Page 45 of The Challenger

He tucks a crumpled fifty-dollar bill under his mug. “This will help me clear my head. I promise.”

“How do you feel about today, in general?”

He should be fresh after his relatively easy wins. But what I'm feeling is a whole other story as Chavez studies me with his turquoise pupils. I believe June gets credit for coining the termwhoretex—asensation where time has no meaning as you get sucked into the force field of a man you are crushing hard on. Chavez rolled out of bed this morning without shaving or combing his hair and is unfairly scrumptious for making no effort. My nails are ratty gnawed nubs. Five pounds I can’t afford to lose have been sweated away in the baking sun going toe-to-toe with him during practice. And the ripe smell tickling my nose is me, who forgot to put on deodorant this morning. But he still buries his fists in my hair and draws me in with a slow, controlled pull until our noses touch.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he whispers. “You are my only motivation. I don't know what I’m going to do if I don’t win.”

I swallow hard. Hear the thunder of my heart and feel the throbbing deep inside it. He’s been rocking zen-level calm, resolute in keeping his commitment to waiting, to the point June likened me to a depreciable asset, losing value and interest every day. Now that he’s voicing the same struggle that’s keeping me awake at night, my fantasies take on a dangerous life of their own. All week I have dreamt of his nude cock and the sounds he might make when it slides into the dark wetness of my throat. I want him to whisper cheap and common dirty talk as I suck him off. Curse his mother in Spanish when his firm and flawless ass gets the life squeezed out of it. I want our sex to be like a dream, unreal and out of control.

And I want to kiss him forever, starting now.

Chavez obliges my fevered mouth as I annihilate any belief that tonight we do not share a date with destiny. My middle-class upbringing clearly states thou shalt not create an erotic disturbance in public but screw that noise and the horse it rode in on. A little Eggs Benny with a side order of smoking hot Latin love, and even Jesus might have changed his tune. He never felt the weight of a dark, spicy cologne sinking him into a black hole where time and reality blur. Never felt the weight of Chavez pushing him hard against a wall with an audiblesmack.

“Oh, shit,” he says, our coffee breaths mingling together as he cradles my head. “Did I hurt you?”

My ability to feel anything over the dopamine crush is pretty much toast. This is the most physical contact we’ve had since his hotel room door escapade left me in tatters. His chest brushes the tender flesh of my breasts and I no longer care how desperate I sound.

“You need to win, Chavez. For both of us.”

Behind the tall backing of our booth, the waitress has not noticed her customers down for the count and steaming up the windows. Chavez picks up his fork, his hand shaking ever so slightly, and spears one of the fat sausages on his plate, watching the grease erupt. He slices off a nub and brings it to my waiting parted lips, watching in fascination as my tongue curls around it to pop the salted knob of meat off the tines.

“Make a list of everything you want me to do to you," he says, "and I’ll do my best to check off each one.”

* * *

Word isout that the Talented Tornado is back.

It is party central in the grandstands at two in the afternoon, and the rumble in the air is infectious. Everyone wants their brush with a big-name tennis star to be brag-worthy, and the fans are itching for a three-set slugfest, which they may very well get. Branko Silvo is a tricky opponent. I scouted the Argentine during the semis, and he reminds me of a slightly less imposing Juan Martin Del Potro with a well-rounded game of a top-fifty player, not an upstart ranked 182 in the world. He did not look pleased with the ear-splitting roar that greeted Chavez’s appearance on the court—compared to the tinkle of polite applause for his own entrance. I am keeping a firm eye out. You never know what will inspire someone to play the match of their life.

But Chavez is ready. After his errand and a short nap, he says he is feeling it.

Here we go.

They start warming up, the usual ten minutes of getting limber and match ready. I try to channel my adrenaline and slow down my cranking heart. Compared to being a player, the nerves are far worse as a spectator, sitting inert on the edge of my seat. There is no outlet for me. Chavez gets to chop through his butterflies with every swing of his racket, and all I have is a fresh sparkle manicure that I hope is too pretty to gnaw on. The umpire quiets the rowdy crowd which reminds me to silence my phone so as not to be the idiot interrupting match point.

Chavez struts to the service line in his custom yellow Adidas ensemble and acknowledges me with a determined shake of his racket. It’s a balmy ninety-five Fahrenheit, and tension radiates out of both players like the heat waves shimmering on Lake Weeroona in the distance. Chavez won the coin toss and elected to receive. The strategy behind receiving first instead of serving is the hope your opponent will nerve out and hand you the easy break. You never want to jinx or hex your opponent, even if you secretly hope they ate tainted shellfish the night before.

But there is no need to cast spells on Branko 182 because he crumbles all by himself. His four double faults to open the game carry the same foreboding tremor that a perky blonde creeping down the basement stairs in a slasher film does, and the bloodbath that follows makes D-day look like happy hour. One hour and three minutes later, the sea of shell-shocked faces in the bleachers silently admire Chavez as he muscles his fifteenth ace past his flailing opponent. The fans are nowhere close to being liquored up and Chavez is spreadeagled on the hard court in his most lopsided victory ever.

6-0, 6-0.

And that, folks, is what we call a double bagel.

The post-match ceremony, his heartfelt speech to an adoring crowd that will not stop cheering, the hand to his chest when he talks about me—it all speeds by like a bullet train. This is what we wanted, and I’ll take my wee slice of the glory pie, but I’d be lying if I said my thoughts weren’t elsewhere.

Good thing I made that list.

ChapterSeventeen

“Hi, beautiful. Are you ready?”

Oh, Chavez. If you only knew how ready. “Any hints to drop?” I ask.

“Nope. I’ll be there in five.”

I slam what’s left of my mini-bar vodka and take a deep breath to grit out the final few minutes. It’s only seven p.m. with the sun is still in the sky, but it feels like I’ve been waiting all night. The post-match hullaballoo—interviews, doping tests, massage, and photo ops—took longer than the damn match, and Chavez has tested my patience again, taking his sweet time in his room. Of course, take a breather, shower, and bask in the glory of your win etc. But come on already! He has something planned, I know that much. But at this point, I don’t care if he waltzes in here with a bottle of Fireball as a cheap seduction ploy.

Someone needs the nervous energy pounded out of her.

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