Page 6 of Off Court Fix
He might not have cared about his family—me or my innocent mother, the woman who loved playing the piano and organ so much her memory held onto the notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” longer than it held onto her son’s name. But I’m a better man than him, and a man does what he must to take care of his family—he breaks laws, lies if he has to. I wasn’t going to leave my mother to tackle that mountain of debt on her own. If we were penalized by my father’s gambling addiction, I’d figure out a way to profit from it too. And I did.
I can’t say I’d do it all again, seek out money-hungry players who were guaranteed a payout if they threw their match and took a loss. That money kept them going, paid for their coaching, their next tournament, food even, in some cases. But the money from their decision to purposely lose a match brought inmillionsfor others.
It made me a lot of money. Enough to pay off the debt my father had accrued and later, enough to take care of my mother, fix up the house I grew up in that I still live in. And the truth is, it gave me a high that was priceless.
So perhaps, I’m no better than any other low-life addict, like my father. My drug of choice? The least dangerous, though I’ve wondered over the years if it’s the most hurtful—power.
“I like the new glasses, by the way,” Hunter says, and I take off the tortoise-shell frames, cleaning them with my sweater. “Guess I’ll be seeing you Memorial Day. Decided it’s about time for me to head back out East. We should get together, you know, for old time’s sake.”
I can tell by his insinuating tone what that means. “Today was a favor. I want nothing to do with you, Hunter.”
“You still umpiring?”
And there it is.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Occasionally. But too high of tournaments for your kind of stuff.”
What I mean is the higher ranked the tournament, the more eyes, the greater the risk of landing my ass in prison for sports bribery or something of the like. When I was starting out as an umpire, I traveled constantly for lower-level tournaments, meeting players from all around the world who were no names on the tennis circuit, but could turn big bucks on small matches by losing a few sets, a game, or even the entire match. But as I moved up, so did the risk of getting caught, and with eyes already on Hunter, I wasn’t stupid enough to keep doing that.
“So what?” Hunter asks. “You’re back to just managing a beach club? Did you start organizing that barbecue yet? Bet you’ve got a lot of hot dogs to think about grilling.”
Hunter thinks he’s making a dig at one of my other jobs—managing the Hampton Racket and Beach Club, which I now do, after years of doing about every other job at that place. But the joke is on him. Last Memorial Day, I fucked his ex-wife in my office.
“Thankfully, I don’t need to take off my shoes and socks to count like you, so I’ll manage.”
Hunter is so stupid it takes him a minute to understandthatwas a dig. “Whatever, asshole. Make sure my beach chair is ready.”
“My regards to Candace. Send them through your attorney,” I say over my shoulder as he walks away.
He flips me the bird as he stomps through the church and out the door.
I sigh and turn back to the altar, letting myself focus on the not-too-awful sounds coming from the organ. I know a good organist when I hear one, and this one could use some practice, so I don’t linger long. I don’t spend too much time down in the city, but when I do, I like to make my time worth it because the Hamptons is a small community, and the rotation of available women is even smaller, especially during the offseason.
Standing, I button my coat and venture into the aisle and head to the door leading to dirty New York City sidewalks. I try and ignore the stares that strike me because I’m nothing if not the company I keep, and Hunter is a goon in poor-fitting Brooks Brothers clothing. But thankfully, I’m done with him. And tonight, I’m ready for a different kind of company—something celebratory, halfway decent looking, who doesn’t talk too much.
That’s when I seeher.
Or actually, that’s when she almost knocks me out cold with a forceful push of a heavy, old door and rushes past without noticing I’m there at all. It wouldn’t be the first time someone of importance doesn’t notice I’m around.
It’s Maxine Draper. How do I know that? The long, shiny black hair is a good tell. It looks as luscious as velvet, and I bet it feels even softer. I’ve never seen it down. Why would I? She might look like a model, but it’s always up on the court.
I’m not sure I could tell you anything abouthowshe plays. Women’s tennis gives me nothing but a headache—and if I’m going to be surrounded by the shrieking sounds of what resembles hyenas in heat, I’d rather watchaction, like Andy Murray take on Rafael Nadal.
But as I watch Maxine march to the front of the cathedral, as if she’s on a mission to resurrect Jesus himself, I find myself wondering about how she really plays...offcourt, particularly when she’s horizontal. A buzz hits me and tingles up and across my body, sending me inside out and upside down before righting me again. The sight of her is like the first drag of a cigarette, the initial burn of a neat scotch on my lips, and I’m dumbfounded by how I could wantmoreof someone I haven’t had yet.
The thought of undressing Maxine fades when she turns her head to the side, and I catch enough of her face to see that it’s clear she’s been crying. And that slightly smudged makeup, the redness painting her cheek, does something to me that makes me scowl, and I can’t say I like it.
When Maxine disappears entirely from my view, I shake my head, trying to get the vision of her out of my mind because she shouldn’t hold real estate there at all—no matter how beautiful she is, how hauntingly vulnerable she appears. There’s no space for players in umpires’ lives. It’s a line, as professionals, we shouldn’t dare cross in any way, platonic or otherwise.
Alright, I have crossed that line before, obviously. But not in the way I want to with Maxine.
I will the thought away again and hunch my shoulders, shrinking down into my wool coat as I make my way to the corner.
“Peanuts, please,” I say to the man behind the cart, pulling a few dollars from my wallet. “Thanks, man.”
Pocketing the warm nuts, I proceed to cross the street, lifting my head from the ground only to find two men charging in the opposite direction, back toward St. Patrick’s, both holding heavy-duty cameras.
“They said she went in there,” one of them says, and I turn on my heel in the middle of the street, narrowly dodging a deliveryman on a bike who calls me a douchebag. “Can’t shoot in a church.”
