Page 89 of The Challenger

“I know,” I say. “Watch out for his drop shots.”

“Not that, silly. How do you feel about playing an American? ESPN won’t shut up about it.”

Oh, yeah,that.

The United States media is crying in their milk because two American players have never faced each other at Roland Garros in the semis, and an American spoiled their party. Last month, I switched countries and now play for Mexico. All I can say is it was time. Papa wept on the phone when I told him. My new agent, a firecracker named Tony, is knee-deep in brokering a bunch of sponsorship deals with Mexican companies, and even the president of Mexico sent me a letter. He also wished me luck this week through my agent and hopes to see me play at Wimbledon. Not having the pressure of a president watching me in the stands suits me just fine. I've got Papa to contend with and Flynn's friend June has been here all week. Morgan and Vandana fly in on Saturday, regardless of whether I win or lose. Come Sunday, if I’m still standing, my player box will be the fullest it has ever been.

“I feel like this is meant to be,” I say.

Flynn kisses me one last time, and I can taste vodka on her breath. I would start drinking in a heartbeat if it could help calm me down.

“You can do it,” she says. “We both know it. Go.”

A voice crackles over the loudspeakers, calling Alex and me to the stadium. A match official escorts us through the hallways and up the final flight of stairs that lead to the holding room before we step onto court Philippe Chatrier. The lower-ranked player always walks on first, and Alex bounces up and down like a hot potato in anticipation.

“Hey,” I say. “Good luck.”

He turns around and smiles. Very few players speak to each other at this moment. “Yeah, you too.”

I stretch out my arms and my pecs. Twist my back until I hear the crunch. The officials radio each other on walkie-talkies to let everyone know the players are ready.

I close my eyes and try to control the rush of adrenaline.

Focus.

Right.

When I step outside onto the court and the roar of applause swallows the sound of my name still ringing from the announcement, focus is borderline impossible. All I have are my routines to keep me on track—what I eat and drink in between sets, making sure I look at Flynn, and changing my shirt if it gets too sweaty. Alex and I have never played together, so I don't know the tricks and psych-outs he might deploy to keep me unsettled during the match. The bathroom break. The mid-set fade. The grunt-fest on an important point or an injury time-out if he is tanking. Legit or not, these things disrupt rhythm, and I win matches only if I can find the rhythm zone.

And today, I am not justinthe zone. Iamthe zone.

I am pure force, ability, and energy, free of the crushing doubt in my head.

Winners scream off my racket in every direction because the ball is ten times its regular size. I see numbers—15, 30, and 40—always identical numbers, and in the final minute, when the roller coaster takes me up, up, up to a height I have never ascended to, and the air is thin, I can barely breathe through the tightness in my chest. I toss the ball, arm straight, and go through the motion that was once upon a time fueled by rage.

White chalk flies up from the center service line, and I see Alex lunge, miss, and then the ball smacks hard against the back wall.

Now the sky is above me, a brilliant blue bubble so far away for a guy flat on his back in the hot red clay. Am I not hearing the crowd, or can I not hear anything beyond my heart exploding in my ears? Flynn jumps and down in my box like she won the lottery, the sun glinting off her auburn curls and that tight body in a dress I plan to rip off in the locker room if she doesn’t stop me. June stands beside her, both hands raised and encouraging me to get up.

But I can’t move.

A hundred memories squash me all at once. The stifling summer heat of Fresno and shitty courts with asphalt chunks missing. Me and Papa fighting. The flights and countries, days and months. All the time I thought I had wasted. I wipe away the sweat dribbling into my eyes, only to realize I am crying.

Shit.

This moment is so much bigger than me.

Punch-drunk and weaving, I stagger to my feet. Suddenly, my ears pop, and the roar of the crowd sets every hair on my body on end. The stadium is awash in Mexican flags, and I bet Mama is calling everyone who will listen with the news. Alex waits for me at the net, head bowed, his opportunity missed. I know that feeling. I have been on the losing end more times than I count, so I need to get my ass in gear and congratulate my opponent.

But I need a minute longer to absorb it all.

Just a minute to comprehend I am in my first Grand Slam final.

ChapterThirty-Five

FLYNN

The facilities,perks, and the sense of occasion … Welcome to a Grand Slam where everything is bigger and more amplified, including nerves. Chavez slept well on the days before the final but tossed and turned for most of last night. I left him in the locker room a few minutes ago with both legs pumping up and down like pistons.

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