Page 32 of The Challenger

“Nope. I watched some movies, did a few laps to keep the circulation going, and finished your book.”

She sits up, suddenly very alert. “Oh. What did you think?”

Ain’t that the million-dollar question? What I had thought was smashed sideways.

“My bad for assuming, but when you said your parents had passed, I figured it was later in life. I didn’t realize you were adopted. Are your adoptive parents still around?”

“They are,” she says slowly, like she has to think about it. “But we don’t talk. Their decision.”

Her eyes flicker off mine and here we are again. Me having to grab the crowbar to keep her talking. That’s if her T-shirt flashing some boob doesn't distract me before I can try.

“Is that a forever thing?” I ask. Because if it is, that’s two sets of parents down the drain. And who doesn’t want their family around?

“For now,” she says, putting a firm point on it.

Fair enough. Moving on. I have other questions.

“Your accident sounds gnarly,” I say. “I noticed the scar on your knee at my house.”

“The surgeon tried his best to minimize it,” she explains, “but patella fractures are nasty business. My shattered elbow was the easier fix, surprisingly.”

She lifts her right elbow and white scar lines radiate like a starburst from the point. And here I thought I had noticed everything about her when she was wearing that tiny bikini.

“I’m sorry to hear about your boyfriend,” I say. “I can’t imagine life stuck in a wheelchair.” That chapter was brutal to grind through. But it put things into perspective. When I threw out the Christmas brunch invite, she had looked at me like I'd goose-stepped over the grave of a loved one. And seeing her now, all closed off and fighting not to show any emotion, I can’t help feeling there is more to the story, something she left off the page. “This might sound like a dumb question,” I continue, “but why would you go white-water rafting when you can't swim?”

Bingo. Bullseye. Knife in the heart. All of these reactions play out on her face, and I decipher the shift in her seat to mean,How many more questions do you plan to fling at me?

She takes a long pull of water before speaking. “It’s one of those rash and wrong decisions you make as an eighteen-year-old. If I could go back in time, I’d do it differently.”

“How come you didn’t play after your injuries healed?”

“I thought about it,” she admits. “But my recovery took longer than expected and, as I said in the book, the whole incident turned me upside down. By the time I sorted out my head, I was at Stanford, writing the book on the side, and tennis sort of slipped away.”

“It’s a shame you didn’t continue. You’ve got the right mindset. And the body.”

She follows my sightline and quickly rearranges her T-shirt with a mortified laugh. “Jesus! Was I flashing everyone the whole time?”

“Nope. You were wrapped up tight like a mummy.”

“That happens a lot.”

A sadness taints her smile, and I poke her arm, trying to lighten her up. “So, you’re a bed hog? Stealing all the covers?”

“I guess that's not an immediate concern for you,” she says, one of her eyebrows lifting in question.

I booked separate hotel rooms under the guise of chivalry, but yeah, it’s also part of my strategy—a different take on the walkaway. Separation to make the heart grow fonder. And it would be sort of weird to shack up right away. Gotta ease into the big casual.

“Not yet,” I say.

She laughs and clips her seatbelt together. If I’m reading her right, the past couple of days tells me she is dying to get a taste of me, and I have a plan in mind that she may or may not appreciate.

“At brunch, your father seemed miffed that you represent the US instead of Mexico," she says out of the blue. "Have you considered switching?”

We start to descend and my ears pop with the shifting pressure. If only I could shrug off Flynn's question as easily. She clocked my irritation when Papa, spouting off as he does after too much wine, poked at the same bruise. Every time he brings that topic up, I'm back at the Westar Poultry processing plant in Fresno, a ten-year-old boiling with fury in a room full of fat, jowly white men who laughed at me like I was no better than a doormat they wiped their feet on.

“I haven’t considered it because I’m an American. Just like you. I’ll play for the country I’m a bona fide citizen of.”

“I’m not implying you aren’t American. Or that—”

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