, much to my relief, still feels full under my fingertips, but she did imply that, at some point, it had beenfuller. “More?”

Maxine gives me a wink. “I’ll try to find you later.”

“Hey,” I say when she turns to walk away. “Don’t be so quiet out there, alright?”

Pressing her lips together, Maxine nods. “No silence,” she whispers. “And no mercy.”

* * *

True to her word, Maxine is neither quiet nor merciful during any of her matches at the Cincinnati tournament. It doesn’t take long for the media to catch on that Maxine has ditched thesilentportion of her nickname and rebranded herself into an all-out slayer.

And even though on the outside, I’m apathetic, unbiased,professional, on the inside, I couldn’t be prouder. My favorite sounds from her mouth are now tied between the ones I push out when I’m buried inside her and the ones the power in her body force out when she strikes the ball with fierce strength.

I catch what I can of Maxine’s playing, which is only the last two games in her first set during the quarterfinals. But standing with the other tournament staff—trainers, line judges, other umpires—I’ve adopted Maxine’s silence and become her mute cheerleader, pumping my fist into my pocket, chewing my lip when I want to yell out as she hits a perfectly placed forehand deep in the court.

Maxine doesn’t just drop her racket and lift her arms in victory after that winning shot. She flat-outroarsand spins, and the crowd follows suit. I watch as she stops, drops her hands, and takes it in for a minute, that feeling she thought she had lost, the high she would never find again.

If there’s an image of Maxine’s face I want to keep with me, it’s this moment where she is vividly overcome with emotion as the crowd chants her name. It’s the moment she realizes she can do it.

And I wish so badly I could be the first to hug her when she comes off the court and not her coach, but I hold my place and join in with everyone who applauds her strongly as she walks by toward the locker rooms. Our eyes meet, and there’s just the slightest flicker of an extra layer of happiness I see on her face, and I know it must be on mine too, because I feel the change when she passes by and walks out of sight. I have to fight the frown, the grimace, to remind myself that I need to loosen the level of tensity my balled fists now hold in my pocket.

There’s something to be said about hiding together in plain sight—it’s exciting, it’s daring. But there’s an entirely other side of this that hits me with nothing but something I hate to admit feels like sadness.

We have to exist togetherseparatelyin plain sight. And it’s excruciating, especially during moments like this. I have to grip the ground through my shoes to keep myself in place—away from Maxine—when all I want to do is run and lift her from the ground. But I don’t get that opportunity. I have to celebrate her from a distance appropriately.

It’s a rule, I decide, I have no interest in upholding at the moment, umpire or not.

My knee bounces anxiously, and I nod when I feel like I should at the small talk happening around me. I feign interest in discussion over an earlier call from a line judge and pull out my phone.

Can I steal you for a minute?

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