Page 62 of The Challenger

While the men gossip, we catch up on our news—all the tennis, their recent client trip to Russia, the new design company she incorporated here, and dinner comes and goes in a heartbeat. We’re all poised with our spoons ready to crack the burnt-sugar tops of our creme brûlées when the unkind stare of none other than Arlo Märklin appears at our table. Blond and dirty-hot, he is amy-shit-don’t-stink blueblood with a dead-fish personality and skilled, but unspectacular, game. For some reason now it crosses my mind that he lives in Monaco, as many tennis players do.

His eyes bounce from Morgan to Vandana and then to me before he smirks at Chavez. “Slumming it at the big kids’ table?”

“If you want to join in,” Chavez replies, “I think they have a highchair.”

I want to cheer,Yes! Excellent comeback.We had a long conversation about Arlo in Cherbourg (minus the topic of Vanya, who Chavez is unaware I know about) because he’d just won the Australian Open. Chavez can’t stand him, and the feeling is mutual. Unfortunately, their matches have always swung in Arlo’s favor—five-zip, all of them straight-set victories played either on grass or hard courts. But they have never played each other on clay, which is the surface Chavez loves the most. He is itching for a showdown with Arlo on his turf.

“No thanks,” Arlo replies. “I better get back to my table and my trophy. Do you want to see it?”

“Congratulations,” Chavez says, his leg shimmying hard under the table.

Arlo fixes his gaze on me with the comfort of someone who regularly towers over everyone else. “You’re the infamous coach, I take it? What’s it been like bottom-feeding with him on the Challengers?”

Chavez stands so abruptly that his chair screeches across the parquet with a sharp wail. He dumps his napkin on the table and gets right into Arlo’s face.

“You want to take this outside?”

Arlo’s head falls back with a laugh. “Sure, my friend. Make it six-zero?”

Across the table, panic swells in Vandana’s eyes. The sun has barely set on her scandal with Morgan and the last thing she needs is to be associated with another.

“Chavez,” I whisper urgently, but it falls on deaf ears.

It all happens so fast after that.

Chavez slams his palms against the wall of Arlo who stumbles back, knocking hard into a passing waiter. The man’s tray of steaks upends, and the charred airborne beef filets float in the damning silence of a situation about to go from bad to worse. The waiter and Arlo tumble onto their asses, and a busboy rushes in to help but skids out, the heel of his shoe squished into a steak. He crashes onto the two men already on the floor and in the unglamorous tangle of limbs, I can't make out who is who. Our fellow dinner guests turn to ogle the brewing commotion as the notes from the piano player on the deck a few yards away tinkle into nothing.

Under her breath, Vandana mutters, "Shitty, shit, shit."

Face blotchy with rage, Arlo scrambles to his feet as gracefully as a giant can. Chavez shrugs out of his blazer and chucks it onto his chair, the street fighter ready to go. Vandana, Morgan, and I all stand at the same time. I rest a hand lightly on his sleeve, urging him, “Don’t, please.”

He shakes off my gesture with virtual steam coming out his nose as a small army of dispatched staff swarm to clean up the mess. Morgan uses the distraction to swoop in and save the day, inserting himself between the two bruisers and pushing them apart with surprising authority. What I glean from his patient and modulated French is that he gently encourages Arlo to get the fuck out of here.

Arlo straightens his tie and floppy hairdo and can’t resist one last jab. “See you around. If you climb out of the trough.”

I grab onto Chavez, this time holding firm as he mutters, “Asshole.”

His head swivels to stare down everyone staring at us, challenging them until they look away. The manager who joked and blew smoke up our asses earlier hovers close by with a tight smile that is no longer accommodating. Morgan assures him that yes, we are leaving.

Tragedy averted, Vandana touches her diamond choker and whispers, “Thank God.”

She clocks the tattoos on Chavez, his hands fisted and ready, and without saying anything, I know she has reassessed him. The ripple of tension in the room slowly dissipates, and the guests go back to enjoying foie gras and their one-percent life.

Morgan, bless him, remains in good spirits and jokes, “Never a dull moment in fair Monaco.”

“Thank you,” I say and squeeze his forearm. “We appreciate you stepping in.”

He leans in with a conspiratorial whisper. “No one likes him anyway. I was hoping your man might take him out.”

He winks at Chavez, who feels compelled to smile while privately seething. His temper has been in check, more or less, all month, but to have Arlo show him up in front of me, my friends, and Monaco society is going to result in the kind of blowout that sells tickets.

“Don’t worry,” I say, trying to soothe him. “You’ll get your revenge on the court.”

But a black cloud hangs over his head, so I gather my wrap and evening bag, mentally preparing for the worst back at the hotel. Nothing says we can't end the evening on a lower note.

ChapterTwenty-Four

“You okay to walk inthose shoes?"Chavez asks me.

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