Page 34 of The Challenger

ChapterTwelve

FLYNN

I hadlow expectations for the city of Bendigo, Australia. For the entire two-hour drive northwest from Melbourne, there was nothing to see other than barren land that made me yearn for the sight of a rebellious skyscraper. The quaintness of the town surprised me, however. Maverick gold-rush pioneers descended into this valley in the mid-1800s, and the ones who struck it rich left a legacy of elaborate Victorian buildings and cute street trams that trundle through the downtown grid.

We stayed up as late as possible to overcome jet lag, but with my body clock still out of whack, I got up early to people-watch with my morning coffee before practice. The cafe next to our hotel is no frills, just like our accommodations. The Challenger Tour started covering hotel costs to offset the money grind and give the lower-ranked players a fighting chance. We could have stayed someplace ritzier, but Chavez wanted to be with the people, as it were.

“Mornin’. Or should I say, G’day?”

In the hot, humid air of the hundred-degree morning, the guy who scoped us out yesterday when we were checking in sits down at the table next to mine with a hopeful smile. I peg him to be around forty—a good-looking forty, with no spare tire and a cropped Afro without a single grey hair. A lawyer on his way to an early tee time in a collared shirt and pressed shorts, clinging to his youth with a pair of scuffed Stan Smiths.

“Hi.”

He clocks the tennis racket leaning against my chair, or he pretends to while checking out my legs. “You’re with Chavez Delgado. I saw you two in the lobby yesterday.”

“That’s right,” I say, immediately on guard, wondering who this man is. He’s American for sure, with a Southern accent thicker than syrup. “I’m his coach.”

“Oh,” he says, with a look of surprise. “I thought his father coached him?”

“They wanted to mix things up.”

“Interestin’. Female coaches are rare, let alone attractive ones.”

Jeez. Is he really going there in under a minute? I pull my feet off the chair they have been lounging on and double down on any body language that could read asavailable.His brown eyes are warm and playful and make me think he is not a threat—no more than any other guy taking an interest in me—and a thin, gold band sits loosely on his wedding finger, although that means almost nothing anymore.

I decide to stick to neutral territory. “Who is your charge?”

He laughs like it’s a question he’s answered many times. “I tried coaching for half a minute. The travel didn’t agree with me.”

“What brings you here?”

“I run a Challenger tournament in North Carolina,” he explains. “This is a business trip, unfortunately.” He snaps open the iPhone case in his hand to fish out a business card. “Brandon Dixler. Pleasure to meet you.”

Matching a spoken name to the name on the card is a new habit, but you can never be too safe—anyone can create a fake business card. I’ll verify his title of Tournament Director online later. Another new habit.

“I heard Chavez was coming back to play the Challengers,” he says. “Surprising, when he could have been in the main draw at the Aussie Open.”

I let my guard down now that I know he's in the tennis world. “He wanted to shake off the rust without all the attention.”

He chuckles as a good ole boy buzzed on morning bourbon might. “Good luck with that. Chavez is a popular player, and tickets sold out in a heartbeat. It might be hard to fly under the radar.”

“You must know all the players, being in the biz.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t.” He takes a sip of coffee and eyes me over the rim. “How is his game coming along?”

“Hey. I’ve been trying to call you.” Chavez appears out of nowhere, piss and vinegar in his voice.

“Oh, crap.” I pick up my iPhone from the table, scroll to the focus settings and swipe left. “I put it on do not disturb last night and totally forgot. Sorry.”

He glances at Brandon, his mouth twitching into a frown. “Who are you?”

“I’m the tournament director with the Atlantic Tire Championships in North Carolina. Glad to hear you found a new coach.”

He offers a hand that Chavez reluctantly shakes. The fact I have shared details with this man does not sit well with him.

“We better get going,” Chavez says to me.

“I’d like to finish my coffee first. Do you want one?”

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