Page 77 of The Challenger

My flightto San Francisco is less than ninety minutes, which is plenty of time for multiple sessions of second-guessing. The arrivals area is thick with tourists and muggy heat, and I can feel dampness under both arms and in the small of my back. Cori got held up in traffic but will be here soon. My heart stutters after reading her text. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t shaping up to be one of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life. My first talk in New York when I was twenty-two created similar anxiety, and I pulled that off, but there is no comparison. I worry that the three of us will be overly polite and dance around each other as if we are untouchable museum pieces.

Can there be a happy ending after all this time?

My phone buzzes in my hand and shit, it's Brandon again. How many more times does he plan to call? I wheel my roller bag to a quiet corner and decide now is as good a time as any to cut him loose.

“Hi, this is Flynn.”

“Flynn,” he says, shocked I have answered. “Brandon Dixler.”

“Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. It's been busy.”

“Understood. I’ve seen the news. That’s why I wanted to talk.”

The tone of his voice unsettles me more than I already am. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m at the airport.”

“I’ll be quick,” he says. The phone muffles as if he’s moving it from one ear to the other. “This is between you, me, and the fencepost, but I have a good friend who works for the IBIA. They—"

“I know who they are,” I interrupt. “What about your friend?”

“I know this fellow quite well,” he explains. “And I know how the back end works when they adjudicate a case. I don’t know where you are with the investigation, but my friend might be able to provide information on who made the bets. Name, address, and so forth.”

A spidey-sense tingle crawls up the back of my neck. Holy Toledo. This could be the piece we need. “Would either of you get in trouble for doing this?”

“As I said, it’s off the record. But I am willing to risk it … for a friend.”

Ah, here we go. If Brandon believes this is a you-scratch-my-back-and-I-scratch-yours scenario, he is sadly mistaken. “I want to be clear, Brandon. Very clear. I am with Chavez, in every way.”

“Oh, I know,” he says quickly. “I’m not offering this up with any ulterior motive.”

“Then why?” I ask, gently but firmly. Even if he thinks he has convinced himself, I need to ensure he understands reality.

“Well, let’s just say, if I didn’t like you, we wouldn’t be on the phone right now. But I am offering it because I believe it’s the right thing to do.” After a beat, he adds, “I don’t know Chavez like you do, but he’s won the sportsman award multiple times and his fellow players cast those votes. He often overrules the ump to award his opponent the point if he feels the call isn’t right, and very few players do that. The water cooler talk is that he plays by the book.”

“It’s true,” I say, because I witnessed Chavez do that very thing in Italy—overrule a call to award his opponent the point. “He would never cheat or bring shame to the sport.”

“Hecoulduse a stint in finishing school,” Brandon muses. “But at the end of the day, I appreciate a fella who shoots from the hip.”

I bite my lip to stop the laugh. That spot-on assessment will remain between us. “Let me run this past Chavez first, just to be sure he is on side with it, okay?”

I am sure Chavez will not say no to this offer, but when he finds out that Brandon and I have spoken, he might have a few other choice things to say.

“Just so you both know,” Brandon warns, “this call never happened. And no guarantees. All I can do is ask.”

“Fair enough, and thank you," I add, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. He is going out on a limb for us.

“Send me a signed book, and I’ll consider it fair and square."

We exchange a few more details on the timing of how quickly this could come together, and I'm smiling like an idiot when we hang up. I need to call Chavez immediately.

“Flynn?”

I spin around, jolted back to the here and now by a warm hand on my shoulder. My eyes start to blink uncontrollably. I thought I had braced myself for this moment, but how do you prepare for the past to rush up on you like the sidewalk after jumping off a skyscraper? Cori searches my face, and her violet eyes are immediately familiar despite being rheumy behind thick glasses. She offers a tentative smile, waiting for me to return it. Low-grade panic buzzes through me. A sense of failure, too. Time is beyond our control—it marches on like a relentless soldier—and to see it marked in the liver spots on the backs of her hands and her slate-grey crown of curls that used to be brown drives home how much of it I have wasted.

If Cori didn’t wrap me in her arms, we might still be standing there, the two feet between us somehow a mile long. Her warmth, how she makes me feel whole … words fail me. The world seems to shrink, and sounds disappear as I struggle to think of what exact evil I attributed to my parents, other than they were two people trying their best and doing what they thought was right.

I hug her back hard, never wanting to let go. She strokes my hair, every quiet touch stripping away years of anger and hurt. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but her chest heaving against mine cracks my resolve.

“Oh darling," she says. “Welcome home.”

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