Page 43 of The Challenger

While we killtime in the lobby waiting for the tournament shuttle, Chavez apologizes for being curt at breakfast. His mother called earlier, and the conversation did not go well. She came across our infamous photo and was near apoplectic with distress. Chavez danced around the details like a henpecked son would, but I deduced the gist of her complaints could be absolved by him finding a good, Catholic Mexican woman who understood marriage and childbearing instead of one who flies around the world in sporting sin.

Despite the strides I thought I’d made with Gloria, the real reason behind her call has everything to do with the conversation she and I had in her kitchen while I helped tidy up after brunch. She asked if I wanted kids. My clever reply of,Not yet,usually saves my bacon. Those two words are the ultimate non-answer. Mothers believe it is only a matter of time until I swaddle a babe in my arms and my single sisters are like, damn right, Flynn, we can have it all without having a family. My position on the matter is not in a million years will I ever have children, and her shyster radar screamed imposter as she handed me a platter to dry.

“I guess you were right about that photographer," Chavez admits with a sheepish look. "I’ll be more discrete from now on.”

“Please put it out of your mind. It is what it is, and there are a hundred other things you should be focusing on."

He shoots me a doubtful glance. “Of course I’m thinking about it. You didn’t feel comfortable, and now we are front-page news."

While I appreciate him acknowledging the circumstances, my immediate concern is how he will cope with today. His leg has been shimmying all morning and pacing around the lobby hasn’t helped. The buzz in the hotel is on the upswing, and I feel the electricity of competition crackling on my skin. I wish I had eaten more at breakfast, but we both pushed food around on our plates like day one of a hunger strike.

Finally, the shuttle arrives. It’s one hundred degrees in the shade and getting hotter, and dampness spreads under my arms despite wearing the least amount of fabric possible while remaining decent. Vandana encouraged me to glam it up, but my silk mini dress might become see-through if I sweat much harder. I glance at Chavez—at the muscle twitching along his jaw, his leg still pumping, the dark shadows under both eyes. It’s crunch time. I think I am more nervous than him (if that is humanly possible). But stalker, or no stalker, I signed up to ensure he makes it to the end of this week.And for my own selfish reasons, let me repeat—I cannot have him distracted.

So, when our driver pulls into the roundabout of the venue, Coach Flynn makes the game plan abundantly clear.

“Let’s go kick some ass.”

* * *

The moral ofthe story is: never underestimate the tall and pimply. I mistakenly assumed Peter Kingsley would be a wet noodle Chavez would flay the court with, but the kid has done his homework. Two unreturnable short and wide serves are his opening one-two shots, and Chavez, the bonehead, does not adjust his service position as we discussed. When they switch ends for the second service game, I might as well be talking to myself. That’s how defiant his ignoring of me is. He refuses to catch my gaze during the changeover when he’s down 3-0, and the murmurs from the boozy crowd are of the upset variety. No one here saw a future for Peter other than he’d be pushing forty at a cocktail party and telling anyone who would listen he once played Chavez Delgado.

By the time Chavez claws his way into a first-set tiebreak, I’m losing my mind. He’s displayed flashes of brilliance but tightened up on rudimentary shots or gone hog wild with overcooked forehands. On set point for Peter, I clench the fencing in front of me so tightly all the blood drains from my fingers. Everyone and their uncle know what serve Peter will pull from his repertoire. Everyone save for Chavez, who is stubbornly six feet beyond the baseline and still pretending I don’t exist.

We went over and over these scenarios during practice, especially how not to succumb to old sticky habits in the heat of the moment. I know he doesn’t want to hear from me but screw it.

Loud enough so he can hear, I shout, “If you’re going to stay there, be ready in case he mixes it up.”

Peter, for all his talent, has not perfected the disguise toss. Instead of a straight-up ball toss for every serve, he, being a right-handed player, tosses it slightly to his left for the kick serve in the AD court. In the split second before Peter’s racket makes contact with the ball, Chavez reads it and moves left. He rockets it back straight down the middle of the court, and Peter, still recovering from the service motion, is caught flatfooted, the ball skidding past him. Set point saved. I feel the thunderous applause like a physical thing vibrating on my skin. With a freshness that only confidence can instill, Chavez cracks two back-to-back aces, and the first set is in the can. He whips around to look me straight in the eye and bashes his hand against his heart.

“Who’s your daddy?” he yells.

The capacity crowd goes berserk.

It’s all one-way traffic after that. Chavez kicks into a higher gear, and to witness the arsenal of his shot-making is like watching Jackson Pollock splatter paint—beauty created on a different kind of canvas.He closes it out with a sublime shoelace volley that dies like a lump of coal on the other side of the net. The collective nail-biting explodes into cheering that would wake the dead, and the metal grandstand shudders under the weight of a thousand fans rising to their feet.

Chavez and Peter exchange a few words and embrace warmly at the net, and the sportsmanship at the end of the match is one of my favorite things about tennis. No matter how tense and furious it gets, when it’s all over, win or lose, it’s the person on the other side of the net who makes it memorable. The fans wait for Chavez to shake hands with the umpire and roll into his post-match victory lap—the raising of a fist to the four sides of the court—but he chucks his racket to his bench instead, points directly at me and lays a hand on his heart while mouthing,Thank you.

After ghosting me the entire match, the emotion on his face, directed at me, unleashes all the nervous energy swarming under my skin. Relief flows out of me like a river. I’ve been here before and know how it feels, the baby steps toward bigger and better. Fans who realize that I’m part of the Chavez entourage offer congratulations, and tears well in my eyes at how heartfelt their words are.

And if I’m being honest with myself, my tears are not only for Chavez. They are also for my tennis career, cut short in its prime. Who knows if I would have reached the pinnacle, and I feel my chest tighten thinking about what might have been. But I tamp down the memories and tell myself,No, don't go there. Chavez is different, I am different, and the situation is different.

There will be no trouble.

But after his on-court interview, Chavez walks off the court without a glance back, and the feathering starts deep in my throat. On the day Hamilton told me he never wanted to see me again, he rolled his wheelchair down the aisle at Safeway, retreating from me without a glance back.

And one week later, on Christmas Day, he rolled himself off a cliff.

ChapterSixteen

After his first-round win,I notice subtle but positive changes in Chavez. He is less stubborn and more relaxed with himself on the court. He’s agreed to on-court coaching in small doses. His doing well here is no indication of success on the main tour where the competition is one notch fiercer. But with his game starting to shine again, who am I to complain? As a coach, I can’t ask for anything more.

As a woman with needs, I could ask for a whole lot more.

But his answer to my not-so-subtle soliciting is stillNope.I’m reduced to another lusting female fan alone in bed at night, adding to the emoji meltdowns on the shirtless photos he posts on social media. (Photos I take that he asks me to send him! #unfair.)

Since he always makes sure my coffee has the right amount of cream and holds every door open for me, I pick my battles. Momentum and confidence can turn around a slump faster than anything, and with both flying high, Chavez storms through the draw to book his spot in the final.

On the morning of, we slug it out on the practice court and the mood is totally off. I thought we made progress all week with the mantras and visualizations to help quell the nagging voice in his head, but he is twitchy and quick to anger with every botched shot. He starts serving and overcooks ten in a row. From his look of utter disgust, I sense the explosion coming. If you have never witnessed the destruction of a racket, the way it crumples is pretty impressive. After Chavez punts the mangled remains to the sidelines, I call a time-out.

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