Page 36 of The Challenger

I drain my coffee and gather up my belongings. There will be many more storms between us at this rate, and today is only day one.

“A woman can too,” I warn. “So you better watch your step.”

* * *

Note to Brandon:not flying under the radar is a slight understatement. At the Bendigo Regional Tennis Centre, home to the upcoming tournament, a mob of fans crowd our assigned practice court with cell phones filming our every move. For a sliver of privacy, we set our bags on the far bench where one court butts onto another. Chavez immediately strips off his T-shirt and pretends to ignore the sexy-time whistles erupting from the crowd, followed by a chorus of,Who’s your daddy!

During his junior days, Chavez started the trend of pounding a fist to his heart after a blistering display of athleticism won him a rally, adding the battle cry that would become his signature phrase.

“I guess the flashing around stuff doesn’t apply to you, huh?” I ask.

Chavez grabs a racket from the bag, whacks his palm against the strings and says, “Nope.”

As he struts to the baseline, the nuggets of wisdom Rodrigo shared with me on Christmas Day about what to expect with his son percolate back. Attitude, of course, coupled with a challenging personality that see-saws from angel to disaster and leaves you wondering which one will surface on any given day. He’s prickly when it comes to input on his game, and from the match videos I watched, Chavez is unbeatable when he's on. His forehand is as powerful as a stick of dynamite and serve placement more lethal than a .38 snub. But then the easy put-away suddenly stops being so easy. Drop shots trickle onto his side of the net. The serve starts to go.

The sudden collapse of form at crucial moments is evidence of a head case. Tennis is a mental game as much as it is physical, and I imagine the grey matter between his ears might have something to do with his uneven results. I picked his brain last night over Cobb salads to pry out the underlying issues. My general policy is not to hate anyone I’ve never met, but Earl Anderson makes a good case for an exception. The story cracked my heart. That dirtbag deserves a pack of wolves unleashed on him for crushing a young boy like a cigarette under his boot heel with his horrible comments. No wonder Chavez is a walking wall of defiant edges. He’s got everything to prove. But holding onto old trauma only cripples you in the end.

Says the expert.

“Who’s your mama?”

The impressively audible male catcall comes when I strip my tank top off to slather sunscreen around my tiny sports bra. Chavez spins around to eye my almost-naked torso and I shrug innocently,What do you want me to do about it?

After an unimpressed silence, he says, “Cross-court forehands to start. And you better make me look good.”

ChapterThirteen

Advantage,Chavez.

He puts me through the wringer during practice. The heat rising from the court is so intense I feel it seep through the soles of my shoes into my aching calves as I flail to keep up with him. By the end, I feel like I've just come in from the losing end of a street brawl. We towel off and the bleachers are now standing room only, packed with female fans equally mesmerized as me at how fucking riveting he is, shirtless and misted with sweat. Keeners looking for autographs crush their way to the front of the stands.

"You better go and work your magic," I say. "Or else there might be a riot."

He carefully stacks rackets and used towels into his bag. "You're coming along. Team D represents together.”

Several attractive women (and men) touch up their appearance in anticipation of his arrival. Chavez has owned the It Factor from day one, and being a certified hottie helps, but his appeal is more than the cliché of women wanting to sleep with him and men wanting to be him. He proved, much like the Williams sisters did, country club pedigree or wealth were not prerequisites for success. And the diverse crowd—old, young, male and female, every skin color—is a testament to his universal appeal. He works the fans like a movie star on the red carpet, the smile rocking as he poses for selfies.

And it bears repeating that his appeal reaches far beyond tennis, as is evidenced by the busty redhead with hair curled into a feathered flip warily sizing me up.

She asks Chavez who I am, and he slings an arm around my shoulder.

“Flynn is my new coach. What do you think?"

“You hit pretty good for a girl,” she reluctantly admits. Full pout.

“She’s pretty in a whole lot of ways,” he says, and surprises everyone, including me, with a kiss that leaves nothing to the imagination and my thighs quaking from imagining it all. I was in no shape last night for any memorable one-on-one, but the fact he didn’t even make an overture, not even a hint, demoralized me. And then, this. In broad daylight, like it doesn’t matter. The fans eat it up, hooting and hollering like a tailgate party gone sideways. Over their clatter and my racing heart, the sniper-like sound of rapid-fire photography cuts through the din.

I wrench my mouth from his, startled, and skim the stands to find the culprit. A pro, based on the paparazzi lens. The kind that hides out in Beverly Hills shrubbery to ambush celebrities out for a casual stroll and nose pick.

Chavez follows my gaze and steers us away from the fans for privacy. “What’s up?” he asks.

“Is that guy working for the tournament?”

He scopes out the snapper with a shrug. “Photographers are always running around. You must be used to that, being in the public eye.”

“Yes, but … I didn’t plan on being front-page news. Here.”

“With me or in general?”

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