Page 35 of The Challenger

“Next rounds on me,” Brandon offers, rising from his chair. “What’s your poison?”

“I’m good, pal,” Chavez replies. “Thanks.”

For all his charms, Chavez seems to share a trait commonly found in mafiosi: cold-blooded indifference if he’s not feeling your vibe. The poor stewardess on our flight from LA tried every trick in the book on him andboom—shut down.

“Well then," Brandon says, reading the mood. "I’ll leave you two to your morning. A pleasure to meet you, Chavez.” He turns to me with another hopeful smile. “I do apologize, but I never caught your name?”

“Flynn.”

A flicker of calculations passes over his face. “What a pretty name. Unusual."

“If you need anything, you talk to me, all right?”

Arms folded and fire in his eyes, Chavez steps between Brandon and me. Brandon holds his ground despite being a good foot shorter.

"Sure thing."

He collects his coffee cup with the gracious defeat of a man ousted from the cool-kid gathering and disappears into the morning crowds on the sidewalk.

Chavez immediately lays into me. “What did he want?”

“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “He just struck up a conversation.”

Chavez drags a chair from the nearby table and plunks himself down next to me. “I heard him asking you about my game. You know the deal, right? You don’t say anything to anyone. Spies are everywhere.”

I look at him, confused. “Spies? What do you mean?”

“Tennis is one of the top sports for betting,” he explains. “You never hear of it with the top ATP guys because they don’t need the money, but a lot of shady stuff goes down in the Challengers. Match fixing is a serious problem at this level. Guys are barely making it, scraping by on nothing. Shitty people take advantage of that. Some guy approached me as a junior and guaranteed me ten grand if I lost the match. I told him no fucking way. I’m no cheater. Not then, not now.”

I point at Brandon’s card faceup on the table. “He works for one of the tournaments. I doubt he’s a spy.”

“Flynn,” he says, serious and in my face. “Listen up. As a coach, people will talk to you off the court, in the stands, and pretend it’s friendly conversation when they are really trying to squeeze intel out of you. Even if it seems like the most casual conversation, you can’t say anything about my game or my health. Match fixing is illegal. I can be suspended for life if they prove me or my team took bribes or shared insider info that impacts betting odds.”

Chavez and I talked on the plane about doping and how much of a pain it is, but we never spoke about betting. The rules and regulations surrounding it are unfamiliar to me.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I say. “I’ll be more careful.”

His gaze cuts to my bare legs as if I've broken some code of conduct. “Next time you come down here, wear something more than a tennis skirt, all right?”

“What else should I wear for practice?"

“You don’t have to be flashing yourself around, is all I’m saying.”

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” I point at his fresh pair of Adidas shorts slash male bikini bottoms, custom made and yellow as the sun.

“Whatever," he says, snatching Brandon's card off the table to stuff in his pocket. "It’s not the same.”

“Feel free to keep that."

“I will, and can you make sure your phone is on all the time? Please,” he adds, in the wake of my loaded look.

“I take it you’re not a morning person,” I say, dryly.

“I’m an all-day kind of guy if you treat me right.” His head swivels toward the lone barista hustling hard with the morning rush. “I need a coffee. You want another one?”

“I thought you were good?”

He shrugs in an impressive display of studied nonchalance. “A guy can change his mind.”

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