CHAPTER 12
Aurelio abandons me as soon as we get to his hotel.
He gently nudges me into the elevator with his hotel key, the room number, and a soft kiss on the cheek.
He disappears around the corner, heading towards the lobby.
I can hardly even ask where he’s going before the quiet elevator is lifting me up to the fourth floor.
Like all players, Aurelio stays in a nice hotel.
Even the elevator is gilded. I can see my reflection clearly in the mirrored doors.
The floor numbers change as I study myself in the glass.
There are still a few lingering hives on my forearms, a particularly angry one on the side of my neck.
They aren’t itching nearly as much as they were in the patisserie, but they’re still marking me.
It’s like Amy Bowman’s version of a Scarlet A.
They’re a sign of weakness that’s so much worse to Beck than if his daughter was a whore.
Whores still practice every day after their bedhopping. Women in love waste his time and lose championships.
I’m curious when I enter Aurelio’s hotel room.
After nearly two weeks in Paris, my room still looks hardly lived in.
Beck and Suzy trained me since I was a junior player to keep on top of it.
I would send laundry down every few days and make sure to unpack the day I arrived.
I know a lot of other players’ rooms are practically destroyed by the time they leave a big tournament.
I once heard Angelina lecturing Fernanda about the state of her room at Wimbledon.
Now, after seeing how much of her wardrobe she brings along, I’m not surprised.
I’m also not surprised at the state of Aurelio’s room.
It looks lived in, but tidy. The bed is made, but there are a few pillows askew or on the floor.
His favorite electric green hoodie hangs over the chair in the corner.
I take a few steps into the room, feeling like an intruder without him.
The desk sitting under the window is piled high with a surprising number of papers and a computer.
Since I’m a women’s player, I see no harm in sifting through the notes.
I don’t understand most of them, as Aurelio and his team primarily work in Italian, but I recognize a lot of scouting information and statistics that Beck and I use as well.
I turn away from the desk and head to the bed, exhausted.
My skin feels tight and used. I’m about to sit down when I notice a small gold frame on Aurelio’s bedside.
I reach over and pick it up gently, barely holding the edges of the frame.
I know instantly that it’s Aurelio’s mom.
She has the same golden curls, though hers fall loosely around her shoulders.
She’s laughing in the image, head tilted up towards the sun.
A small hand clutches hers, a young Aurelio just out of frame.
A lump starts in my throat. My mother is hardly worth a damn, but she’s still around.
I’d be devastated to lose her, and I’m under no illusion that we’re as close as most parents are to their children.
I wish I could understand Aurelio’s joy, his optimism, his hope for people when he struggled through so much darkness.
I’m setting down the frame exactly where I found it when the door opens.
I turn to see Aurelio holding a mysterious brown bag with the hotel’s lettering on the outside.
His dark gaze darts to the frame and back to me.
I speak before he can. “She looks like you.” I glance back down at the beautiful woman in the frame. “A lot like you.”
He walks into the room fully, shutting the door behind him.
He sets the brown bag on the bed and walks to my side.
“Thank you.” His gaze drifts from my face to hers.
“I think it used to cause my father pain that I looked so much like her. A constant reminder that I was here and she wasn’t.
” There’s a tightness in his voice that I’m not used to hearing.
My hand drifts to his arm, rubbing gently.
The gesture pulls him from his memories.
He smiles softly at me. “But now, time has softened the blow, and we only find a bittersweetness in any reminders of her.”
“Was she like you?” I ask, curious. “Did you have the same personality? Same temperament?”
Aurelio grins. “No. I take after my father. He is the gentle one. My mother was spirited and loud. She liked to talk and captivate the room with her stories. My older brother, Alessandro, does not look as much like her, but he acts just as she does.” He catches himself. “Just as she did.”
I can’t imagine a world where I’m like my mother. Or my father, for that matter, though I’ve wished for it in the past. “That’s nice. You both have a piece of her. And your father has both pieces.”
Subconsciously, we’ve both leaned into each other, staring down at his mother’s picture. Eventually, I break the silence to ask. “Where did you go? What’s in the bag?” My curious gaze snags at the small bag sitting on the edge of the bed.
Aurelio walks over to it, as though to show me what’s inside. Instead, he hesitates, hands hovering over it. “The hives,” he pauses, “You’ve had them before, yes?”
I shiver in the hotel’s A/C, even with Aurelio’s sweater on.
His gaze lingers on my neck, the only place where he can still see the angry spots.
I decide to go with honesty. “They’re stress-related,” I admit, shifting from one foot to the other.
The lights in the room seem too bright, Aurelio’s gaze too searing.
I wish he wasn’t looking at me so closely, but that’s how he always looks at me.
“I’ve been getting them every once in a while, for the past year. ”
Aurelio is quick. “Since you became number one in the world?”
I shrug. “I guess the pressure does get to me sometimes.” Am I really that ice woman the commentators say I am? I always thought so, but my body betrays me.
Aurelio nods, keeping his tone casual. “My mother got hives, too.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “When she had cancer?” There’s a strain to the words which I try to hide.
Aurelio immediately puts up his hands in a “stop” gesture. “No, no.” He rushes to explain. “This is from before she was sick. She got them sometimes after a particularly grueling race. Her doctor said it had something to do with the heat.”
I’m struggling to follow. “After her races? What races?”
Aurelio’s surprised by my confusion. “I thought I told you. My mother was an athlete, too. A runner, mostly. By the time she had me and my brother, she was semi-retired, but she still ran in local races sometimes.”
“So that’s where you get your love of sprinting,” I say wryly.
He smiles but doesn’t take the bait. “She was sensitive to the heat, so sometimes after her races, she would have hives like you do.” He opens up the paper bag and pulls out a to-go box.
“My father always had an oat bath ready for her afterwards to help with them. The hotel didn’t have the finely ground oats that my father used, but I had them put their oats through the food processor, so I think it should still have the same calming effect. ”
I can’t speak. I can’t understand what he’s saying. I refuse to understand.
He opens the lid to the to-go box. It almost looks like sand. “It’s soothing,” he promises. “Luckily, my room has a bathtub. I will go run the water for you and fetch a robe and towel. The water will be barely warm. Too much heat or cold makes the hives worse.”
And then he leaves me to go to the attached bathroom. I hear him run the water for the bath and open some cabinet doors, probably grabbing the proffered towel and robe.
I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling strangely lightheaded.
I’m too afraid to tell my father about my hives.
I’ve hidden them from him for months. Aurelio catches one glimpse and comes up with a whole treatment plan.
I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes filling with tears, though I make sure not to let them fall.
I always thought the way Beck treated me was the champion’s way.
That if it was different from how other people loved, that was because our collective goal was more important than the love was.
Now, I wonder if the way he treats me has nothing to do with being a champion.
Aurelio is on the path to being a Grand Slam winner, a champion, and he treats me with such kindness.
I don’t deserve it because I don’t know how to accept it.
A different girl would be better for him. Any other kind of girl, really.
I sniff a little, trying to gather myself.
Aurelio catches my attention. “Amy?” He’s leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, watching me.
He’s holding a plush white bath robe. He senses something’s off, rushing over to me.
“You don’t have to take the oat bath.” He tosses the robe next to me, reaching for my hands.
He leans down to look me in the eye. “If you think it’s....
” he struggles to find the word, “Gross or something. I just wanted you to feel better.”
I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs. I try very hard to say the right thing. “No, I’ll take the bath. It’s so thoughtful.” I look into his warm gaze. “You’re the kindest person I know, Aurelio.”
He shakes his head, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, mia dolce.” His voice is low, liquid honey. “Come.” He tugs me to my feet, tossing the robe over his shoulder. He starts walking me towards the bathroom.
I can feel my eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare, genuine smile spreading across my face. “Don’t get a big head,” I warn him. “I really don’t know that many people.”