Page 31 of The Challenger

“I can’t believe the stunt he pulled,” June muses, sipping tea on her mom’s sofa. After two days of soggy peas with bangers and mash in dreary Vancouver, she’s chomping at the bit to fly home. “Bringing you ‘round to meet the parents on Christmas without saying anything beforehand? That sounds a bit dodgy.”

“He said their approval was important to him. I respect that.”

“I suppose if you can get him back on track, that’s just another feather in your career cap,” Vandana says, forever spinning everything into a public-relations positive. “But what’s up with the sex denial thing? That’s ten times dodgier.”

“Not everyone fucks on the first date,” I reply. Meaning, I am not you. And I shelved the Santa Clause shag mission last night after the raccoon incident because it’s hard to feel sexy after I’ve figuratively pooped my pants.

“Lord knows why,” she says, oblivious to my sarcasm. “It’s a time-saver. Why fly halfway around the world only to find out he’s got a two-inch penis?”

“We dry humped, if you recall, so I’ve felt the goods. He’s more than half a ruler.” That’s Vandana’s bare minimum. “And … he said he wants the real thing to be special.”

June’s face crumples into utter cuteness. “Aww! He said that?”

Not exactly. And it isn’t fair to pile outlandish expectations onto Chavez like he’s my knight in shining Adidas, but how many twenty-five-year-olds would admit to liking a woman and then not bang her at the first available opportunity? He’s telling me something over and above the power-play angle, even if he, and I, are unsure of what.

But I don’t want to dissect it, because I’ve been on this call for almost forty minutes, and I still have a bunch of research to do before we leave tomorrow. Chavez and I have only played tennis once, and the struggle to stay on the board consumed all my energy. I didn’t have the time or intention to analyze his game then. But with so many of his matches available online, I can get a feel for his favorite setups and shots. Understand where, when and how his game is breaking down. Mental and physical muscle memories are interconnected. Fixing one without the other is impossible.

So, I beg off from my besties, promising a worried June that I will come back and not leave her alone in LA. I sit cross-legged on the four-poster bed I haven’t slept in since Friday and scan my surroundings. The room is the same. What’s changed is everything else. On a different sort of day, when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder, the idea of a fiery soul tugging me and my heartstrings across the Pacific and Indian Oceans on a wing-and-a-prayer mission was downright laughable. I’m still in disbelief that any of this is happening.

But didn’t I feel the same way when my parents dragged me out of my bedroom to make friends through tennis? I sulked the entire drive to the courts with no idea how it would change my life. Instead of uncertainty, I found white lines that never lied. If I was ever at a loss for words, my serve said what I never could. For all the time I got picked last for sports teams, I proved Flynn Dryden had guts and could win.

I suppose the blond and sunny Hamilton Davis fell in love with that version of me. The future tennis star. A charming, uber athlete, his first love was baseball. But Hamilton could play every sport decently, including tennis. We met on the courts in our hometown of Santa Cruz, and back then, we held hands and smiled at each other like the silly teenagers we were. We still had our dreams. The major league baseball scouts started to swirl around his undeniable talent, and Hamilton always said I had the goods to go all the way. No small shakes coming from a guy destined for greatness … until he met me.

A ray of sunlight streams through the window, and the warmth is a reminder that spring is around the corner. The dormant part of my heart, all of it to be honest, is desperate to bloom again. But the parallels between Hamilton and Chavez sends my head spinning in ten different directions.

Don’t overthink it.

A random card from a bingo game is just that, right?

Lightning never strikes twice.

ChapterEleven

CHAVEZ

Thirty-five thousand feetabove the ground with nothing but endless blue out the window is what Smythe would call a perfect scenario for inner peace. Tell that to all the thoughts banging inside my skull like pinballs. Flynn lies beside me in her first-class seat, shrink-wrapped in a blanket and dead to the world. Never in a million years did I think she’d say yes to the Chavez circus, and I’m still wondering what her real deal is. After the familia Christmas Day shit show, I thought I cracked her code. Then the raccoons came to town, and things got weird. It left a strange taste in my mouth, enough that I circled back ten minutes after I left to check in on her.

What did I find?

Her climbing into an Uber.

Where was she going? And if she had other plans, why not mention them before? The last thing a woman wants is some guy grilling her, and she already plays dodgeball with half my questions, so I’m treading carefully. I like my women intricate—give me something to figure out—but Flynn is like a five-thousand-piece puzzle I'm putting together blind.

“Good morning, Mr. Delgado. Would you like some water?”

This flight attendant, Rose, has been on me since we left LA and is coming in hard for the flirt since Flynn is out cold. She fills out her uniform nicely, but blondes do nothing for me, and I get the sense she takes passengers down regularly.

“I’m good, thanks,” I reply. “But I’ll take one for my girlfriend.”

She hands me a water bottle with her fake smile sliding away, and yeah, I’m pushing it with the girlfriend talk. Mama always said I was impatient. I might be pulling the trigger too quickly with Flynn, but I’m telling you straight up, I’ve never come with a woman at the same time. I would sure as hell remember something that monumental. Fuuuck. And the fact she can play? God put her in my path for a reason, and if she’s the one who can turn this crazy train around, I’ll be on my knees at Sunday service for the rest of my life.

Out of nowhere, the plane suddenly dips, and everyone sits up straighter in their seats. The captain's voice crackles over the speakers as the chop intensifies, assuring us we are not going down in flames, and the commotion stirs Flynn out of her snooze.

She wipes the sleep out of her eyes and yawns. “Morning. Or is it afternoon?”

“It’s morning and time to rehydrate, beautiful.” I crack open the water bottle and hand it to her. “We land soon.”

“Did you sleep at all?” she asks.

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