CHAPTER 13 #2
Aurelio hesitates, deciding what to say. My heart sinks. “He was,” he finally agrees, soft. “He has big hopes for you. Big dreams.”
There’s a lot left unsaid. “But?”
Aurelio sighs. “But it’s also a lot of pressure, no?”
I sigh along with him, rubbing a frustrated hand over my face. “No, you’re right. I heard it, too. Even when he was talking about me, he was also talking about himself.”
I can tell Aurelio is trying to find something positive to say about my father. “Maybe he’s right,” he offers. “You have a great opportunity to win this year’s tournament. Fernanda is your only real competition.”
I shake my head. “And myself.”
Aurelio disagrees, “That’s true of everyone. You’re the best tennis player in the world. One of these tournaments will be yours. It’s just a matter of time.”
It’s tempting to imagine it. There are two Grand Slam tournaments left this season, this one and the U.S. Open in August. Even winning one of those would turn the whole year around. Maybe some of that pressure from my father would alleviate.
Until, inevitably, the bubble bursts. Beck would just focus on the next Slam and the next and the next.
“I’ll never win eighteen,” I admit. “It would take a miracle. He won six Slams between nineteen and twenty-four, which is how old I am now. He also never had a challenger as good as Fernanda. She won’t let up on me, as she shouldn’t.
I’m not going to win eighteen Grand Slams. I probably won’t win half that many.
At this rate, I’ll be lucky to win one.” I look ahead, too embarrassed to see Aurelio’s pitying expression.
“So, I’ll be a disappointment to him forever. ”
When I finally do dare a glance at Aurelio, his expression is exactly like I thought it would be.
Soft, gentle, and sad for me. I can’t stand it for a second longer.
I lighten my tone. “Enough about my stupid family. What about yours?” After a covert glance around confirms no one seems too interested in us, I link my arm with Aurelio’s.
I can tell it makes him happy, if a little surprised. “Are they coming to the tournament?”
Aurelio’s expressions warms. He practically glows in the morning sun. “Sì. They’ve all decided to come for the second week of the tournament.” He grins down at me. “Except for Nona, of course, who still refuses to fly.”
I laugh. “The second week of the tournament? Is Aurelio Santoro getting a big ego? What if you lose your first match?”
Aurelio blushes a little, which is adorable. “I’ve made it to the second week of each of the major tournaments this year. It was just practical.”
“Sure.” I tease him. “Just practical. Admit it—making the top five has given you a big head.”
Aurelio narrows his eyes at me. “Or maybe the Amy Bowman is rubbing off on me.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Unfortunately.”
I tilt my head innocently. “The Amy Bowman? I doubt it. She’s the number one player in the world.
I doubt she’d date below a top three ranking.
” Aurelio laughs, just the way I like. I crack a real smile.
“I’m glad you’re betting on yourself, Aurelio.
It’s not just practical, it’s smart. No one on the men’s tour is playing better than you are right now. ”
Aurelio’s laughter fades. His tone grows dark. “Except Charles Allard.”
I squeeze the arm looped in mine. “You’ll beat him,” I promise. They’re not in the same quarter of the draw, so they’ll only meet again in the semifinals. “You’ll beat him in the semis with your whole family watching.”
Aurelio squeezes back, voice softening. “It’s not a coincidence that I’ve gotten better since we’ve been together,” he confesses. “Your greatness only inspires mine.”
He pulls me to a stop, disentangling our arms. We’ve looped through the training grounds, so we’re back where we started, by the ivy wall at the main entrance.
“Amy.” He takes a deep breath, gaze steady on me.
“I’d like you to meet my family when they get here.
” He reaches for my hands, holding them tightly. “It would mean a lot to me.”
My heart starts pounding. “I know it’s been hard, but I’m not ready to talk to Beck yet. Soon, I promise—”
Aurelio shakes his head. “We don’t need to tell Beck yet. My family lives in Italy. They are hardly around tennis. They would keep us a secret. I want them to know who you are. To know how important you are to me.”
“Aurelio...” I don’t know what to say. Of course, I want to meet Bianca and see her hold her sweet uncle’s hand.
I want to meet his father and note the similarities and differences between them.
I want to meet his brother and hear all of Aurelio’s embarrassing childhood stories.
And yet, I can’t imagine it actually happening.
I’ve never done it before. I’ve never met a boyfriend’s family, if that’s what Aurelio is to me.
It’s like admitting that this will continue further than tomorrow or this week or this month. If I meet his family, we are permanent.
My wrist begins to itch.
Before I can respond, we’re interrupted. “Amy!” A distant voice calls. I drop Aurelio’s hands like they’ve burnt me. I turn towards the entrance and see Rafe racing towards us. I hurry to meet him halfway once I notice his frenzied expression. “Amy! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
My brow furrows. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Sara called this morning,” he says darkly.
“Sara? Sara who?” I ask. Aurelio hovers uneasily behind me.
It clicks. “Sara Beechum?” Sara is the Bowman publicist. Her careful manipulations are part of the reason Wimbledon had such a big ceremony for Beck yesterday.
She knows to leave us alone during a Slam, so if she’s calling, it’s not good news.
“Yes.” Rafe gestures me forward, back through the main entrance. “Hurry, we have to stop him.”
“Stop who? From doing what?” I can’t keep up with Rafe.
I’ve never seen my casual, easygoing hitting partner so discombobulated.
I follow after Rafe, glancing apologetically at Aurelio, who stays behind.
His expression is carefully neutral, and my heart sinks.
I never answered about meeting his family.
Instead, I’m separated from him again in the pursuit of fixing mine.
“Beck’s furious.” Rafe hurriedly explains over his shoulder, weaving his way through the grassy hills that surround the facility. “I managed to get him here, in hopes he would talk to you about it, but then he refused to come inside. He’s in the car filming a livestream—”
“A livestream? He knows how to do that?” Now I’m seriously concerned. Rafe posts weekly on Beck’s Instagram about tennis and other brand partnerships, but my father never touches social media. He considers it a place for “snowflakes” and “people without real jobs.”
He considers playing tennis professionally a real job, America.
“Why is he furious?” I ask, flipping mentally through the possibilities. “Was it that conversation with Djokovic yesterday? I mean Novak was a little condescending, but they’ve never liked each other. I think they’re too simil—”
Rafe interrupts my speculating. “Just check your email, Amy.”
A cold pit opens in my stomach at his tone. He almost sounds sympathetic. I pull my phone out of my pocket and see an email from Sara marked: urgent. When I open it and scan through the contents, it’s exactly what I expected and yet the last thing I thought I’d be talking to Rafe about.
We’re getting close to the parking lot now, and I can see Beck gesturing animatedly in the driver’s seat, talking to his phone like a TikToker.
Rafe lingers on the sidewalk, chewing his lip.
All he sees is his idol losing it over a woman.
I see things a little more clearly. “I’ll handle it,” I promise Rafe.
I walk over to the passenger side, opposite to how it is back home. It almost makes me feel like I’m in the driver’s seat instead. Beck glances over at me when I slide into the car, but my presence doesn’t magically stop his tirade. Why would it? It never has before.
“...the truth is, we hardly know the woman! It’s not a coincidence that this interview was published the day after my ceremony at Wimbledon.
They probably offered her more money due to the timing of these bullshit “confessions.” He aggressively uses air quotes. “You can see now why I never married—”
I shove my face into the frame, smiling brightly at the Instagram livestream. “Dad, did you forget about practice? I thought you wanted us to get an early start!”
My cheeriness and emphatic use of “Dad” catches Beck by surprise. He sputters. “Amy—”
Before he can say another word, I wave to the camera. “Hopefully, y'all don’t mind if I steal my dad away. We have a Grand Slam to prepare for! I hope to have your support at my first match on Sunday. See you then!” My smile is so wide it feels like it’s splitting my face in half.
I click off the livestream.
Beck immediately turns his fury on a new target. “Amy. Bowman.” He grits his teeth. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I cross my arms, leaning back in the seat. “What are you doing? Rafe about had a heart attack. And just you wait until Sara sees your little stunt.”
Beck folds his arms, too, regarding me. “Did you see the article? Did you read it?”
My heart starts racing a little, but I don’t let it show on my face.
All I can hear is Beck saying, “we hardly know the woman” over and over.
I wish the statement didn’t feel so right and so wrong at the same time.
“I did see it,” I finally say. “This isn’t the first time she’s talked to the press about us.
” I say us, but most of the article is about Beck and his megalomania.
She hardly mentions me, her daughter, at all. I try not to let it sting.