Page 50 of The Challenger

My heart skips a beat. All week I've wanted to ask, been too scared, and mentally started packing my bags alone. "You want to come along?"

“How would you feel if we flew from here to Italy?”

“Meaning, not go home?” I turn to face her because I am not trusting the cheap thrill rippling over my skin. Papa could never wait to jump on the first flight back.

“I don’t need to if you don’t.”

In two weeks, Italy hosts the next Challenger event, and I plan to hit a couple more tournaments in France during February. If I post strong results and get some buzz going, the hope is Indian Wells or Miami (the two marquee ATP events in March) will offer me a wild-card entry. Then I’d crank it up during the spring clay court season for another shot at the Roland Garros crown. I would love her to be there with me, be with me every step of the way.

"And stay on the road until after France?” I ask. “A working vacation?”

She curls up like a snail and massages my leg under the covers. "I thought it would be great to keep the momentum going. With your game, and us. If we don’t have to rush around, we can put a little more emphasis on the benefits part.”

I’m so damn happy, swinging like an ape from the canopy might be my next move. When was the last time I had a real vacation with the warmth of a woman's body next to mine?

"And I can pay my own way,” she adds. “I don't expect—”

“Hey," I interrupt. "Don't make this about money. Fair enough that you wanted to do this trial run pro bono, but if you're going to be my coach, you deserve to get paid. If only for putting up with me."

Ain't that the truth,is what her smile says. I am quick to cash this check before it bounces.

“I’m holding you to this, Miss Flynn. You can’t change your mind.”

Under the sheet, her warm fingers wrap around a vital piece of the puzzle. “I won’t," she says. "My list is very, very long.”

Ding-a-ling.

Round two is calling.

I can confirm those stories about people infused with superhuman strength in times of great emotional upheaval are more than an urban myth. Our Olympic-sized bed weighs more than a bus, and I move the sucker onto the balcony in under three minutes. I owe Charlie for the destroyed canopy, but Flynn seeing stars while I work her clit into triple overtime is my kind of priceless.

* * *

Somewhere around fourin the morning, we call it quits. Poor Flynn is the very definition of ridden hard and put to bed wet, and my ass muscles are screaming from the endless thrusting. God, she's fucking insatiable. I am in awe of how we read each other, the give and take. Guys aren’t miracle workers; mastering the universe of how a woman works and what she wants is impossible without guidance. Even Galileo and Copernicus—the ancients who studied the sky—they’d be like, stars and galaxies? No problem, we can tell you everything. Clit or pussy for the orgasm? Fuck if we know.

But Flynn is a true blessing. All I gotta do is slip her some tongue and away she goes. Hot little moans telling me how fast I’m getting her to ground zero, letting me work my skills. Not one of those pushy tour guides telling me to be here or there and taking all the fun out of it.

Let me rejoice in this magical moment—all my limbs electrified and body buzzing from sweet surrender.

The low industrial hum of the hotel’s air conditioning kept me tossing and turning all week and it is surreally quiet out here with a dome of stars above us and the yard muffled in inky darkness. I cuddle into her softness, and she pulls the covers up and over our shoulders. She lays one hand on my head and keeps me secure like a babe against her breasts while her other weaves through my hair, massaging my scalp until I’m man down and moaning at how good it feels.

“You are mycielo.My sky,” I whisper into her ear. “You make me feel limitless.”

It’s slight, but I feel it, how her body stiffens. And I’m thinking no, how could I be so stupid? Did I just Romeo and Juliet the situation with the sappy poetry of love-starved Shakespeare Chavez? The cardinal rule is that guys shouldn’t talk for at least half an hour after sex because our brains are sloppy, sagging messes, like our dicks, and being in a pussy trance only leads to loose lips and babble, shit we regret. I might as well wrap this up with a red bow and ask her if she wants kids.

“I’m coming to Europe on one condition,” she says.

I stop breathing and pray for absolution from my verbal diarrhea. “What’s that?”

“None of this waiting around for you to win, okay?”

Aiy, Jesús!Thank you. My relieved smile spreads against her neck and she reads it the wrong way—puts just enough pressure on my head to say, careful cowboy.

“I’m serious. It’s not happening any other way.”

I have some witty remark about her not calling the shots, that we’re on my time, all the usuals. But who am I fooling? Once in a blue moon, all the planets align perfectly, and you can't go wrong to save your soul. After tonight, there is no way I’m surviving, let alone hitting a single ball, without enjoying the daily wonders of Flynn’s body. All I want to do is fall asleep and wake up in the morning sun to re-evaluate with a clear mind how I even got this far in life without her. Then I’m going to slowball her until she's liquified and the deaf lady calls the cops to report someone screaming down the block.

“Deal,” I say, and we seal it with a sloppy and very tired kiss.

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