CHAPTER 2
At Suzy’s insistence, Beck always allows one day off for travel and rest following a long tournament.
No tennis allowed. The flight back to L.A.
is blessedly quiet, as Suzy pushes Beck to sit next to my hitting partner, Rafe, so she can claim the seat next to me.
I expect a lecture about my health, my stress levels, the visible hives that still peek from my sleeve when I lift my carry-on into the overhead compartment.
Instead, she puts her sleep mask on and lets me stew in silence.
I stare out the window until the wheels on the plane touchdown in L.A.
Home.
I hardly remember the four years I spent in Vegas with my mom.
The few memories that surface are a strange contrast of light and shadow, as though I only lived at night when the Vegas strip was brightest. Maybe I was on the same schedule as my mom, sleeping during the day and waking for the night.
Either way, it wasn’t sustainable for Dinah, and she doggedly tracked down Beck until he agreed to take me on.
There’s a picture of me the week I started living in L.A.
, taken by Suzy. She was Beck’s physio, too, a role she inherited from her father towards the end of Beck’s career.
In the photo, my white blond hair still curls at the bottom, and I’m holding an adult tennis racket.
The racket practically drags on the ground, stubbornly grasped in my chubby fingers.
Beck kneels to my level and grins into the camera.
I’ve had the picture on my nightstand for as long as I can remember.
Today, as I drop my bags on my pink bedspread, I notice for the first time that Beck isn’t touching me in the photo. Or looking at me. I wish he was.
My room is trapped in the wrappings of a young princess raised by a millionaire who’d rather throw money at an interior designer than take his daughter to Ikea.
The walls are a soft, muted pink, my queen bed surrounded by gauzy, canopy curtains in the same color.
I know I should change it, but I’m hardly ever home.
I can’t even imagine what I would put in place of all the little girliness.
Should everything be green? Tennis balls and Nike posters on the wall?
There’s little else you could associate with adult Amy.
My eyes unconsciously trace the glow-in-the-dark stars that Suzy helped me put up when I first got here, frightened by the dark.
Aurelio’s kind expression flashes in my mind, then a single, wavering note of Vivaldi.
I shut the memory down, knowing it doesn’t serve me, and turn to my closet, digging around for what I need to start my recovery day.
First, a comforting surf in the cold waters.
It accomplishes the most important tenet of a recovery day—time away from Beck.
It usually only takes me twelve hours to become the daughter he wants.
After surfing on California’s gentle waves, I’ll meet with Suzy for massage and stretching.
My right arm, my serving arm, is sore at the joint and hot to the touch.
My left knee pinches a little when I bend it, and both heels ache with a touch of plantar fasciitis.
Fortunately, these are normal aches and pains, nothing serious.
I almost welcome the reminder that I fought hard.
If it doesn’t hurt, it doesn't mean anything.
I finally find my wetsuit and head outside.
It’s an unseasonably warm day for Malibu in January, the midday sun shining on my skin.
I raise my face to the sky, letting my brain empty.
Instead of nothingness, I remember Aurelio’s sharp jaw lifted to the stars.
Is this what he seeks when he wants their light?
To me, the sun and the sand between my toes is the only home I know.
To him, the stars he studies are the same his family in Italy do.
I pull my board from our shed in the back.
I’ve lived in Beck’s multi-million beachside mansion since that fateful drop-off twenty years ago.
I can see him on the tennis court on the south end of the estate, hitting heavy forehands back to Rafe.
If he could still compete on the tour, he would.
Even the golden man, Beck Bowman, eventually retires.
He’ll blame having a child as the reason he stopped playing at 40, but I wonder.
Was he slowing down? Was he feeling the pain that comes with aging?
Was he embarrassed to see his body worn down by time?
He won’t say, though whether it’s to protect me or himself, I don’t know.
I ignore my father’s enormous shadow, and the siren call of the tennis court, and head out through the main gates.
I wave at our security guard, Manny, as I pass by.
He smiles at me, but there’s a trace of pity that’s not usually there.
This fucking Grand Slam loss will linger until I win the next one.
I only have to wait four and half months.
The hives under my wetsuit start to itch.
The surf is bracingly cold and delightfully empty.
Most people in this part of Malibu are somebody—YouTube celebrities, athletes, washed-up country singers, tech millionaires, so I don’t have to deal with fans filming me or asking for a picture.
Beck loves the swamp of attention, grinning and joking with the fans that hang at his elbow.
I think it’s easier for him, looming and muscled.
I feel trapped when they sometimes find me at the airport, relegated to smiling at Beck’s elbow, too, as we both sign their photos or tennis balls.
It’s a competition—one that Beck will win forever.
I only wipe out once today, but I wish it was ten times.
There is no better feeling than being tossed by the current, unable to find up or down, taken against your will with a ticking clock sitting on your lungs.
I crave the quiet disorientation, the silence in my mind.
There are no stakes but the feeling, the rush.
Tennis is the exact opposite. Loving tennis is like loving the bruise you get when you bang your funny bone on the kitchen counter.
You crave proof that the hurt, the pain, the relentless pace means something.
Every trophy I win, shoved in next to Beck’s in his massive case, is that perfect bruise.
My war wounds, proudly displayed. Failure might not have a trophy, but it’s also on display.
By the time I check my Apple Watch, the sun has dipped in the sky, and Suzy will be wondering where I am.
Everything is truly aching by the time I wash up and hang my wetsuit outside to dry.
Suzy, like her father before her, lives in our pool house, a small cottage with two bedrooms and a jacuzzi tub that I know she loves to soak in when we return from our most recent journey around the world.
She didn’t change much when her father retired and she took her place working for the Beck Bowman.
Her father, Charlie, hung up a framed photograph of him and Beck at each tournament win.
Between Grand Slams, ATP 500 and 1000-level tournaments, Charlie hung up 46 photos on the pool house living room wall.
When Suzy took over, she hung nearly 10 more with Beck and 21 for me.
I love looking at the photos, watching us age, the smile lines deepening on Suzy’s face, the grin growing more disingenuous on mine.
Beck is in all of my photos, too, towering over me, a big hand on my shoulder.
I knock on the pool house door. “Suze?” I call, as I turn the handle. “Sorry I’m late. I think my shoulder needs looking at firs—” I break off as I step inside, gaze immediately drawn to the 77 photos that should be on the wall.
But they aren’t there. The eggshell paint on the wall seems too bright.
“Suze?” I call with renewed urgency, my heart beating in my ears.
The whole pool house is torn apart, separated into Suzy’s things and Beck’s furniture.
I walk a few more steps into the house, my sneaker brushing against a stack of boxes labeled “dishes,” “books,” and “photos.” My wet hair drips coldly down my back, and I suppress a shiver when I see a box labeled “Amy.” Is she leaving me?
Retiring? She’s younger than her father was when he retired, not even 60.
She’s younger than Beck.
Suzy hurries from her bedroom in the back when she hears me come in.
She’s wearing a t-shirt with my face on it that Nike made when I became number one, her signature black joggers, and a serious expression.
The coldness in me gives way to the usual anger, hot and sure.
“What the hell, Suze?” I throw my arms out at the boxes.
“Are you leaving?” The small, hopeful part of me wonders if she’s just tired of the pool house.
It would be annoying to have her further away, but it’s understandable if she wants her own space.
It was Beck that insisted his physio live on the estate, but most sane players let their physio live elsewhere.
My heart sinks when she responds, “I’m done, Amy.” She crosses her arms, as though I’m a child she needs to scold. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I cross my arms, too. “Can’t do what?”
Deep down, I know what she means. She’s been hinting around for months, but I’ve never taken the bait. I won’t make this easy for her. I made it too easy for Dinah to quit me, but now I’ve learned. I don’t care how hard it is for me and Suzy; we stay with Beck.
We’re a family.
Suzy shakes her head in disgust, used to my games.
“Cut the shit, Amy. We both know this isn’t working.
Some physios might look the other way, but I practically raised you—” Her voice cracks a little, and she looks at the ground.
Suzy might be softer than Beck, but not by much. How else can you work with the man?
I dig the knife in deeper. “You raised me, but you’re leaving me? Is that it?”