Page 44 of The Challenger

He slumps onto the bench and hangs his head, refusing to look at me as I sit beside him. I rub the small of his back, keeping an eye on the crowds in the bleachers. The stalker has not sent anything since the photo incident, but I am always watching.

“You want to talk about it or just sulk in perpetuity?” I ask.

“Don’t joke around, Miss Flynn,” he warns. “Today is no laughing matter.”

“Remember what I said the other day? I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on in your mind.”

“Can I blow up my mind?”

“The day after you win, you can do whatever you want.”

He glances up to catch my small smile. “You have a one-track mind.”

“Win-win, right?”

Despite my joke, a storm swirls in his eyes. Something is going on. “Let’s go get some breakfast, all right?”

* * *

Instead of eatingat the tennis centre, we cram ourselves into a booth at a nearby diner. The frazzled, young waitress juggles plates and customer demands and surprises us with steaming lattes turned around in record time. Chavez blows on his coffee, his face an unreadable mask. He wanted us to sit side by side, and his body, flush with mine in the tight space, radiates heat like a furnace.

“It’s not your mother again is it?” I ask, careful to sound neutral. I can see the battle raging inside of him.

“Yes and no,” he says, spinning his mug on the table. “I never told you about this because I hoped it would all be over, but she got injured on the job last May. It’s been an endless battle with that asshole Earl ever since.”

I draw back, my eyes widening. “That’s awful. Is that why she has a limp?”

“Yeah. Her leg got crushed in a machine that needed repairing. She’ll never walk properly again.”

Chavez explains he found out about her accident the morning of the infamous ball-smashing incident at Roland Garros. He burned it home on the first flight he could get and left a trail of smoking rubber northbound on the 5 freeway to Fresno. He stormed his way into Westar and came this close to being arrested after spewing multiple threats into Earl’s face. I have witnessed his bullying behavior, but it’s still shocking to hear that he bulldozed his parents out of Fresno lock, stock, and barrel and planted them in Echo Park. Chavez threatened to take Earl out for good (as any sane and loving son would) if they ever double-crossed him, and I’m not surprised Gloria and Rodrigo took his word for it.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I touch his thigh to comfort him. “What is happening now?”

“Earl refuses to pay out,” he continues, “so we hired a lawyer to fight back.”

“Is it looking good?”

The waitress appears with our breakfast specials, and we move our phones and mugs to make space on the scuffed tabletop. Once she leaves, he picks up where we left off.

“We thought so, but the lawyer emailed me this morning and said Earl has railroaded several employees into corroborating his version of the story. That the accident was Mama’s negligence. He’s threatened wage cuts and narcing out families who have illegals living with them." The sharp edge in his voice turns steely. "What kind of a monster do you have to be to create this much fear?”

I reach for his fist, balled tightly on the table. He looks absolutely gutted.

“I don’t know what to say. I wish there were something positive to channel from this.”

“There is no positive with Earl,” he scowls. “He’s a fucking bitter soul, hell-bent on being a bitch just because he can. The settlement money means nothing because I will always look after my parents, but it’s the principle. He needs to do the right thing and won’t because of me.”

He stabs at his eggs without eating them and then gives up on breakfast entirely, letting his fork clatter onto the table. This is the worst timing for bad news. The last thing he needs is Earl back in his head for the final.

“Do you want go back to the hotel and work through this?” I ask. “We have time.”

He glances distractedly at an incoming message on his phone and slides a finger over it to make it disappear. “I have to deal with something before the match. I’ll be back in an hour.”

I glance at him, dumbfounded. “What? Where are you going? What about your food?”

“It’s all good,” he insists, clocking the look of worry on my face. “Nothing weird. And I’m not really that hungry. But you finish up.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Uncertainty bubbles deep in the pit of my stomach. What errand can’t wait on the afternoon of the final?

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