Page 48 of Off Court Fix
“Not unless the Dom has a foot fetish.”
“I mean, you could probably find one of those.”
Rolling my eyes, I toss the brace into my suitcase. Nothing really helps me more than a suffocating tape job, a makeshift cast put together by the firm hand of a trainer. But like tennis, my injury has taught me you have to be prepared for everything.
“Another contraption. Taking it just in case.” I catch Alyssa’s pout in the corner of my eye. “What?”
She smooths out a wrinkle in my duvet. “Max... I know you want it. But is it worth it?” she asks. “Is it really worth hurting yourself more?”
I look down and flex my feet. There’s a delay in my left. Because my brain knows that once I come to that arch, the pain will come. But I have to move—on court, off court, wherever.
Pain comes in all shapes, sizes, and velocities. Sometimes, it hits you with the speed of a train—like my ankle. Other times, it seeps through you, like a basement gently flooding during a storm, centimeter by centimeter, spreading throughout your body before it levels and you drown in it. That’s how it was with Mason. Every hard moment I had with him chipped away at the joy between us as brother and sister until our relationship died along with him.
I’m in pain all the time. I’m heartbroken all the time. What Alyssa and others don’t understand is that getting out of bed every morning, especially in this house, is no different from rushing the net to return a drop shot for me. Both hurt and sting and threaten to break me into a million pieces. But I’ll keep doing both, and little by little, it will get better—not the pain, but how I respond to it.
“It will be,” I tell my best friend with a smile and a nod of my head. It has to be.
She sighs. “You should at least listen to them about the cortisone shots.”
I drop my gaze from hers.
“Max, they’re—”
“Not necessary.”
Are the shots painkillers? No. Do they provide pain relief? Yes. But that’s an aid, a crutch, and I wish Alyssa—who knows my whole story—would understand that in this family, we tend to bury the hole we end up lying in with that crutch.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, finding a text from Crosby.
What time is your flight?
Not until 1 AM.
What are the chances I see you before you go?
I look up at Alyssa, who is now tossing packages of socks into my suitcase.
I have a friend here or I’d tell you to come by.
Not a good idea. You won’t make the flight if I come to your place.
My face warms, and I tongue my cheek, contemplating my response before he sends another message.
Ask the driver to take you to Agawam Park. I have something for you. I’ll be there at 8.
What do you have?
The three dots of his tentative reply tease me before they disappear entirely and leave a frown on my face. I sigh and drop the phone onto my bed, staring at it curiously.
“Oh, you can’t forget these.”
I look up to find Alyssa holding six EpiPens. “If I need more than one, there’s no bringing me back.”
She scowls and puts two into my luggage and the rest into my purse. “You never know, Max.”
* * *
I’m thankful the driver doesn’t seem fazed when I ask him to head into town instead of toward the highway when he picks me up.
