Page 90 of The Challenger

It’s showtime.

The final.

There is nothing more I can do or say at this point.

Team Chavez waits for me in the players' box, and I hug everyone before taking my seat in the front room. Rodrigo flew here yesterday, as did Vandana and Morgan. June has been here all week. The only ones missing are Gloria, who never watches her son play live, and Carmen, up to her eyeballs in exams. And my Mom and Dad. They are watching from home, and Dad is shitting bricks he's so nervous. Vandana is like a kid in a celebrity candy store, scoping out the glamorous crowd for famous faces.

“This is so exciting,” she says. “It’s like the Superbowl but with better food and everyone is dressed well.”

Morgan leans across her lap to ask me, “How is your man? He looked great during practice.”

“Christ! He hits the ball so hard,” June marvels.

“He’s ready,” I tell them all. “As much as he can be.”

“Win or lose,” Morgan says, “we celebrate in style.”

Is there any other way with him? His ensemble today is a chic white suit and breezy black dress shirt, and why not add a Panama hat and look like a million dollars while every man wonders who his supermodel girlfriend is? Dressed to kill in a body-con Valentino jumpsuit, Vandana is primed and ready for a global TV audience. June went for an elegant, simple sheath, and I splurged on a cute V-neck Miu Miu dress that strikes the right tone between coach and girlfriend. (Little did I know the benchmark for this combo would fall on my shoulders.) Behind me, Rodrigo squirms in an ill-fitting blazer and looks as comfortable as a prisoner in the cargo hold of a tanker heading for Siberia.

“Chavez sends his love,” I say. “He says he’ll do you proud. He wouldn’t be here without you.”

He bows his head. “Gracias, Flynn. For everything you have done. All we can do now is pray.”

God certainly turned it on in the weather department. Rain yesterday forced officials to close the roof for the women’s final. The buzzy crowd today is pumped for a final played in picture-perfect conditions. The media hype for this event has been off the charts. Arlo comes into this match with a strong tiebreak record and the best return game of the year. But Chavez has better hands at the net and a more consistent serve. I never want to hear betting and tennis in the same sentence again, but the pre-match analysis pundits all say the odds are pretty even.

“What is that rubbish?” June lowers her Prada sunglasses to gaze across the court. “Did she put her dress on backward?”

Vandana and I follow her sightline, and my stomach twists into a tighter knot. Vanya slinks her way to the other player's box with gravity-defying boobs held in place by what might be dental floss.

“That’s Arlo’s girlfriend,” I say. "She inhales cigarettes like they’re food."

“She is smashingly trashy,” June muses.

Vandana leans in to whisper, “Is that the one?”

“Yes,” I grumble, having told her the details. I hate Vanya irrationally and forever. We bumped into each other at the start of the tournament and have thrown virtual daggers at every opportunity. The Arlo entourage of physio, trainer, coach, agent, and some European actor guy get a fine view of her double zero body as she squeezes past them. With nothing else on her agenda but to show up courtside flawlessly airbrushed and pouty-lipped, she takes a seat with an air of casual boredom before getting to the most important business at hand: snapping a selfie.

To get my brain off her, Vandana asks, “How does it all work during the match? Do you and Chavez talk?”

At that, Rodrigo breaks into wild laughter. I shoot him a smile over my shoulder before I answer.

“I can communicate with him when he’s on this side of the court. But he can’t say anything to us.”

With Rodrigo still chuckling, Vandana, sensing she’s missing something, asks, “What’s so funny?”

I am about to explain when the air turns electric. The players are ready to come on the court. A surprising number of Mexican fans rise to their feet and wave their flags with chants ofChavez, Chavez.I glance at Rodrigo, choked up with a hand on his heart. What a moment for him. A roar of approval greets his son as he walks onto the court, and we all rise to our feet, clapping and shouting encouragement. Chavez unpacks his gear at the bench and sorts out towels and water bottles while Arlo gets introduced. Chavez wears his usual head-to-toe yellow outfit, and Arlo looks like a ninja in all black. The bumble-bee rumble. Get your stingers ready.

My mind shuts down during the warm-up and remains a swathe of emptiness as the crowds settle and Chavez steps up to the baseline to serve.

Across the red dirt of court Philippe Chatrier, Vanya smirks at me.

I smile back, gritting my teeth.

Please, Chavez, I say to myself. You have to win.

This is not just a final. This is personal.

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