Page 42 of The Challenger

“Does this mean I can’t talk to any man?”

“No,” he says, trying for casual when, in fact, he means just that. “Let’s start with him, all right? You’re testing me, analyzing my strokes, my mind, all in the name of becoming stronger and better. Maybe I’m doing the same.”

“If you are so worried about my numbers going up this week, you can tell a certain someone that he might want to adjust his strategy.”

“Nice try, Miss Flynn,” he says. “My strategy will not change, so keep your eye on the prize.”

His smile reinstates—blazing white and assured, charm cranked up at an eleven. If I’d hoped to find a chink in his armour, #spectacularfail.

ChapterFifteen

I knew it would happen.I felt it in my bones. As sure as the sun rises in the east and scum floats to the surface, gossip finds a way to slither front and center. Had I discovered the picture of Chavez and me kissing on some random website instead of accompanying a text message, I would not be clutching the bathroom counter with my faint tan turning white.

Unknown number: Flynn! What are you doing with a brown boy in Australia??? Do I need to bring you home?

Fuck. What a fool to think I had bought time and space traveling here. Not when technology has shrunken us into trackable bits and bytes so easily found and shared. This loser has tracked me, and I can only imagine what’s next.Is he going to show up at the tournament waving a gun? Not knowing his capabilities is like facing a firing squad full of itchy trigger fingers. I run the tap and splash cold water on my face, my mind racing. I cannot breathe a word of this to Chavez. If he can barely control the urge to punch Brandon in the face, the reaction over this would be nothing short of ominous.

He cannot be distracted.

Today is round one, his first match, and on paper, everything favors Chavez over Peter Kingsley. He is a more experienced and talented player. In reality, all that means nothing because no match is a giveaway—especially with the pressure of being the comeback kid. Surprisingly, he didn’t cop to any feelings of anxiousness last night.

Maybe I’ve finally beat the Tornado out of him.

As Rodrigo warned, he has not been easy. Yes, he’s focused like a bird dog tracking its prey, but he resists every time I suggest a tweak or a different approach. We had it out yesterday after a discussion surrounding on-court coaching during his matches. A recent overhaul in the rules means I can talk to him when he is on my side of the court and give hand signals when he is on the far side. The only caveat: he is not allowed to talk or signal back. He never let Rodrigo coach him on-court and has no interest in starting now.

“I know what I need to do,” he argued. “I know my mistakes.”

“What if I notice something you are oblivious to?" I tossed back.

He laughed in my face. “The likelihood of me not noticing is slim to none.”

“Why am I here if you’re just going to do the same old, same old? Let me put it this way. If I think you are employing the wrong tactics, you will hear about it."

He stormed off the court, refusing to return. I chased him down and said being a baby about things wasn’t helping him.

He yelled, “I’m not a baby!”

And I shouted back, “You want a second opinion on that?”

The atmosphere in the shuttle van back to the hotel felt as welcoming as Saturn’s. And leave it to Chavez to know how to hit back.

Instead of being a grouch, he flirted shamelessly at dinner, and we ended up slammed against his hotel room door making out in the hall like the world was burning down and we owned the only hazmat suits in town. Bodies and hearts crashed together, my hands slid down the back of his jeans to squeeze his divine butt as hopeless lust jolted my nether regions into a twanging mess. I thought he would finally open his damn door and spread me wide. But instead, he yanked my blouse open like a savage. A button popped off, and neither of us was that interested to see where it landed because my nipple had to be taught a lesson for being too perky.

Or rather, I had to be taught a lesson.

He sent me on my way minutes later, his whip girl with her panties drenched and imagination flying out of control.

But if he thought that was all it would take to tip the scales in his favor, he’s got another thing coming. He might be gifted in the fine art of seduction, but I plan to unwrap him with such ferocity that the poor boy won’t know what hit him. He will submit to every indecency I demand. The only hiccup is he needs to win; ergo, no distractions.

And I need to be something other than a bundle of nerves to make that happen.

We leave for the tournament in an hour, and I can already tell the anxiety jangling through me will feed into everything I do. I jump into the shower, determined to solve the stalker riddle. The workaround finally comes to me in fits and spurts, and the longer I dwell on it, the more perfectly the idea forms. By the time my skin is scalded and soaped, I have it nailed.

Chavez and I have not talked about the upcoming European tournaments he will be playing (or if I will join him), but what a great way to throw this goon off the track. If there is such a thing as a stalker who can jump on a plane and make my life hell anywhere in the world, if he really wants to play a game, I’m throwing down Catch Me if You Can.

Flynn Dryden Truth #5: Stay one step ahead of your fears.

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