CHAPTER 9 #2
I breathe in the quiet air. There’s no one with us, just a few soft lights and the cool metal of a locker at my back.
Aurelio stands above me, watching the door in case someone comes inside.
Lockers are mostly used during matches, so the early days of the tournament shouldn’t bring too many visitors.
After a few more breaths, my body feels like my own again.
I can’t remember ever being so angry at Beck.
What’s strange is—he’s said those types of things before.
I just usually ignore them. Ignore him. Was it the fact that we had witnesses?
Was it that one of those witnesses was Aurelio who is exactly the opposite of my father in every way?
I can’t even imagine Aurelio saying those things.
I scan the room. “Is this the men’s locker room?”
Aurelio shrugs. “It was the first place I thought of.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence between us. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since those weeks ago in the media room. I break it first. “I’m sorry,” I say, plucking at my tennis skirt. “I shouldn’t let him get to me.”
Aurelio shakes his head, hurrying to sit beside me on the bench. His knee brushes mine. “Amy.” I love the way he says my name. Urgently. Hopefully. “Your father is wrong. You don’t need a Grand Slam to be great.”
I huff a laugh. “How can you say that? He’s the greatest tennis player the world’s ever seen and it’s because he won 18 Grand Slams. Men like you will chase his shadow for years and may never find it.”
“I’m chasing me,” Aurelio says firmly. Surprised by his tone, I meet his gaze.
“I know some men like your father chase greatness by comparing themselves to other players, past and present. By obsessing over how to beat them, how to break their records, how to make them victims of his dominance. He wants you to be that way, too. How often does he talk to you about Fernanda?” My silence says it all.
He takes a deep breath. “Do you know how I’ve gotten better this year?
Because I’m playing for that version of me that loves tennis.
That loves running on the open court, chasing down a ball, sliding across the clay.
I’m not playing to win; I’m playing to feel. ”
I want to understand what he’s saying, but I don’t. “Winning matters, Aurelio. It’s all that matters. No one talks about losers.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Finally, he answers, “I want to win, Amy.” His eyes are far away.
“I’ve always wanted to. I just realized that I’m more likely to win without the constant pressure.
The constant fear that I’m regressing in people’s eyes.
That I’m not living up to expectations. That type of pressure kills success.
” He glances my way. “Some people, like your father, are lucky enough to never feel that pressure because they win early. He won as a junior, he won as a professional, and he never stopped. I’m sure there were moments when he wondered if he was getting too old or too slow, but by then, no one could deny his accomplishments.
For the rest of us, we must learn to grapple with our dream.
We must find balance, or we will hate tennis forever. ”
I look at him with new eyes. “You want to win a Major,” I say wonderingly. “I wasn’t sure you cared.”
He laughs sharply. “Of course I want to win a major. I already won one as a junior. I remember the rush. The joy of realizing your hard work has paid off.” He shakes off the memory. “But I’m not a kid anymore. I won’t sabotage the rest of my life to win.”
I blink in confusion. “Sabotage your life? What do you mean?”
He hunches forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “I made a terrible mistake playing in that tournament,” he admits, avoiding my gaze. “I should have gone home, but I was so close to winning. I thought a few more days couldn’t hurt.” He chuckles darkly. “I was wrong.”
I scoot a little closer to him on the bench. I lower my voice. “What was going on at home?”
He stares at the floor. “My mother had been sick for quite some time. Ovarian cancer.” I hold my breath, hoping he’ll continue.
He does, in a wavering voice, “They didn’t tell me much, my family.
I was having a breakout season. Everyone was whispering about how I was the future of tennis.
I loved the clay court tournaments. They reminded me of Italy.
I knew I could win the French Open even as a seventeen-year-old.
” I can imagine this version of Aurelio.
His good looks and tennis abilities twisted into a confident teenage boy ready to conquer the world.
Aurelio takes a shaky breath. “My father and brother were supposed to come see me play when I made it to the final. But the day before my match, my father called and said they couldn’t come because my mother had a few doctor appointments they had forgotten about.
Some routine tests she couldn’t miss. He sounded strange on the phone, but I didn’t push too hard.
I wanted to play in the final. So, the next day, I did. And I won.”
I know what he’s going to say before he does.
“She died that day. The same day I won the most important title of my life.” I’m fumbling past his shoulder, reaching down for his hand.
When my hand finds his, he holds on tightly, weaving our fingers together.
As though he’d been waiting for me. It seems to give him the strength to sit up.
His eyes are glassy, but his face is dry.
Our clasped hands sit on his leg. “I hadn’t seen her in months.
I didn’t say goodbye. I flew home to Rome for her funeral, and I didn’t leave for two years. I didn’t pick up my racket either.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m so sorry, Aurelio. They should have told you how sick she was.” I feel some indignation on Aurelio’s behalf. His family kept secrets from him, and it blew up his life.
“Yes, they should have.” There’s a flash of something heavy in his eyes, anger or disgust, but Aurelio controls it, steering himself to calmer waters.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
When he looks at me again, his expression is familiar in its openness.
“But I understand why they did it. You didn’t know that version of me.
I was closer to your father. I obsessed over winning.
I had a chart on my bedroom wall when I was young of all the Grand Slams I was going to win.
I wanted to win one more than your father, so I could be the greatest of all time. ”
I laugh lowly at that. “And now you’re sitting with his daughter in a men’s locker room.”
He smiles at me. His right dimple pops. “A young Aurelio could never have imagined such a beautiful girl, that’s for sure.
” I blush a little at the compliment. Aurelio’s smile eventually fades.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be a competitor, Amy.
I love tennis. I love being a tennis player.
” He looks at me meaningfully. “But after my mother died, I realized that I couldn’t sacrifice Aurelio the person for Aurelio the tennis player.
I’d only come back to tennis once I found a way for them to exist together. ”
“And you did?” I knock my knee with his. “You found a way to balance it?”
“I try very hard,” he admits. “I make an effort to see my family more between tournaments. I try to visit one new landmark at each city we visit on tour. I read books before bed and take walks in the morning. I talk to a grief counselor once a month.”
I stare at him in wonder. “I don’t know if I can do it, Aurelio. My father drives me crazy, but he’s all I have. You found balance in your family, in your home. My home is a gated mansion in Malibu, and my family is the greatest tennis player in the world. Maybe it’s too late for me to change.”
Aurelio raises our joined hands, gently kissing the back of mine. My breath stutters in my chest. “It doesn’t just have to be your father, Amy. I will be here, too, if you’ll let me.”
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my life.
I could sit for hours staring into his face, counting his freckles, analyzing the golden strands in his hair, caressing the sharp cut of his jaw.
I’ve kissed a few beautiful men in my life, but Aurelio is more than beautiful on the outside.
He’s the first person who cares that Amy the person, not Amy the tennis player, even exists.
He’s the first person to have faith in both parts of me: the part who expects to win a Grand Slam, and the person she’ll be if that never happens.
He stared down the barrel of a pain-filled gun and survived it.
I want to be just like him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as he is.
We’re both leaning together, magnets drawing closer to meeting.
From here, I can see that even some of his eyelashes are golden.
We silently agree to drop hands so he can wrap his around my waist, mine around his neck.
The moment feels heavy, vulnerable and safe. I want Aurelio so badly I’m shaking.
Bright light slashes across the floor. Voices break the silence. Three young tennis players shove through the locker room door.
I’m on my feet, untangled from Aurelio, by the time they properly look at us. He stays sitting. “Amy Bowman?” One of the young ones asks, mouth open when he sees me in the men’s locker room. He can’t be 18 yet.
The dark-haired one looks over my shoulder. He raises an eyebrow. “Aurelio? You good, man?” His accent sounds like Aurelio’s. He must be an Italian. They definitely know each other.
I answer before Aurelio can. “I was feeling a little dizzy,” I say brightly.
Too brightly. I’d rather have people believing that I’m struggling with the heat than hooking up with Aurelio in the men’s locker room.
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Thanks, Aurelio, for the help! You’re right, I just needed the shade. ”