Page 69 of The Challenger

Madeline nods slowly. She’ll double check with Moreau on the fine part. “If we can be of assistance, please don’t hesitate to contact the front desk.”

Chavez lets the door slam shut and stares at me as if seeing nothing and everything. Something doesn’t fit, not quite.

“How much have you been blabbing to Dixler?” he asks.

“Nothing. We...”

“We?” He interrupts, a cold bite in his voice.

I run my hands through my hair, unsure what to say without creating a shit storm.

“Flynn,” he says. “Tell me what is going on. I can see it in your face. You know something about this.”

I cross my arms, wondering where to start and worrying how this will all end. “In Italy, this guy approached me. Two guys. You played one of them in Cherbourg. Nathan Abbott.”

His brow furrows in recall. “You were watching his match in Italy.”

“I was, but only to watch him lose,” I clarify. “He was an idiot. They both were. They saw you kiss me in the bleachers, that first day I came to practice, and came over to harass me.”

He moves to the gas fireplace, flips the switch, and a flame jumps across the grill. It is chilly in here, or maybe it’s that all my blood has left my extremities.

“I told you never to talk to anyone about this shit,” he says.

“I know,” I say, distress rattling my voice higher. “It wasn’t like that. Honestly. He brought up odds or splits and I threatened to talk to the officials—”

“He specifically mentioned betting? When did you plan on telling me this? Oh let me guess, never.” Chavez laughs, but it’s a dead laugh, one with no humor. “Do you realize my career might be over?”

“But I didn’t say anything!”

How can I make him believe me when I don't know the truth? I would do anything to go back in time, but as it turns out, I will have to go way back, all the way to the beginning. As sure as the Parisian weather can turn on a dime, so too can this day plunge off a cliff.

My phone buzzes in his robe pocket, and he reaches for it with his eyes never leaving mine. From the moment he skims the message I know something very bad is about to happen.

His voice is barren when he asks, “How many dudes are you stringing along besides me?”

“I’m not stringing you along.”

He leans against the mantle and observes me with a stark look. “It’s great to know you and your boyfriend refer to me as a brown boy. That’s the cherry on top of everything. And I can’t believeyou’vebeen betting on my matches.”

All the air disappears from the room. I lick my lips, trying to kickstart my lungs. My heart. My brain.

Brown boy.

I blocked the stalker’s number last month. How many phones does this idiot own?

“Give me the phone, Chavez. Now.”

Maybe it’s my tone, the rise of panic. The sound of guilt. His attention pricks. I need to see the message so I lunge at him, but he steps back, holding the phone high above his head.

“You don’t understand!” I yell. “Give it to me!”

“Oh, I understand,” he says, the cut in his voice sharper than a blade. “I have been an absolute idiot to trust you. Flynn Dryden and her truths are the biggest joke of all. You are nothing but a liar.”

“I would never throw you under the bus. You know that.”

“Just like you promised me you’d never talk to Brandon. Or that you would never talk about my game to strangers?”

He tosses me the phone. My hands shake so violently I can barely see the screen.

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