Page 60 of The Challenger

My skin prickles with foreboding. “Why that section?”

“Because I didn’t think it through the first time. How it must have felt for you to be eighteen and fighting with your boyfriend for the first time, then waking up the next morning feeling like shit only to overhear your parents spill the beans that you’re adopted. It must have destroyed you.”

The world indeed collapsed around me that summer morning, a star’s death resulting in a black hole of unescapable lies and betrayal. The urge to run away from a life that no longer made sense burned through me like wildfire. I ran out of the house and never stopped until I reached Hamilton, packing up for a white-water rafting trip in his parent’s driveway. I begged him to forgive me for our fight. I begged him to take me rafting with him.

And when he asked why, I lied. My fine legacy of lies started right there.

“Is it okay to talk about this?” Chavez asks, finding my eyes and seeing the wildness within them.

Oh, God.

I swallow away the rawness in my throat.

In my dreams, the ones where my elbow and kneecap did not shatter on rocks in the rushing rapids, my hand found a safety harness and my fellow rafters pulled me back inside the boat. And Hamilton saved me instead of becoming paralyzed when a rogue log charging down the river broke his back.

The clash of memory and the sensations surrounding me, warp the here and now. I swear I can see Hamilton floating away in the drifting tide of the English Channel, his arm no longer reaching for me.

“You’re brave Flynn,” Chavez whispers in the dark. “Strong and smart and inspiring. If you can do it, so can I. Fight the battles in front of me instead of the battles behind me.”

An emotional tidal wave washes over me and I duck for the cover of his lap, hugging his legs somewhat awkwardly. I can feel the muscles beneath his jeans. Hear my heart thudding out of control.

“Watcha doing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Just … being.”

I am surfing the edge of things again, but with my mind in turmoil, it is all I can do to remain still. Chavez rubs slow circles on my back, both of us content to let the sound of crickets starting their evening calls fill the space instead of words. His body heat radiates through the coarse wool blankets wrapped around us, both barely enough to stave off the damp seaside chill.

I'm about to suggest we head inside when he asks, “You ever thought of having kids?”

A sharp taste fills my mouth. Someone once said the more something threatens your identity, the more you avoid it, and with frightening efficiency, I have sealed myself off from the concept of motherhood. I never believed myself to be worthy, that I would somehow screw it up, and screw up my child in the process.

Or worse, wish I had never had them.

But yesterday, as we binge-watched a thriller series while spooning together on the couch, his hand absently rubbed my belly and I thought, what if I was wrong? What if there was nothing to be scared of but my own happiness?

What if I stopped fighting the battles behind me?

I stare into the black night and feel myself slowly dissolve into it. My voice finally comes, small as it might be. “With the right person, I’d consider it.”

“That’s how I feel,” he says.

It's funny how the most powerful moments in a relationship are never splashy, blowout events like New Year's Eve or birthdays. Or even the smutty events with hips straddling your face as you sit in a dark corner sucking the very Catholicism out of your man. Sometimes it's overlooking the waves in a coastal French town, draped on someone’s lap and thinking for once, I am not the woman getting a man into trouble.

I am the woman changing his life.

Flynn Dryden Truth #6. Pick your success team wisely.

ChapterTwenty-Three

Chavez fallsin the semi-finals at Cherbourg, despite showing grit and flair. Although I sense a darker undercurrent troubling him from the tough loss, he talks candidly about where he needs to tighten up his game. All I cared about was his second-round match against Georgie, the foul-mouthed buddy of Nathan. They both signed up for Cherbourg, and my sick sense of glee when they got handed walking papers early on was immature, but I felt it, nonetheless.

Sue me.

I'm on a creative roll and nothing, especially tennis man drama, can stop me. I grind out an insane daily word count with my mind free and body on fire after my boyfriend takes creative liberties with me. And it is true—we are official as of last week. A group of autograph seekers approached us on the street, and Chavez introduced me as his girlfriend instead of coach for the first time. He fumbled after, embarrassed, and asked, sweetly, if it was okay to call me that. Of course, I said yes. Everything shifted one level higher after our seaside bench moment, and this was a natural extension.

Packing up the chateau is more emotional than I expected. Three weeks slipped by like nothing, and even the questionable plumbing did not dim our first experience at playing house together. Our time there was magical, almost like being in a dream.

And the surreal world continues as we haul ass across the Mediterranean in a helicopter owned by Morgan. We’ll have two days of fun before our romantic weekend in Paris and then the final tournament in Pau, France. If anyone had told me back in December this is what my life would be like come February, I would have laughed non-stop. Hard to believe I was one phone call away from leaving Chavez to figure his shit out in an Echo Park driveway.

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