Page 68 of The Challenger

She swats my hand away, eyes flashing fire. “You can’t own me, Chavez. I’m not a trinket.”

And there it is. Despair rolls off me in waves. It is time for all the understanding in the world and not ultimatums, but I can’t have my heart stomped on. I storm to the door and practically wrench it off its hinges.

“Fine. Then I guess we’re done. Here’s the goddamn door.”

My voice is a quivering shell of itself and I can barely focus, let alone see as my eyes glaze over. So, I do not register his presence. Not until Flynn takes a startled step back with a look on her face like she’s about to puke all over Paris.

And that’s how life as I know it ends: with a cop the size of a bloated gorilla in the doorway, twirling his moustache and doing his best not to stare at my dick flapping in the breeze.

ChapterTwenty-Six

FLYNN

The cop clearshis throat and finds something on the floor to observe. “Monsieur Delgado?”

“Yeah,” Chavez says, puffing out his chest despite his nakedness. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Armand Moreau," he says. "I am part of the unit that specializes in betting and match-fixing investigations. There were reports of suspicious betting on three of the matches you played in Cherbourg. I need to confiscate your laptop and mobile phone as evidence. You are provisionally suspended from playing professional tennis until further notice.”

A complete look of bewilderment washes over Chavez’s face. “What are you talking about? I’ve never bet on any match in my life.” He looks over at me, hoping. “Is this a joke?”

Police don’t show up at the Ritz on Sunday morning as a joke, I know that much. I’m still reeling from our argument, but there is something to be said for maintaining a shred of dignity. I slink to the bathroom and return with a robe that Chavez shrugs on. Mine got left at the pool last night, so the bedsheet will have to do.

Chavez knots the belt and slides my phone into one of the robe pockets. “I’m telling you, I am not a cheater,” he insists. "Someone has made a mistake.”

“Why does he have to give you his laptop and phone?” I ask. Armand gives me a careful once-over. “I’m his coach,” I add, my professional tone somewhat pointless given my toga party attire.

“They’re allowed to ask,” Chavez interjects. “But only when the evidence is suspicious. What matches did the betting happen on?”

“Please, Monsieur Delgado, the electronics.” Moreau stands firm, and from his tone, the wedding band on his finger, and his general air of tiredness, I deduce he has young children requiring a constant hand to control their shenanigans. He doesn’t strike me as overly vain, but his slack and pouchy skin is an odd shade of orangey brown that speaks to a spray-tan addiction. "The Tennis Integrity Unit oversees all corruption investigations. Please contact them for the details."

I blink, dumbfounded. Corruption? No one tosses that word around flagrantly. Outside, the rain starts up again, turning torrential.

“How am I supposed to contact them if I don’t have a phone?” Chavez demands.

“Perhaps…” Moreau’s eyes shift ever so slightly toward me. He has the nerve to smile. “Your coach may assist you?”

He’s unmovable; a solid mass of French ‘no.’ I feel a brief flutter of suspense, of something beyond my control. First it was Nathan peppering me with questions in Italy. Then he and Georgie were in France. And now that I think about it, Brandon also knew Chavez was playing in Cherbourg. Everything suddenly complicates. Timelines. Motives.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Chavez says, expressing my thoughts to a T. He stomps to the bedside table, unplugs his phone, and digs through his carry-on bag for the laptop. “Here,” he says, handing both over to Moreau. “All I can say is they better have some cause for this.”

“De rien, Monsieur Delgado, for your cooperation.” He hands Chavez a business card with a caveat. “We are not responsible for the final decision, so please do not contact me for information. Once the investigation is over, you can call that number to claim your electronics. Please be aware that match-fixing is a criminal offense in France,” he continues, adding a whole other sparkling dimension to the morning.

“Who do I contact at the ITIA?” Chavez asks, accepting his fate with a bald look of fear.

“They will assign someone to your case. Call them tomorrow morning. They are based in London.”

“Is he—are we,” I quickly change, “allowed to leave France?”

Moreau nods. “For now, yes. If a hearing takes place, it will be online, through an independent court in Switzerland.” He tips his hat as if saying adieu to friends at the market. “Pardon for the interruption. I’ll let you get back to your day.”

He lets himself out without a further word, brushing past a hotel employee standing guard outside the door. A higher-up of some sort, judging from her smart business attire. She clasps her hands together tightly, tighter than her smile, if that is possible, and introduces herself as Madeline.

“Bonjour,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

She does a sweep of our room and our faces. I really should not be draped in a sheet.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Chavez says.

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