Page 97 of Off Court Fix

It’s at this point I kick myself for not paying attention to Maxine before—before we met, before she was injured. Because if this is how she plays at a lower level and injured, not losing another point and securing victory in Cincinnati despite having to peel herself off the hard, hot court, I’d hate to see the ones who lost to Maxine when she operated at full force.

I didn’t wantto just have an every-win type of moment, the kind when the people in the crowd release the collective breaths they have been holding and cheers erupt, my name booming throughout the stadium.

I didn’t want to just toss my racket or fall to my knees.

I didn’t want to get on a podium and take a trophy.

I wanted to win the Ohio tournament so I could do one thing—tell my fatherI told you so.

But by the time the celebrations are over, when I’m finally able to make it into the locker room and free my body from its clenching—the only thing, I’m convinced, keeping my ankle from completely destabilizing—I don’t find my father. And maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

I see my coach, my trainer, who is trying to usher me onto an air bike to cool down my raging, screaming muscles before making me sit in an ice tub.

“No,” I object. It’s not just my ankle that hurts now. It’s every part of my body trying to hold it together. “I... I have to go.”

I hardly pick up all my things from the locker room before I plop down into a golf cart set to take me out to where the car waits to bring me back to the hotel. I’m flashing smiles through clenched teeth, and I reach out, grabbing one of the thin poles to steady myself as I grow dizzy.

It’s at that moment I don’t know what’s worse. The pain from injury orpretendingthe pain isn’t as bad as it seems. Tears sting my eyes, mixing with the sweat I haven’t even taken a second to wipe from my face.

By the time I make it to the hotel, I’m grateful for my circumstances—that this isn’t a Grand Slam because I wouldn’t be able to opt out of a post-match press conference, and that apart from the hotel employees, no one really bats an eye.

I flash pleading eyes to the concierge as I pass, my limp taut and tight andburning. “Ice. Could you send ice to my room?”

“Sure. For some drinks?”

“For the bathtub,” I snarl as I hobble into the elevator and fall against the side as soon as the doors open.

I don’t have the energy or strength to even lift my hand to push the button to close the doors, instead keeping my head tilted toward the ceiling, trying to steady my breathing.

There’s nothing left in me to evenjumpwhen Crosby flies through the doors, the metal nearly biting him as they shut closed.

“Shit,” he says. “I was waiting for you, I—” He stops talking, and I just shake my head. “Max—”

“No,” I cut him off, turning my head so the hand he lifted to touch my face with falls between us. I still don’t look at him. I can’t. I know what will happen when I do, and if I let go now, I won’t just melt into Crosby’s arms. I’ll be the puddle he stands in. “I’m fine. I need to get to my room.”

The sound of his breathing—somewhat trapped and frustrated—is louder than the hum of the ascending elevator.

“Fine?” he nearly growls. “What part of you is fine?”

When the bell chimes, I lift my head, seeing floor eight. With what little strength I have, I push off the wall, knocking into his side.

I drop my bag from my shoulder, not caring if it stays there, but Crosby picks it up before holding an arm out. “I’ll carry you.”

I swat at his arm and lean against the wall, using it for support as I gimp down the hallway, my body screaming but my voice mute. The journey to my room feels longer than the match, but I’m determined to make it with Crosby mumbling and cursing beside me.

“What does being this stubborn get you, huh?” It pisses him off even more that I don’t answer. “What are you trying to prove?”

I get to the door and slump against it, now grateful he’s picked up my bag. I motion at it. “Front pocket,” I say, taking slow breaths as he quickly produces the key, swiping the lock open. I take one step and lose my footing, Crosby’s quick grip on my arm the reason I don’t meet the carpet.

“Sit down,” he orders, and I do. I drop right to the floor because I can’t make it to any of the chairs. I nearly howl when he pulls my sneaker off, looking around. “Are there scissors in here? Or were you planning to rip the bandage off with your teeth?”

“First aid kit,” I push out, “in the dresser.”

With my eyes shut, I hear the clanging of drawers opening and closing before Crosby returns to my side. “Can we call a doctor?”

I shake my head.

“Your trainer? Maybe you should get checked out at a hospital.”

---