Page 14 of The Challenger

“It’s going to be interesting,” he says. “I’m playing a few Challenger events to get my game back without the media breathing down my neck.”

The Challenger tour is the second tier of professional tennis, where juniors cut their teeth before graduating to the major leagues or where pros recovering from injury will ease back into the game. But for a fit player coming back to the tour who could gain entry into the major tournaments through qualifying matches or wildcards, this route is highly unusual.

“What does your father think of this approach?” I ask. From what Chavez shared earlier, their long-term coaching relationship involved plenty of head-butting and differing opinions.

He takes a swig of water and stares beyond the table. “He’s not coaching me anymore.”

“Who is?”

“No one, right now. Still looking.”

“How do you feel about going on the road by yourself?”

“Not great,” he answers. “I’ve never been on my own.”

The glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes speaks volumes. To be a pro tennis player these days requires the fortitude of a gladiator. The globe-trotting and time changes, along with being fit and match ready, is hard enough when some days peeling yourself out of bed is the biggest challenge. I played on the ITF Tour (the entry-level tour for all young tennis players) and experienced a taste of the grind. It is not for the faint of heart. As a solo warrior battling conditions, expectations, and mostly yourself, having a team around you, even a small one, can make all the difference.

Mateo sticks his head in to see how we are faring, and Chavez indicates he’d like the bill. I glance at his Rolex, surprised at the time. Three hours have slipped away like nothing.

“It feels like I’ve been talking all night,” he says, digging for something in his pocket. “Which sucks because I want to hear more about you. But I've got practice tomorrow at nine and need to get you home.”

"I'm in no rush," I say. Hint, hint.

He stands abruptly, his attention elsewhere. "I'll be right back. Sit tight."

His disappearance gives me time to think about strategy. Do I invite him in when he drops me off? Do we make out in the car? He had his arm around me half the night, fed me morsels of tender meat from his fork, and let my hand roam free on his thigh. Something has to go down.

He keeps my hopes high when he returns, holding my hand as we wind through the pumping crowd to more chaos outside. Third Avenue is the usual Friday night madness of bar hoppers, with cars jamming the street in both directions. Chavez releases my hand to whisper something to the valet, and as he does, a woman storms out of the restaurant and beelines straight for us. With long black hair hanging to her nipped waist and blazing eyes that make Frida Kahlo look happy, she lays into Chavez without a hello.

“All of a sudden you’re too poor to pay the bill? The little man in his big house?”

I saw her earlier on my way to the restroom and figured she was one of the staff, up until she gave me the evil eye. From the set of his jaw, Chavez is none too thrilled with her presence either. I have seen alligators exchange friendlier glances.

“Did you slap another GPS tracker on my car,” he says, “or is this a coincidence?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs. Her sour expression turns to land squarely me. "Your big-time date didn’t pay the dinner bill. If he’s promised you dessert, you better get your wallet out.”

“Sofia!” he hisses. “Beat it.”

Oh, shit. Nothing like running into a pissed-off ex. And that's what Chavez was up to with his disappearing act. He should have said something to me.

“I can pay," I tell him. "It’s not a problem.”

He glares at me as if I’ve offered to strip naked and panhandle. “Yeah, it is a problem. You’re not paying. I forgot my wallet and I’ll settle up later.”

It’s how her hand absently runs down the drape of her hair, how her lips purse and how, ever so subtly, she pushes her magnificent chest forward. Sofia loves every bleeping minute of this.

“Your Mama know you’re out with her?” she asks, addressing me with a vague motion of her chin.

“Spare her your jealous gossip,” Chavez grumbles. “You know she’s not doing well.”

A cold smirk spreads on her face. “Seems to run in the family. I hear you’re seeing a loco doctor.”

His jaw twitches as he curls and uncurls the fingers of his left hand like a boxer dying to throw a KO. Sofia stands with her back straight, daring him to cross the line. She is itching for a confrontation.

“Mateo said you had tonight off,” Chavez says. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than chase after something that’s no longer yours?”

Her gloves come off with that comment, an unleashing so bitter I taste it. “You were never mine. A ring on my finger means nothing when you’re amalinchista.”

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