Page 96 of Off Court Fix

“What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong?I want to ask. What’s wrong is that it’swrongfor me to want to hold Maxine already, even though she’s right in front of me. What’s wrong is that I just had to sneak in to see her, lock the door, just to extend congratulations to the girl who makes me miss her when she’s sleeping in the same building, riding the same elevator, sitting in the same room. I clench my teeth, overtaken by the tightness in my chest, how surprised I am to already miss someone who hasn’t left yet.

Every moment we have together behind closed doors is starting to grow far more bitter than sweet.

“Nothing,” I tell her.

The lie isn’t just because of the time and place—it’s because I don’t have a solution to the problem between us at the moment, and it’s not the time for Maxine to seek one either. This is her time to shine. And when I see her racket bag in the corner of the room, I realize that as long as Maxine keeps playing, I’m not sure I will ever have a solution. “Just lock this door, alright? Anyone could walk in. Let me know when you’re back from dinner.”

Maxine tilts her head. “Are you planning to come for a sleepover?”

“No.” I chuckle. “I just want to know you’re back safe and sound, that’s all.”

Insider knowledge is all I can ask for at this point, but unlike other times during my career, the type of information I seek is only on Maxine’s well-being and not finding the next opportunity to fix a match for a cash payout.

When my chest clenches again at the thought of Maxine sleeping alone without me when I’m nearby, I do my best to shake it off. It will do neither of us any good to sit and stew and wonder why and how the lines drawn against us—separating us—seem to grow bolder, clearer even, the closer we grow to each other.

* * *

Lifting my hat, I fan my sweaty hair before putting it back on my head and tugging it down. It’s ragingly hot today in Cincinnati, and I’m not the only one feeling it. Maxine and her opponent guzzle and dump water on themselves between games. I glance at the umpire chair, envious of the canopy as the sun beats harshly on the back of my neck while I shift on the plastic seat in the stands.

I’d like to think this will be my first and last professional match as a true spectator, but I know if I ever want to really watch Maxine play, I’ll have to surrender my ego a bit.

“This is boring,” a man huffs. “We should’ve had tickets to the men’s final tomorrow.”

I’d hate to say it’s a boring match, considering it’s a final. There never really is anything boring about tennis for me, but this one is pretty lackluster because Maxine is taking a beating during the second set afterbarelywinning the first.

I don’t know if it’s the heat or the hype she built up as the week went by and she crushed every other opponent, but something has gotten to her today. I can see it. I canfeelit. But I stick it out, cheering as much as I can without drawing a lot of attention to myself, which is easier to do than maybe I would’ve liked in the past.

Today I’m here for Maxine and nothing else. And as we head into the third set, she needs all the help she can get. I wish I could send her something other than the nervous energy encompassing me. I bounce my knee as I watch Maxine ready herself to return what I anticipate to be a big serve from her opponent.

And I was wrong. It wasn’t just a big serve, it was an ace.

“Damn,” I mumble.

The guy next to me groans again. “I’m getting out of here. I’d rather watch paint dry.”

“Come on, Maxine.” I wish so badly she would see me, that our eyes would lock and my stare would be enough to tell heryou’ve got this, because I know she does. I know with every point she loses, she also loses faith in herself, but I also know she can turn it around and secure the match and a tournament championship.

And after a sloppy play from her opponent lands the ball in the net, Maxine does what she does best. She comes back from the brink of death, winning the next two games. There’s more energy in the crowd—the man beside me who threatened to leave is now following the ball with each shot as a battle takes place on the court.

And it only takes one drop shot for Maxine to fall to the ground after sliding to return it successfully.

She stays down.

My instinct is to stand, to shimmy past the people in the seats to my side that leads to the stairs and run down the court. Because ten seconds, then twenty, then almost a minute pass, and Maxine is still on her back, racket beside her, lying on what I imagine is piping hot concrete, hot enough she should make an effort to sit or stand so her skin doesn’t burn.

But Maxine remains parallel to the surface until a trainer rushes out and the umpire calls for an injury time-out. I feel relieved when I see her hold a hand out to stop him, probably hearing the sound of his feet hitting the concrete as he runs to her. And slowly, after two minutes, Maxine sits up, and it’s painful for me to watch the way her shoulders rise and fall with deep, calculated breaths and not be able to do anything about it.

I fist my hand into a ball tightly but loosen it finger by finger with each of her movements, relief hitting me as she pushes herself up—slowly, but independently—from the concrete.

I shoot to my feet. “Atta girl, Max.”

Her head swings quickly in my direction, and our eyes meet.You’ve got this, I try to communicate because I know she’ll keep going if she has someone to believe in her.

And she lets me know with the gentlest nod of her head despite the pain sketched on her face.

It takes only a few claps of my hands, but the crowd joins me in applauding Maxine as she makes her way to the baseline with a limp. I know she’ll finish this match come hell or high water, and so does the crowd, the opposing player, the umpire who offers her more time. Maxine declines the offer with a clear, sharp shake of her head and a motion at her opponent as she bends, ready to return whatever comes her way.

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