Page 55 of The Challenger

I open my mouth, only to close it again. I’m not sure why I feel so raw telling him.

“He’s not the right guy to represent me for fiction, and that is what I want to do next. Write mysteries.”

There. I said it. In public.

“So you’re giving up the motivational stuff?” he asks.

“Yes. I mean, I’m still helping you,” I’m quick to add. “As far as the writing goes, I've decided it’s time to stretch my wings.”

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek and then cupping it with his hand. “Team D is all about you and me helping each other. And if you want to do something else, or if something is weighing on your mind, I want to know about it. I think it's cool that you want to write mysteries. I like them. It’s probably why I like you.”

“I’m a mystery?” I feign surprise at the noun even my besties use to describe me.

“In a good way,” he clarifies. “What I mean is…” He pauses, as if pulling on conversational kid gloves, and lowers his voice. “When I’m kissing you or we’re making love, I feel like I’m getting the real you. You’re in the moment. The rest of the time, you have this protective layer on. One step removed. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you are the master of spinning the conversation away from you.”

“Perdonne, il dolce.” The cheery waiter in suspenders arrives with our tiramisu, a fluffy square so giant we're forced to move our dinner plates to accommodate it.

“You better get in there before I do," I joke and turn my attention to the waiter for a coffee order.

Chavez frowns, fully aware I have done it again—pivoted the spotlight elsewhere. He lets it slide, maybe in the interest of keeping things copasetic. Or perhaps he caught wind of the couple at the table next to us—far more interested in our conversation than their own.

So, we prattle on like tourists about the sites we saw and what impressed us the most. Bologna, like all of Italy, has endless cute nooks and crannies that, after a while, you don’t bother taking pictures of because if you did, you would end up never putting your phone down. Dusk has faded into a moonless night when we walk hand in hand to the sedan parked under a cone of acidic streetlight. The driver Chavez hired speaks only broken English and seems relieved his customers are content to crash against each other in the back seat and not engage. Chavez keeps his arm tight around my shoulders the entire drive back to Forli and absently fingers one of my curls as he gazes silently out the window.

One morning, soon, with the warmth of his body against mine like it is now, I will open my heart. Fear is stifling, the worst kind of spiritual poison, and in the end, you feel swallowed up by nothing. But Chavez needs to get through this tournament and maybe the next one before I take that step. The clock, however, has started to tick.

* * *

I’m bloated,grumpy, and in no mood for tennis on the day we move hotels. But today is a practice day, and I promised to come along. Nestled amongst sun-dappled vineyards, the Carpena Tennis Club is quintessential Italian with sharp-dressed staff and questionable efficiency. Chavez, sensing my irritation that our court isn't available yet, leaves me in the bleachers to talk shop with the other players. Four days of bliss ended abruptly this morning with Mother Nature roaring in. After all my bluster about Chavez not making me wait for a win, I’m off limits for a week. He doesn’t wade through the crimson tide (how he politely put it), and had he not turned me into a budding nymphomaniac, I might be okay with this. But now we’re back at square one, alone in separate hotel rooms in the dumpy tour hotel, me without the joy of his talents to look forward to.

Fuck.

Slouched in my seat, I scan the courts on the hunt for familiar faces from Australia. Like the ATP tour, players pick and choose which Challenger tournaments they want to play. Given the lower prize money, most players don't jet from Oz to Italy, which explains the sea of new European faces. New voices, too, braying loudly like donkeys from behind me.

"Who’s that hottie?”

“His new coach.”

“I wonder if she’ll do a private. Off the court.”

“You jonesing for a little MILF action?”

God, the uncouth laughter of idiot boys. If they’d been entirely unoriginal and tossed out the wordcougar, I might have overlooked their stupidity, but I draw the line atMILF.

I glance over my shoulder. “Are you two looking for a coach or a black eye?”

They elbow one another witha chorus ofOoos.Americans, of course, and ranked somewhere in the mid 100’s, I imagine.

The one with shaggy brown hair trying to grow a goatee asks, “What areyoulooking for, baby?”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the court. They remind me of the Santa Cruz boys who never liked me back. The arrogant, entitled rich kids who thought they were all that. The ones who labeled me different, and not good different, like I was a genius outlier going places, or really bad different, like I should lay off the heroin. I was middle-of-the-road different—not severe enough for sympathy and not cool enough to be put on a pedestal.

But here comes one of them, plunking himself down in the seat next to me, all limbs and arms with a baller smile. He introduces himself as Nathan.

“What’s the dealio, Babes R Us? Can you give us a two for one?”

“I don’t do cheap, sorry.”

“It’s all good," he says, unaffected by my rudeness. "We’re just looking to score a little intel, that’s all.”

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