Page 37 of The Challenger

“Uhm … in general.”

I’m giving nothing away, my sunglasses helping, but the paranoid quality of my voice is not so easily hidden. Chavez stands very still, the air strange. Fuck. Halfway around the world from home and I find myself in the same frigging place—on high alert. The furrow on his forehead deepens, and his lips join the suspicion party, drawing together in a move reminiscent of Gloria and all her love for me.

“I hope for your buddy Brandon’s sake we are front-page news.”

He spins his ball cap around to shade his face, and it does nothing to hide the truth stamped all over it. Sensing the show is over, the fans begin to disperse quietly behind us.

“You’re not jealous, are you?” I ask.

“Like I’m going to be jealous of a dude in a pink polo shirt,” he scoffs. “With the collar turned up.”

He slings his bag over one shoulder and marches across the court to the exit closest to the clubhouse. Once we got into the zone during practice, Chavez forgot about being irritated with me, but we ricocheted back to that status in a heartbeat. I jog to catch up with him, feeling guilty and wanting to right the perceived wrong in his mind.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’d look great in pink.”

I smile, lower my sunglasses, and attempt to catch his gaze. When he gives me the honor of eye contact, it’s one-hundred-percent fearless.

“Dream on,” he says. “I’ll wear pink when hell freezes over.”

* * *

My alarm goes off seeminglyminutes after I lay down for a nap. I stumble into the bathroom to get ready for dinner, out of sorts from the heat, the jet lag, and how Chavez reacted to the photographer’s nonsense. He texts me as I’m styling my hair and says to meet him in the lobby. Unsure if that’s a good sign or bad, I find him smiling and milling by the front desk in deep conversation about video game tactics with a bellman he introduces as Charlie.

The ruddy-faced ginger stares in wonder at my hair. “Your curls are bonza, girl. Are they real?”

“Aren’t they dope?” Chavez twirls his finger into one ringlet, his grin telling me he has moved on from the earlier moody sideshow. He’s rolled the cuffs back on his pin-striped dress shirt exactly twice, and a gold cross, hanging on a thin chain and just visible on his bronzed pecs, makes all my unchristian thoughts hard to ignore. "Charlie’s got us lined up at the best steak house in town,” he explains. “I hope you’re hungry.”

In LA, a decent hunk of Wagyu beef in a restaurant comes with a month-long waiting list. And all for the privilege of paying stratospheric prices served with a side dish of waiter attitude and a wine list intent on bankrupting you. But instead of being filled to the rafters with poseurs, the Woodhouse in downtown Bendigo barely seats thirty and is as unpretentious as it gets. A waitress greets us like we are family, and I marvel at how Chavez has everyone effortlessly wrapped around his finger.

“I’m always tight with the bell guys,” he says, once we’re seated. “They steer me right. Concierge just dumps you into every tourist trap.”

His sweet young face makes me forget he’s spent the better part of a decade traveling the world. I forget a lot of things when he’s in front of me.

We both order filet mignon, and I’m warm and fuzzy from the meal and the huge pour of Shiraz by the time our plates are cleared. Our waitress has recommended an ice cream shop for dessert, and we’re waiting for the bill to arrive when a guy I noticed earlier sidles up to our table. He and his generically handsome buddies sat kitty-corner from us, and they kept eyeing our table with furtive whispers. This lucky one got egged into being the sacrificial lamb.

“Hey,” he says. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but are you Chavez Delgado?”

“Yeah,” he replies, polite but not thrilled with the intrusion. “That’s me.”

“Uhm … we’re, ah, playing each other in the first round. Peter Kingsley?”

Poor thing, fidgeting with his hands and an uneasy smile on his face. Meek as a mouse and tall and gangly in off-the-rack dress pants that don’t quite fit, pimples streaked across his chin like white braille.

“Hey, man. Look forward to the match.” Chavez holds up his fist for a bump and the gesture flatfoots Peter, who looks to his pals to make sure they are witnessing this before bumping back.

“I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re back. Tennis needs more guys like you.”

Chavez lifts his water glass as a toast. “Appreciate you saying that.”

The kid obviously has more to say but is floundering big-time with a starstruck tongue. “This probably sounds totally dumb, but is there, like, any advice you can give me? My goal is to be top one hundred next year.”

It’s the kind of comment some players would cringe at, but Chavez plays it the right way. “Never give up and always believe in yourself.” He looks at me and winks. “And find the right team.”

“Oh, yeah, hi,” Peter says as if he’s just noticed me. “Uhm, okay. Thanks. Well, see you around.”

He hurries back to his buddies who pepper him with hushed questions.

“That was kind of you,” I say to Chavez. “You probably made his night.”

---