Amy's Secret Love

CHAPTER 1

I don’t cry as I pack up in the locker room because, even there, I have an audience.

The qualifier who beat me, Lyra, is nervously doing the same.

I wonder if she’s afraid of me. Amy Bowman, the golden daughter of tennis, muscled and bronze.

Blond hair in a perfect slicked-back bun, green eyes burning into the floor.

I must slam my locker door too hard when I walk out because Lyra flinches.

I should say something congratulatory, something kind.

She just achieved the hardest win in tennis, the notorious Grand Slam victory.

She won millions of dollars in front of the world.

Even better, she’s a lovable underdog who experiences none of the pressure and criticism the top ten do.

For that very reason, I walk right by her.

Lucky bitch.

Even if you’re his only daughter.

“What happened to your serve, Amy?” he demands, wheeling to face me, sitting calmly on the bed. “Sixteen double faults? Most of them went straight into the net. You think you’re going to beat some shitty backwater Lithuanian player with a serve like that?”

“Estonian,” I correct without thinking. His menacing expression makes me mutter the rest. “Lyra’s Estonian.”

He throws his hands up. “Do you want to be a joke, Amy? Do you want to be a footnote in my story forever? Or do you want to join me up here and become one of the greatest players who ever lived?” His arrogance knows no bounds, but neither did his talent or skill.

Most of the ATP players, which is the men’s professional tennis league, have been trying to poach him from me for years. I should be grateful he sticks around.

Most of the time, I am.

I inhale, but don’t let it out. The pressure of the captive breath is the only pain I should feel.

Not Beck’s words. It’s not like I haven’t heard them before.

His coach was hard on him, relentlessly so.

He knows it will only help me in the end.

I wonder if I’ll bleed out, death from a thousand cuts, before we get there.

“I’m only 24,” I finally say to him, keeping my voice even, my body perfectly still. “There’s still time—”

Beck barks a laugh. “24? You turn 25 in September. In tennis, you’re already middle-aged, and you have nothing to show for it.

No Grand Slam titles. No junior Grand Slam titles.

I already had five titles by your age and three junior titles.

If anything, you’re behind!” He shakes his head at me.

“Your serve has abandoned you a few times before, Amy, and let’s face it, your forehand and backhand are average.

You need that serve. How are you going to fix it? ”

My skin begins to itch a bit, as though I’m trapped in my body against my will. Maybe it’s anger, buzzing just below the surface. But I know my father, my coach, and anger is nothing to him. Anger only feeds him. He’s the greatest tennis player there ever was. How can you argue with a god?

How can you argue when you want to be a god, too?

Even so, there’s a touch of iciness in my voice when I say, “I might have lost this final, but I won eight titles last year—”

Beck flaps his hand dismissively. “A couple WTA 1000 and 500 tournaments are small potatoes. They don’t even pay the same as the men’s. Only the Grand Slams offer you a chance at greatness.”

Now, my blood boils. Those traitorous tears, which I thought I long starved, start to build.

“And whose fault is that?” I reply hotly, standing up from the bed.

“Billie Jean King fought for equality at all the tournaments, but only the Grand Slams are beholden to it. You’re a huge force in tennis, and yet I don’t see you advocating for women. ”

He rolls his eyes. “Enough, Amy. I’m just reminding you that Grand Slams should be your focus. Anyone on the men’s side could beat you 6-0, 6-0. Don’t forget it.”

I throw my hands out. “How could I? Me being a girl is the biggest disappointment of your life.”

Beck crosses his arms. “No, it was probably your serve today.”

I take a half-step back at the dig. It’s not as if I don’t know how poorly I played today, but Beck is incredible at finding and stomping out weakness. Usually, it works well on me. I push back against him until, unknowingly, I’m just as strong as he wanted me to be.

Today, I’m tired.

We’re interrupted by a knock at the door.

Beck’s fury mounts at the interruption. He balls his fists, knuckles white.

Suzy calls through the door, “Everything alright in there, Amy?” My heart swells at my physio’s kind words.

She is in charge of my wellbeing, though recently it feels like she’s been more focused on the emotional than the physical.

I rush past Beck to open the door, taking in her kind, wrinkly face and graying braid.

She still has on the hideous BMW tracksuit they gave my team to wear during the match.

The compassion on her face is worse than anything my father could say. It’s a reminder that today, I did lose.

I am a loser.

The tears become blinding, and I’m thankful my back is to Beck.

I clear my throat. “I just need a break. I’ll be ready for tomorrow morning’s flight back to L.A.

” There’s a slight crack in the last word, in the mention of home, which I hope my father doesn’t hear.

I push past Suzy’s gentleness and find solace exactly where my father does when he’s upset.

The bar.

My swanky hotel, which always treats me and my father like royalty, has a gorgeous circular bar on the ground floor.

I wipe away a few stray tears in the elevator and walk with purpose towards what I hope will be a very strong dirty martini.

It’s well past midnight, but the bar is still full of numerous tennis pundits, commentators, and a few players who’ve been in Melbourne for the two-week Grand Slam tournament.

I try to find a clear path to the bar unscathed but quickly jump ship when I see the most beautiful woman perched on a bar stool holding court.

Fernanda Navarro. As if my night couldn’t get any worse.

Fernanda has been chasing me all year, just on my tail in the international rankings at number two in the world.

She lost a couple of days ago in the semifinals, which was a relief.

I hate playing her and her 6’1” frame. She makes my 5’9” height seem just as embarrassing as my father believes it to be.

He should have picked a taller cocktail waitress.

Fernanda doesn’t look like a loser. Her coach, one of the few women coaches on tour, Angelina Sanchez, is laughing at her side and sipping a fruity cocktail that looks suspiciously like a Pina Colada.

I wonder if they’re laughing at me, at how badly I lost to an underdog like Lyra.

If they’re chuckling at how angry I got every time my serve went straight into the net.

If they're giggling at my father’s enraged antics in the box and the two different warnings he got from the umpire to quiet down.

The huge bar has a mirror behind it, and for a brief moment, I see myself in the glass.

I almost forgot that I’m still scrubbed and raw from my post-game shower.

My face is bare of makeup, pink from sweat and a bracing cold-water exfoliation.

My spring green eyes, just a touch too large for my face, look sad and watery.

I’m wearing a Nike windbreaker and joggers, plus my custom pink Nike tennis shoes that have a B for Bowman intertwined with the logo, the same ones my father wore in blue when he played in the 1990s and 2000s.

What was I thinking coming down here? This isn’t oblivion in a cup, sitting on a deserted stool in the middle of a town who doesn’t give a shit about Amy Bowman, number one tennis player in the world.

This is Melbourne in the middle of the “Happy Slam,” packed to the gills with tennis fans, players, and workers. I’m asking for punishment.

Fernanda notices me lingering in the doorway. “Amy!” She smiles and waves me over.

A few other heads turn my way, some Italian players and their coaches, the tournament director, Craig, and a handful of the tennis-obsessed patrons who have the money to stay in the same hotel as the players. The itchy feeling comes back in full force. My face feels stretched, naked, hot.

I do the only thing I can think of—I duck out a random side door.

I let out a sigh of relief at the cool breeze and darkness that greets me outside.

I seem to have stumbled onto a tiny terrace where bar-goers can step outside to smoke or breathe in the fresh air.

There are a few shadowy shrubs, a bench, and two crisscrossing strands of lights overhead.

They’re just bright enough to see where you’re going, but not bright enough to make you feel seen.

An outdoor speaker sitting in the mulch softly plays some innocuous classical music.

I walk over to the bench and let my body unwind.

It feels good, even as my mind races. Images of my father laughing smugly in the hotel room, Lyra frowning in surprise at me from across the court, Fernanda’s blinding and gorgeous smile, the whole bar turning to face me, Suzy’s pitying expression—I just need this day to end.

Even if Beck is disappointed in me, he’s a work horse.

He’ll come around and focus on the next big event, a WTA, or Women’s Tennis Association, tournament in Doha, Qatar in a few weeks.

He’ll make me work on my serve until my arm falls off.

He’ll bark and badger and only pat me on the shoulder once a week when he thinks I’ve had a “serviceable” practice.

He’ll make me watch hours of footage of him playing, and sometimes, if he’s feeling humble, Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe, Roger Federer, or Rafa Nadal.

When I turn on Serena Williams, he always interrupts.

He’ll go back to normal, our argument forgotten. For him, the world never stops turning.