Page 98 of Off Court Fix

I shake my head again.

“Maxine—”

I push up on my elbows. “If you won’t cut off the bandage, hand over the scissors,” I seethe. Crosby frowns. “You don’t need to be here—”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he argues softly, and when his hand reaches out and strokes my calf, I practically whimper. Because Crosby’s touch is tender and loving, but I can’t even enjoy it because deep beneath his hand, in my bones and tendons and cells, my whole leg is screaming.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lie back down on the floor. “Please cut it off,” I beg, my voice a hair away from cracking.

Crosby sighs and turns his attention to my foot, and I can tell he’s trying to delicately remove my sock, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. My breathing tangles into a tight knot at the back of my throat when half of the dull scissors slide between my skin and the bandage. I hold it there with each clamp and crunch until the scissors reach my toes.

And the pain is worse, but I don’t have the time to express that because there’s a knock on the door.

“Ice,” I tell Crosby, and he squeezes my hand before he rises from the ground.

I take a deep breath and roll over with zero dignity to crawl to the bathroom, but even that movement has a limp.

The door opens and closes, and Crosby calls out, “Will you wait—”

“Just fill the bucket with cold water,” I mutter as I hoist myself onto the closed toilet. “And hurry.”

Crosby curses under his breath as he runs water from the tub, sloshing some of it on the floor as he makes it back to me.

I look over to the vanity. “Give me that towel,” I say, motioning my head.

He reaches back and yanks the neatly folded terry cloth loose from the holder, offering it to me with furrowed brows and concerned eyes. I take a deep breath, looking down at the icy water, which I know holds both relief and pain—so much pain. But I know after living like this for so long, it has to hurt before it gets better.

I ball up the hand towel and lift it to my mouth. “This is going to hurt,” I warn Crosby, and I don’t know if I’m warning Crosby about the pain I’m about to feel or because he’s going to be the one who witnesses me feel it.

Crosby rises on his knees and moves to the side of the bucket. I can tell where this is going. I stop him.

“Please, Crosby, please, just go. Because if you hold me right now, I swear I’m going to fall apart.”

“I’ll keep you together,” he responds, his hazel eyes promising behind the lenses of his glasses before he takes them off and places them on the floor.

I know what he’s doing, removing the barrier so I can believe not just what I’m hearing but what I’m seeing. And what I see is nothing but unconditional support and strength looking back at me. The sight is so overwhelming I begin to shake.

A warm hand squeezes my trembling one clasping the towel, and he tugs it free. “I promise,” Crosby whispers again as he tugs my face into the crook between his shoulder and neck. “I’m here.”

The small, simple words squeeze my chest, and I can feel it above the pain that has been seizing me so hard I’m close to vomiting from the pressure. And I’m so exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. I’m tired of keeping it together.

I clutch Crosby with both arms, and he rubs my back, whispering, “It’s okay,” over and over, only stopping the moment I plunge my foot into the ice bucket and let out a silent scream into his skin, and I let someone else take a little bit—a little bit of me. I give it to the person who is at my side during rock bottom, the one I know will give me a hand so I can climb out of this on my own.

I’m grateful for the realization that smacks me right in the face—Crosby is in my corner. He’s not telling me to buck up and put up. He’s not telling me to forget all this and move on to the next best thing. He sits with me, waits with me—holdsme—during the worst part.

My quiet, wheezing screams bleed into sobs, and it’s not just from pain in my foot. It’s purging out of my gut. There’s just so much pain.

“I’m here,” Crosby whispers, turning his head so he can plant a kiss on the side of my head as he rocks the shattering pieces of myself in his arms. They might not be connected right now, but Crosby keeps them still together. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

I watch Crosby’s hand move to the tap, adding more hot water to the bath. “You’ve got goosebumps,” he tells me, and I look down to find the tiniest bumps graffitiing my arm, but I can’t feel them.

I’m not sure I’ve felt much of anything over the last hour, not Crosby lifting my leg from the bucket, undressing me, carrying me to the tub where he washed my hair and body. A numbness has invaded me, and I’m lost in it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him softly. “Someone could’ve seen us in the hallway.”

Crosby flashes an angry stare, a stark difference from the softness and compassion his face has held since we first got into the bathroom. “You think I care about anything other than being here for you right now?”

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