CHAPTER 9 #3
I flee the locker room, only catching a glimpse of Aurelio touching two fingers to his lips as I step back into the glaring Paris sun. I haven’t seen him in action, but I’m sure he’s a poor liar. Hopefully, the three young men don’t give him a hard time.
I start walking towards the gym, texting Vince to meet me there.
Hopefully, he or Rafe have my rackets and bag.
For the first time, I crave some calming stretches and yoga.
Between Fernanda, my father, and Aurelio, I feel like my world’s been turned upside down. My adrenaline has officially crashed.
After getting the confirmation text from Vince, I hover over Aurelio’s name. Should I apologize for running out of the locker room? He knows why I did it, right? Beck doesn’t need to hear about us today of all days.
I finally text Aurelio.
Amy:
Can I join you on your walk tomorrow? I can meet you outside at 6 a.m.
I immediately regret it. Aurelio just told me that he uses that time for himself. Maybe he doesn’t want company. Plus, I’d have to get up early, which is not in my normal routine. If Aurelio thinks this version of me is a little icy, wait until he sees me in the morning.
A ping from my phone interrupts my swirling thoughts. I step into the cool air of the gym, take a deep breath, and open the text.
Aurelio:
I can’t wait.
Vince calls me over to where he’s waiting beside some yoga mats. He takes in my expression. His brow furrows. “I heard you got into it with your dad. What’s got you smiling so much?”
I hurriedly shove my phone into my pocket. “Nothing.”
But his knowing expression follows me the rest of the afternoon.
*
Fortunately for my tired brain, the rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity.
After an hour of yoga with Vince, I meet with the Roland Garros marketing team to film a few TikToks where we answer trivia questions about the tournament and Paris.
I fail horribly at the Paris-related questions.
It’s sad that I’ve been coming to Paris every year for a decade but still haven’t visited most of its famous landmarks.
That evening, I’m supposed to attend a Women’s Tennis Association, or WTA, dinner.
It’s a gala event where we raise money for programs that encourage young women to engage in sports.
It’s my third year going, and Oscar de la Renta sent over a gorgeous, silky black gown for the occasion.
The expensive garment bag is already hanging on my closet door when I come back from doing press.
I quickly shower, scrubbing the residue of my anger and sweat away.
I haven’t seen or heard from Beck all afternoon.
He’s probably doing his own press, one of the few coaches to get just as many interviews as their players.
After I get out of the scalding shower, I pin my wet hair up into a sleek topknot and create a brown smoky eye to go with the look.
When I pull the dress out of the bag, I’m shocked by its beauty.
It looks like a pool of ink. There’s a high neck in the front, and a low cowl in the back.
The only thing holding the dress up is a ribbon around the neck and another one around the small of my back.
I tie the ribbons into bows and slide on my heels.
I head towards the door and immediately notice a problem—the dress is a little too long.
Maybe my measurements were off, or maybe they anticipated I’d wear higher heels, but the dress pools around my feet, dragging on the floor. I need to be careful, or I’ll trip.
I take a deep breath, grab my clutch off the dresser, and brave the hotel hallway.
Almost immediately, I have to step around a housekeeper with a cart.
She apologizes profusely, hurrying to get out of my way.
I stumble to the side, stepping on the dress and tearing it.
The sound it makes is tragic. “Shit.” I pull the hem free, lifting it off the floor.
There’s a decent rip in the delicate silk.
Maybe not noticeable from afar, but certainly up close.
I hear a door open down the hall. “Amy?” Fernanda’s smooth voice calls. “Everything okay?”
She’s also dressed for the gala, wearing a sparkly gold dress with a corset that resembles armor.
Her long, dark hair trails over her shoulder.
She looks like she’s going to the Oscars.
I feel small as she approaches, peering down at the tear in my dress.
She must be nearly 6’4” in her heels. “I stepped on it,” I explain.
I stare longingly at my hotel door, but I know I don’t have anything appropriate hiding in my suitcase.
Surprisingly, Fernanda’s face brightens once she sees the damage. She digs around in her clutch bag. “Here!” She unearths a tiny sewing kit. “We can use this. Anika gave it to me last year when the same thing happened to me!”