CHAPTER 1 #3
I stand up, gingerly accepting his hand.
It’s smooth and careful in mine. He doesn’t yank us together, take liberty as some men might.
He just pulls me half a step towards him, so that I can look up into his face.
His golden curls are on fire standing so close to the string lights above.
His right hand gently cups my waist. I put mine on his shoulder, reaching up and getting even closer as I do.
I wonder if anyone from the bar is looking at us, strangers to dancing partners.
I feel a bit of that reality creeping away again.
Aurelio is oddly unreal, so unlike most of the tennis players on tour.
We begin swaying to the music, Aurelio humming along. “Do you know this song?” I ask, raising a brow.
He feigns offense. “It’s Vivaldi, Amy. An Italian.”
I’ve heard the name before, though I wouldn’t be able to match it to the piece. “I didn’t exactly have music class growing up, you know. Beck Bowman only cares about one thing, and it isn’t classical music.”
The name drops like an anvil between us.
It’s always been weighty, even for people who don’t care about tennis.
My father achieved his dream of becoming a household name.
I wait for Aurelio to bestow Beck the respect he deserves, as all tennis players are trained to do since youth.
For him to say the same devoted platitudes that all who worship at the altar of 18 Grand Slam champion, Beck Bowman, say.
Instead, he leans a little closer to me.
I can almost feel his breath on my cheeks. “You have a better serve than him.”
I huff a surprised laugh. “What? My father is better than me in every conceivable way. He could serve 135 miles per hour, easy.”
Aurelio shrugs as though it’s obvious. “You serve 120, 125 miles per hour despite being nearly a foot shorter. Your motion is cleaner and you use the pinpoint stance, which is much more effective than the platform stance he used.” I blink at the quick way Aurelio rattles off my stats.
He looks into my face, encouraging. “You have a higher ceiling. He might have served 135 in 2000, but you could easily serve 135 in 2030. You’re just getting started. ”
I never thought of it that way. My father was a good server, though not the best on tour.
His strongest weapon was the forehand, which he swung with abandon.
I should feel excited by the prospect of eventually serving so hard, but instead there’s a shiver down my spine when I think of Beck seeing me reach his level. How would he react?
“My serve abandoned me today,” I admit to Aurelio. “It wasn’t there when I needed it. I could feel it slipping away with each point. I didn’t know what to do.”
He shrugs again, entirely European. “It’s just a day, Amy. And lucky for you, I don’t think it’s your last one with a Grand Slam Final in it.”
It’s in the casual way he says it, as though it’s boring, mundane. I’m sure my father will say it tomorrow, too, but his words will be laced with yearning, desperation, a fervent hope that he’s manifesting the truth into existence.
Aurelio just believes it. Simply.
Before I can respond, he spins me away from his body.
A genuine laugh startles out of me. When I spin back in, bumping into his chest, he’s smiling again, toothy and wide.
My bun has begun to unravel, tendrils of hair tickling my neck and shoulders.
Aurelio’s fingers brush a strand, just a few shades lighter than his own.
We stare at each other for a moment, a beautifully long moment, hands clasped, gazes locked.
In some ways, he’s entirely understandable.
His reputation is sterling, his sportsmanship beyond reproach.
He practices hard and has talent but isn’t as hungry as some of the rest of us.
I remember a few years ago, when we were both transitioning from the juniors, he took a year or two off.
Since his return, he’s been steadily climbing the rankings.
And yet, this evening feels like a precious surprise. Like he’s a mystery I could spend hours solving.
The unusual feeling is what ultimately forces me to break our hold. Vivaldi’s song is finished, skipping over a beat of silence before playing another familiar classical tune. Aurelio’s hands stay in the air for a moment, as though he didn’t think I would let go.
“I have to go,” I explain. “I have an early flight back to L.A.”
It’s the truth, but I say it like a lie.
He bows a little, a gentleman to the end. “Sleep well, Amy.” I like the way he says my name, and I wish he would say it again.
I shake it off and start backing up towards the door. Just as my hand touches the cold knob, I hesitate and say to him, softer than I mean to, “Thank you. For the dance.” My gaze wanders up, thinking of his face tilted up towards the only real light in the dark. “And for the stars.”
I can’t see his smile as I turn to walk inside, but I do hear it in his response. “They’re always there, if you look at them.”
When I finally fall asleep that night, successfully hiding long enough to avoid another conversation with Beck, it’s to Vivaldi’s gentle notes.
And to Aurelio’s even gentler words, echoing through the dark.