Page 57 of The Challenger

The POV is of his sandalled feet crossed on the footrest of an Adirondack deck chair, a beautiful hush of twilight on the horizon just visible beyond the can of Old Milwaukee held up as a toast. Whether it's the beer or the USA Today newspaper folded beside him, another bout of homesickness lands hard. The first hit me out of nowhere the other day while listening to a conversation in a coffee shop; the kind of light banter we all engage in when going about our errands. But when your grasp of a language is limited, these little moments are lost. It made me yearn for home and, in a weird way, stability. Thanks to Vanya, what rolls through my mind now is whether Chavez and I have any real future together. Yes, things seem to be working out, but I am older, and no competition for the next generation of big-boobed sluts. And if having a family is a priority for him, my expiration date seems inevitable.

Without thinking, I prop my feet up on the bench in front of me, snap a photo, and send it.

FD: Thank you. Just about to hit the courts.

BD: Courts? All I see are some mighty fine legs.

In retrospect, it is stupid of me not to think about the semantics.

I’m rooting for you.

Stupid not to consider that he is tracking our movement.

Stupid to continue texting with him and justifying it based on a cold wash of jealousy and wanting a warm boost of my spirits.

And I continue texting until Chavez calls my name, and I tuck the phone away.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Overnight,the novelty of being a coach with benefits morphs into a job suddenly stripped of any benefits. Breakfast, practice, match. Post-match forensics followed by a pre-match analysis of his next opponent. After an early dinner, I get one abbreviated make-out session and off he goes to bed. Alone. I give him space because he wants to be in the zone, but the Italy tournament feels like it drags on forever.

And something flips with Chavez early on in the week.

He shuts down a bit, forcing me to push him harder. Then he starts winning ugly, and my frustration settles more deeply. The patchy play concerns me, especially after his strong start in Australia, and even Rodrigo admits this is what drove him nuts. The inconsistency. I was worried something like this might happen. To jump in and make sweeping changes with a player without the benefit of time and familiarity is hard. The fact that I played and have coached or motivated millions means nothing.

In the end, it boils down to my belief that I can help him.

My belief in us.

And that is one hundred percent my screwed-up brain at play.

The hours I have spent scouring Vanya’s social media and self-sabotaging is unhealthy, especially since the fling with Chavez appears to be limited to that one night in a club where a bystander caught them on camera. But last night we were kissing, andboom, all I could think about was the two of them, and how my body was not hers.

It’s so stupid, my inability to get past it.

On top of it all, Brandon and I have started to banter. A photo here, aHow is the tour goingthere. Nothing damaging, but still. If Chavez and I were in the same hotel room, this would not be happening. Instead, I’m bored at night, and filling up my time with internet stupidity.

But our nightly separation has given me time to start putting together my fiction career. The agents I’ve reached out to have expressed interest in representing me once my contract with Nathaniel is null and void. Then it gets tricky. Technically, I owe him another book. My lawyer, Jax, reviewed the fine print of our contract and said we could wiggle out of it based on my next book being fiction, but go figure, that area in the agreement is every shade of grey. We’ve decided to go for it though, and next week the official termination letter ships out. Here and there, I’ve been finding pockets of time to write, but I’m missing the daily commitment of planting my ass down for two to three hours at a time. To the point that I plan to ask Chavez how he feels about returning to LA after this tournament. There is a two-week break before the next event starts in Cherbourg, France, and that’s enough time to warrant a trip home.

The truth is, I also miss my friends. June, bless her, has been looking after my house, sorting out the mail and other odds and ends while putting on a brave face during FaceTime. With both her besties gone, she is struggling too. Meanwhile, Vandana and I are in constant communication, in the same time zone and all, and she invited Chavez and me to Monaco for my birthday, which falls right after the Cherbourg tournament. I have not mentioned this to Chavez, nor does he know Carmen and I have been leaving each other long WhatsApp voice messages since Australia. (She asked to keep it on the down low.)

It started with her asking for career advice, but it's gotten more personal. She wants to come out and is scared shitless about how her parents will react. My fans ask for advice on myriad issues, including coming out, but that is a charged decision with varying degrees of fallout. With no direct experience, all I can offer Carmen are suggestions on the best way to approach it. Like Chavez, she has a tough outer shell that gradually softens when she realizes I am here for her and invested in the outcome. And she is lovely. Smart and scathing, with a penchant for sarcasm and a deep love for her brother. She left the door open for me to talk should anything come up, and if my emotions were not so fucked up this week, I might have.

Balancing the roles of coach and lover with Chavez, confidante with his father and sister, and trying to steer my career while not obsessing over a Velvet Vagina is driving me crazy.

I hate to say it, but when Chavez prevails and lifts his second tournament trophy, I'm glad it's over. He wasn't a brilliant tactician during a tight three-set final, but he overcomes spotty play and a spirited opponent to maintain his cool in a nervy tiebreak that could have gone either way. After all the post-match commitments, we meet in his room before heading out for dinner.

Freshly showered, he gives me a peck on the cheek and asks me to sit with him on the bed. His body language is subdued and the hum in the air says,A talk is coming.

“You look so serious,” I say, trying for lighthearted and failing.

He nods, validating my comment. “I made a mistake. Things are going to change.”

My skin prickles. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” He laughs for what feels like the first time in days. “This,” he says, indicating the hotel room. “Stupidest idea ever, separate hotel rooms. I don’t play well without you in my bed, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

A wave of relief washes over me. “I might have noticed.” I also notice that his room is far tidier than mine.

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