CHAPTER 16
“I need a new room. Please.” I stand at the front desk of the hotel, a tennis visor low over my eyes, as if that will hide me from the panicked expression of the front desk manager.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bowman.” She looks over my shoulder, expecting the phantom of my father to appear. “We book months in advance for Wimbledon. We don’t keep any extra rooms open.”
I want to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her.
I know she watched the match. I know she saw me throw a tennis ball at my father, hitting him right over the heart.
It’s been a couple of hours now, but a sick feeling burns in my stomach at the memory, a toxic pit of anger and shame.
“How about a player that already left?” I ask desperately. “Someone who lost early?”
She shakes her head before I even finish asking. “Those rooms fill up immediately from fans on the waiting list who want to see the second week matches. We don’t have a single open room.”
I place my hands on the desk, leaning towards her.
They tremble a little. “I can’t be around my father right now.
Please.” I glance at her name tag, which says Georgie.
I decide to lead with honesty. “You saw it happen, Georgie. I can’t be in a room connected to his right now.
It’s not good for both of us.” She softens a little, taking in my puffy eyes and pale cheeks.
I know I don’t look anything like that bright girl I saw in the mirror at Aurelio’s hotel.
Amy the tennis player has taken a beating.
Georgie leans towards me, too, surreptitiously glancing around the lobby to see if anyone is listening to us. I resist the urge to look behind me. It won’t be long before the press is camped outside the hotel, asking pointed questions about my skipped concession speech.
Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I miss the sun. I miss Aurelio.
His match will start any minute now.
Georgie lowers her voice. “You can’t leave? Head home?”
I want to laugh, but I know she’s just trying to help.
She doesn’t know that home is a gated compound owned by my father.
She doesn’t know that my bedroom in that house is the same one I’ve had since I moved in with him almost 20 years ago.
She doesn’t know that the only home I have in Malibu is Suzy’s guest house or my surfboard and the California coast.
I pick the other obvious answer. “I have to stay for the Wimbledon Ball tomorrow. All four of the finalists are honored.”
I try not to think about my dress, already pressed and ready to go for tomorrow. Fernanda convinced me that we should go with a gold and silver combination look. I wear the silver dress. I should have realized that was an omen from the start.
Georgie looks back at her computer, unsure. “Well...” she trails off. “There’s one room that is open...”
“Please.” I try not to sound too eager. “I’ll take a supply closet at this point.”
“The penthouse is available.” She eyes me seriously. “If you’re willing to pay.”
My brow furrows. “Charles Allard isn’t staying there?” Usually, the penthouse at the tournament hotels is used by the top-ranked player in the world. Allard has held the number one position for longer than I have, so he gets first crack at it.
Now, she’s the one who’s surprised. “Mr. Allard has his own place in the area that he prefers. He likes to use the club facilities in the off-season.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I don’t want to offend Georgie’s British sensibilities, but of course Charles Allard likes to practice at the most pretentious tennis club in the world.
It almost makes too much sense. Something seems to click for Georgie the longer she looks at me.
“Your father,” she says slowly, “I offered him the room for you, but he said it wasn’t suitable. ”
I shake my head, a bitter smile curling on my face. Beck Bowman never ceases to amaze me. “There’s not connecting room in the penthouse is there, Georgie?”
The question is rhetorical, but it makes her sad. “No, there isn’t.”
Her sadness reminds me of my own. The memories of the match are seconds from crushing me, held back by gritted teeth and delusion.
I try to smile for her, but it’s watery.
Wavering. “I’ll take the penthouse.” I hear the telltale whoosh of the hotel doors open behind me and turn to look.
I don’t recognize who enters, but the last thing I need is for the press to release a report saying I was arguing with hotel staff after my loss.
I turn back to Georgie. “Quickly, please.”
She rummages around her desk before victoriously presenting me with a new keycard.
I take a deep breath and accept it.
*
After a quick stop at my old room to gather my things, I insert my new keycard into the penthouse door. The greatest thing about a penthouse is that there’s no reason for anyone to be on this floor. No press. No fans. No Fernanda. No Beck Bowman.
I’m alone, and it feels like I can finally breathe again.
The penthouse is as luxurious as expected, though I can hardly appreciate it in my current state.
The room has windows on three sides, giving its occupant a 24-story view of the world below.
I drop my suitcase and tennis bag on the floor, walking across the room to peer outside.
The sun has fully dipped behind the horizon, transitioning into a dusky summer evening.
The hotel looms high above Wimbledon Park.
I can see the curved edge of Wimbledon’s Center Court stadium from here, where Aurelio has undoubtedly started playing the American Joaquin Esquivel.
I try to picture Aurelio serving an ace from the baseline, pumping his fist and yelling, “Forza!” when he wins the point.
Instead, I wince as the memory of my double fault in the tiebreaker takes over. My father’s voice whispers in my ear, “I do everything I can to help. To make her better. But some players just aren’t champions.”
I try to scrub off my shame in the shower, but I’m not sure it works.
I feel raw, like if one person looks at me wrong, I’ll shatter to pieces.
Everyone calls me Amy Bowman, ice princess.
But maybe I’m more like an ice sculpture, carved by my father.
Today, he took a mallet to his creation, frustrated at its imperfections.
There’s no way to fight back against what made you.
I know I need to turn on Aurelio’s match, but I’m worried about what I’ll see.
If he’s losing, this day will become even darker.
If he’s winning, I don’t know if I can be the supportive partner he deserves.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to hide my jealousy, my hunger for the trophy he holds.
I want desperately for him to win it, to hug Bianca in the stands, to dedicate the win to his mother’s memory.
Amy the person knows that nobody deserves it more than Aurelio.
Amy the tennis player has always been a bitch.
I throw on the Italian Tennis t-shirt Aurelio gave me and pad over to the giant bed in the middle of the room. I turn back the covers and sink into the mattress. I desperately want to close the curtains and go to bed, even though it’s barely 8 p.m.
Instead, I take a deep breath and turn on the TV. It’s mounted on the wall across the bed, huge and bright in the relative darkness.
I knew there was a good chance Aurelio would be winning. He’s ranked higher than Joaquin and has significantly more experience. What I didn’t expect was to see Aurelio absolutely dismantling the American. I sit up straight in bed, wide eyes scanning the scorebox.
They’ve only been playing for about an hour and a half, but Aurelio is already up two sets, 6-2, 6-1.
Not exactly a close scoreline. He only needs to win one more set to win the Wimbledon trophy.
I watch Aurelio closely, looking for nerves, frustration, unease.
Instead, he looks perfectly calm and in control.
I wonder if he’s even having any fun, beating his opponent so badly.
The third set continues the trends from the first two.
Aurelio is serving beautifully, hitting his spots and pushing the pace.
Joaquin has a lot of passion, but his frustration leads to numerous errors out wide.
He even hits one wild ball straight up into the balcony and starts laughing in disbelief.
Aurelio’s play is soothing in its consistency.
I lean back into the pillows to watch. He really is mesmerizing.
I can tell the crowd wants it for him. He beat Charles Allard in the semis; he deserves to reap the rewards.
The set ends up being a little closer than the first two as Joaquin does everything he can to stay in the fight.
My eyes begin to droop as they hit a 20-ball rally.
The repetitive smack of the rackets is almost lulling me to sleep.
It’s fully dark outside now, the clock hitting 9:30 p.m. I closed the curtains, but not very well, as the stadium lights spill through the small gap I left.
The light doesn’t interrupt my bone-deep exhaustion.
Just stay awake long enough to see him win, I promise myself.
It’s an agonizing final fifteen minutes, but Aurelio wins the third set, 6-4.
He stands there, frozen for a moment, looking in disbelief at the crowd.
They get to their feet, whistling and stomping.
The commentators heap compliments on Aurelio.
Even Joaquin just shakes his head and grins when he meets Aurelio at the net.
After congratulating his opponent, Aurelio takes a quick lap around the court to wave at everyone. He has tears in his eyes and a lovely smile on his face.
Blearily, I reach for my phone. I know I need to say something, but I don’t know what. Anything too cheerful will feel fake; Aurelio will see right through it. But he doesn’t deserve the suffocating presence of my sadness, either.
Finally, I send him:
Amy:
I knew you could do it. Congratulations, Aurelio.