Page 18 of The Challenger

The sound of her laughter carries high into the sky. “That’s some meticulous record keeping. You sure it’s not eighty-two or eighty-five?”

“I know how to count.”

“And you felt compelled to tell me this because?” She isn’t putting her foot down too hard, like maybe she’s curious about where this is all heading.

“Clearing the decks, so to speak,” I say. “You need to know what you’re getting into, and the same goes for me. The other part is that I like even numbers. I’ve been holding at eighty-three for a while. I’m in no rush but wouldn’t mind tapping out on an even number.”

“Tapping out,” she deadpans.

“The way you say it doesn’t sound romantic. When you find the person that does it for you, you call it quits is what I mean. You stop chasing. You’ve been there, right?”

“Of course.”

Someone told me when people look up and to the left, they’re fibbing. Flynn's gaze is way up and so hard left the Democrats are saying wait up. A babe like her had to be pinned down a few times or else the world isn’t making sense, but maybe her past boyfriends were all culeros not worth remembering.

A man can only hope.

For now, I count my lucky cajones she is one of those rarities who rolls with the punches and doesn’t hold onto anger for time eternal. And her not even blinking at my numbers is a stone cold miracle.

“I better hit the road, Miss Flynn,” I say because she’s got goosebumps everywhere. “See you tomorrow. I’ll text you my address when I get home.”

She walks with me back to the car and that role reversal has to be a good sign. I risk one last kiss, a quickie on her cheek, and fold myself into the car as dignified as the current situation allows. I punch the engine good and loud to give her a sense of how she’s got me feeling. When I roll down the window for a final goodbye, she has the strangest smile going on.

"What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just that I’d never slap a GPS on your car.”

“Because you aren't a crazy woman, I hope.”

A beat passes, and there it is again, that story in her eyes. I’ll read every goddamn page until I figure it out. But my last five days are coming up fast. Where was she six months ago when I had all the time in the world?

“I’m not like most women,” she says.

Ain’t that my new reality? Her not being like most women worries me because I can’t endure any more heartbreaks. I say goodbye, slam into reverse, and on the drive home, all I can think about is the tightness of her small breasts still burning a hole through my John Varvatos shirt and how unsettled she sounded telling me her truth.

ChapterSeven

FLYNN

Brentwood Park iswhere the Hollywood elite hides out, so I was surprised when Chavez texted me last night with an address smack in the middle of this exclusive community. Sprawled over half a block, his Spanish modern is more castle than casa, a moat and a drawbridge the only things missing. I park in front of the four-car garage, grab my tennis gear from the back seat, and take a deep breath.

I’m ready for this, or at least I think I am.

I am having a lot of second thoughts this morning.

The idea of hitting with firepower like his is intimidating, and so was his aggression last night. Rudeness on that level is a hard pass for me, but then came Chavez, the one-man kissing machine. The permanent dent his erection left on my womanhood had to be hammered out in the bathtub last night with some serious self-love, and I crawled into bed half-blind from a different kind of intensity. I slept deeply for the first time in forever and woke up punch-drunk, the air thick and stale, the fragments of my dream slipping away, like Hamilton in the rapids so many years ago. I haven’t dreamed of my first and only boyfriend in a long time, and it usually leaves me shot to pieces when I do.

But this morning, I feel like a pile of rusty nuts and bolts swept into something functional for the first time in forever.

As long as the butterflies in my belly do not take over and fly away with me, I should be fine on the court with him. My adoring public would never think of me as ruthless, but I didn’t cream through competitors by being the nice girl. I trained with men to hit hard and flat with pace. I added ten pounds of muscle to put juice behind my serves. I can still outhit any woman I play, but Chavez will be an interesting test.

I punch in the security code he provided me on the gate next to the garage, shoulder it open and freeze.

Good God.

It’s like I’m in Jurassic Park, surrounded by swaying palm trees and lush green that goes on forever. The size of his yard makes me feel like an ant in comparison. A sign (an actual sign!) that says,tennis court,points me in the direction of a flagstone path winding through the trimmed grass. The crispthwackof tennis balls hit hard and precisely echo into the hills long before the spectacle of a shirtless Chavez in motion comes into view. A pit bull of a man pummels forehands from the other side of the court, and Chavez defies the rules of geometry with the angles of his returns. His speed is deceiving—how quickly he gets into position to drive the ball deep. He’s got good hands for a young player and floats on the court like a dancer. But when his hitting partner executes a gossamer drop shot that spins just out of reach, bye-bye ballerina and hello frustrated understudy.

“I said rallies to my forehand!” he yells. “Why am I paying you?”

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