CHAPTER 15 #3
The ball hits hard. The ball hits hard into the net on my side of the court, not hers. I jumped too early. I mistimed it. It’s over.
Fernanda wins the tiebreak 8-6. Fernanda wins the second set. Fernanda wins the match. Fernanda wins her first Wimbledon title.
Fernanda is now the best player in the world.
I watch in shock as the ball slowly rolls from where it slammed into the net and brushes against my foot. How could it land on my side? How could I have lost when the win was right at my fingertips?
I can almost imagine the commentators in the booth wincing at my botched overhead.
I can almost hear tennis legend Mary Joe Fernandez apologetically say, “That’s a tough way for anyone to lose.
It seemed like Amy’s level dropped after the issue with the let.
Her relationship with her father and coach has always been unique... ”
I don’t realize I’m frozen, staring at my missed ball, still sitting at my feet, until Fernanda is there. She touches my elbow. “Amy.” Her voice is gentle. My gaze snaps away from the ball. “Amy. It’s over. I won. I’m sorry.”
I laugh a little at her apology. It hurts in my chest. “You didn’t win, Fernanda. I lost.”
She winces at the assessment. “Amy—”
Some guilt pinches. I soften, just for her. “Congratulations, Fernanda. Everyone will be so happy you’re the new number one. It’s for the best.”
She shakes her head. “Stop. Just stop. It wasn’t your fault, Amy.” She doesn’t have to say who she blames. I know Aurelio is thinking the exact same thing wherever he is. They blame my father. They blame Beck Bowman, tennis god.
The thing is, they don’t know that I’m afraid to let him go.
I should have done it years ago. I should have done it weeks ago.
I should have done it this morning when he pulled his hand out from under mine like my touch burned.
But I’m too much of a coward to try all of this without him.
It’s one thing to try to rebuild your father’s legacy under his tutelage.
You’re a team. You’re in it together. Without him, I’d be alone with all of his flaws, wishing I had all of his strengths.
The crowd’s applause has been muted up until now.
They love Fernanda, but their confusion towards Beck tempers their reaction.
I take a step back from the net, from my friend, and appeal to the fans.
“Fernanda Navarro!” I shout for them. “Your new Wimbledon champion!” My smile is fake, but I don’t think they’ll spot it from the stands.
I clap in Fernanda’s direction. I’m sure they’re a little surprised by my good sportsmanship, which is so unlike a Bowman, but they follow my example.
Fernanda waves prettily at the crowd, her smile growing more genuine with each second of applause. I’m relieved. She deserves to feel happy she won.
On autopilot, I walk over to my things. I need to get out of here. Process on my own. I pile up my towels for the ball kids to collect. I rip off my soggy socks and sneakers and put on my slides. I shove my rackets into my bag, fumbling with the zipper.
Beck loves that I’m within earshot. He’s sitting, relaxed and high on his superiority.
The crowd quiets a little as Brian, the British reporter from my father’s ceremony, approaches center court to talk to Fernanda about the match.
I curse under my breath, realizing that I can’t leave.
I need to stay for the trophy ceremony and give my speech.
Final matches are the only time losers are required to be interviewed. I’ve always hated the tradition.
Beck presses his advantage. “What did I say, Rafe?” He gestures to my young hitting partner, sitting to his right. Rafe looks like a deer in headlights. I pull again on the zipper, but it’s stuck. “I told you she’d lose the set.”
My mouth is dry. “We can talk about it later, Dad.”
I’ve never been so relieved that all the attention is on Fernanda.
Brian asks her his first interview question, and Fernanda beams while she answers.
Unfortunately, that same attention bothers Beck.
He raises his voice. A few fans nearby turn to look at him.
“I do everything I can to help. To make her better. But some players aren’t champions. ” He sighs, long-suffering.
I’m numb to the insults, fortunately. Beck believes that people are born winners or losers. I know that’s not true. I ignore him, finally zipping up my bag. My toe nudges a tennis ball that was hidden under my bench. I reach down and grab it, glancing around for a ball kid to hand it to.
Beck’s voice grows louder. “Giving me the silent treatment, Amy? You can’t just ignore your problems.” I keep my gaze on my bench, the ball clenched in my hand.
I squeeze so hard it hurts. Brian tries raising his voice to ask Fernanda another question.
Fernanda hesitates to answer, worried about me and what’s happening on my side of the court.
“Stop it.” My voice is low. “You’re ruining things for Fernanda.”
Beck lets out an incredulous laugh. “For Fernanda?” He throws up his hands.
“So, what, you care about her now more than your own game? Of course you do. Ever since Australia, you’ve been distracted.
Let me tell you, you’ll never have another “girls’ night” again, not if you want to win a Grand Sla—”
Something in me splinters. “Shut up, Beck! Just. Shut. Up!” Tears start in my eyes.
Every part of me is shaking with rage, with disbelief, with shame.
Before I can think, before I can think better of it, I rear back and throw the tennis ball in my hand.
It hits my father square in the chest, and then falls, sadly, back onto the court.
His eyes widen, taking in the ball and my face. He shuts up.
“Leave me alone,” I say, quivering. Brian and Fernanda are quiet. The crowd is silent. “Please. Just leave me alone.”
I’m supposed to stay. I’m supposed to say nice things about Fernanda in my concession speech. Maybe even nicer things about my team and family, too. How can I say any of those things now? I hurry to my bag, skin burning. I throw it over my shoulder, already stepping away from the court.
I won’t let everyone see me cry. No, I won’t let him see me cry.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”
And the whole stadium watches, holding their breath, as the former number one player in the world runs away from her problems.