CHAPTER 3
Tennis has three surfaces for the major events: clay, grass, and hard court.
Clay, typically red, but sometimes green, is synonymous with Roland Garros, the French Grand Slam played in Paris.
Grass is famously a part of the Wimbledon Grand Slam in London.
They’re the next two Grand Slams I can fight for.
However, neither grass nor clay suit my game as well as the intensity of concrete hard courts.
The bounce snaps back quicker, the serves slam the pavement harder, there’s less focus on movement and agility and more on power, power, power.
For big servers like me, hard court tournaments are the best opportunity to rack up more points in the standings and more hard cash.
The desert of Indian Wells is already sweltering, the noon sun baking my skin.
I’m fortunate to have a natural tan from hours outside.
It’s what keeps my shoulder-length hair so blond, almost white in the summer months.
Even so, I’m glad for the extra sunscreen I slathered on this morning and my white Nike visor.
Tennis players never wear sunglasses because it limits visibility.
A visor or a baseball cap is the best protection from the sun.
As I push open the gate to our court, I’m shocked to see men on the other side. I stomp over to my father. “Did they read the schedule wrong?” I demand. “This is our slot. They have no righ—” I cut off abruptly when one of the men straightens from where he was looking in his bag.
It’s Aurelio.
Beck takes the opportunity to respond as I stand frozen.
“Aurelio and his team approached this morning asking if we could practice together. He wants to work on his power hitting, which he thinks you and I are a good match for. It seemed like a good opportunity to hit against a man other than Rafe.”
Maybe I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about Melbourne, the stars, Vivaldi. Or maybe I’m just the wedge Aurelio uses to pry the door open between him and the Beck Bowman. Which reason is the real reason Aurelio is here?
My mouth is open, but I don’t know what to say.
Aurelio never spoke to me before our impromptu dance in Australia.
I haven’t heard from him since, though that could be because the women’s and men’s tournaments don’t always follow the same schedule.
It’s not unusual for top players to scrimmage together, though Beck usually dismisses those opportunities at every turn.
To be fair, it’s usually other women’s players who ask.
“Fine,” I say shortly, heading to my bench.
“We can play.” As I get ready, I try not to look at Aurelio.
He’s stretching innocently, tossing some gentle Italian words back and forth with his coach and hitting partner.
He even dribbles a soccer ball around while I test my rackets, balls, and set up my numerous fluids.
Beck finally claps his hands, impatient with me.
“Let’s go, Amy. We only have this court for so long.
” It shouldn’t sting, the way he’s looking over at Aurelio and his team with admiration, but it does.
I’m ranked higher than Aurelio. I’ve won way more tournaments. I’m number one in the goddamn world.
But Aurelio’s a man, so my manly father thinks he’s a better player than me.
Unable to tame the swirling feelings heating my chest, I stomp over to the net. “Ready, Aurelio?” I grind out his name like it pains me.
Aurelio’s face clouds at my tone. He seems surprised at my reaction, but I don’t appreciate the ambush. Especially in front of my father. With a furrowed brow, Aurelio gives a measured reply, “Sì, signora.” He backs away from me, towards his side, but doesn’t break my gaze.
I eventually do it for him, spinning towards my baseline to serve.
My bright blue manicure clutches the tennis ball tightly.
Beck, Rafe, and Aurelio’s team watch from the sideline.
I bounce the ball a few times, readying my first serve.
I’m mentally calculating what I know about Aurelio’s game, and it’s shockingly little.
I know a lot more about his dancing abilities, his hand gentle in mine, his sweatshirt sleeve wiping away my tears—I blink back the memory.
Aurelio has long reach, an average serve, and an amazing ability to move on the court.
He returns a lot of balls, but rarely for winners.
I have to strike first, and hard, if I don’t want to embarrass myself.
My first serve goes into the net. Aurelio calmly spins his racket in reaction, waiting for the next, but my father can’t wait to interject. “Sorry, son!” he calls to Aurelio. “Sometimes it takes a second!”
It’s not the worst thing he could have said, though I’m only too pleased when Aurelio ignores him entirely.
The next serve rockets over the net. Easily 120 mph.
For the men, it’s a decent serve, but not top of the game like it would be on the women’s side. Aurelio takes the ball on the forehand, casually returning it back to me. The lazy spin he puts on the ball is infuriating. Is he going easy on me? In front of my father?
I step into the ball’s bounce, taking it as early as I can and hitting it hard to the right corner.
Aurelio is an incredible mover, but he wasn’t ready for me to hit such an aggressive return.
The electric green ball skips past him, just out of reach of his racket.
He watches it go in surprise, face slackening for a moment.
Beck lets out a sharp clap of approval at my attack, but Aurelio’s coaches begin muttering on the sideline.
My gaze lingers on Aurelio, waiting for his response.
The surprise on his face dissipates, replaced with a smile.
He already has sweat glistening on his freckled cheeks, dripping from his golden curls.
His warm brown eyes find me. “I see you, signora.” The words are soft but laced with admiration.
“I see your game.” The compliment suits me, and he knows it, his smile deepening to reveal a half dimple on his right cheek.
We stare at each other across the court.
It feels like miles separate us and like he’s standing right next to me.
One big step and we could be dancing again.
Beck tosses me a clean ball, breaking the moment.
We don’t play a whole game, which would be an absurd waste of energy, but we do put on a show.
I’m soaring high throughout—high on my wins in Doha and Dubai, high on how the level of play has quieted my father, high on how Aurelio whistles or smiles every time I hit a winning ball.
I’d like to say I handle his winning shots just as well, but that would be a lie.
Fortunately, his are few and far between.
His style is much more cat-and-mouse, waiting for the predator to mistake him for dead.
He’ll hit a lazy ball back and back and back until you grit your teeth and let it fly.
He preys on his opponent’s impatience, but once you realize that you can pull away.
I only need one more point to win our scrimmage when I notice a few reporters and media members filming and watching us.
They stand outside the court’s fence, gesturing our way.
I can just make out Josie Anderson’s voice reporting for ESPN.
“It’s unusual for Amy’s coach, her father and famed tennis legend, Beck Bowman, to allow her to scrimmage with other players.
Aurelio’s team reached out with the offer this morning and quickly rearranged their schedule to practice with the Bowmans.
Aurelio has been on the rise recently, but it’s still a surprising choice for the famously selective number one player in the world.
People speculate their connection began in Melbourne... ”
My head snaps in her direction. Melbourne? Does that mean someone saw us dancing? Even worse—saw me crying? I dart a look at my father and notice that his gaze has strayed from Aurelio’s serve over to Josie, squinting at her. I brace for Josie to continue, baring my soft underbelly to the world.
I expect the words to hit me in the face, leaving me defenseless.
I don’t expect it to be Aurelio’s serve, continuing on the far side of the court, away from Josie and her wandering words.
I don’t expect to not even hear him serve, to not even know the neon green ball is on its way.
I don’t expect him to show some competitive muscle here at the end; he hits a bracing body serve that bounces hard near my feet and then slams right up under my chin.
I’m proud to say that I keep my feet, clutching my chin soundlessly. The ball bounces a few more times past me. I blink at the serve speed, displayed behind Aurelio. 136 miles per hour. Maybe that’s why I can’t breathe.
Aurelio’s eyes widen. “Amy!” he calls in concern, dropping his racket. He hurries towards me, passing the net. I try to swallow, but the whole bottom of my face feels numb.
Another, harder voice says my name. “Amy!” Beck’s voice is at a level six.
The snide comment he made earlier was a two.
It glanced off me and the armor I always wear as his daughter.
The wistful way he talks about the men’s players is a four.
It worms its way under my skin, invisibly digging in further and further, but never making itself known to my father.
A six means neither of us will let this go right away.
We’ll circle each other, sure our little coaching experiment has failed, and we should call it quits.
Until, inevitably, we’re both drawn back into the intoxicating spotlight of being the number one tennis player in the world.
I wince a little at the pain, and Beck’s words.
“It’s like you don’t remember a single word I say.
Tennis is a mental game. Focus is everything.
You think I won 18 Grand Slams by letting the outside world in while I played?
Maybe that’s why everything went so wrong in Melbourne—” He’s overdoing it, embarrassed in front of Aurelio’s coaches.
He turns toward me on the sideline, arms folded, disappointment in his gaze.
Aurelio’s coaches shift awkwardly on their feet, so I try to divert Beck’s wrath.
“It won’t happen again.” I rub my aching chin. My eyes are perfectly dry; my voice is steady. Since my mistake distracted the group from Josie’s report, I’ll take the embarrassment on the chin. Literally. “I’m sorr—”
Before I can get the words out, a golden figure steps in between us.
He’s so tall he blots out the sun. “I’m sorry, Amy.
” Aurelio is gentle, sincere. I drop my hand from my face, staring up at him.
His honey curls glow in the sun. “I should have noticed you weren’t ready.
” Aurelio cautiously lifts a freckled hand between us.
I watch it curiously, hardly breathing, until it just grazes my chin.
“Are you alright?” His voice is quieter, so only I can hear.
His fingers dance across my chin, skimming underneath it, pressing softly.
I inhale sharply at the tender spot. His brow furrows, gently tipping my chin up.
“It’s red,” he confirms, “Probably will leave a bruise.” I’ll have to wear makeup the next couple of days, or else the media will make a huge scene about it.
Even an accident like this will be fodder for competitors, pundits, and coaches.
You’ll never see perfect Fernanda with a bruise under her chin.
Hopefully, Josie’s cameraman was too focused on her to film the hit.
Something must pass on my face, irritation or regret, because Aurelio apologizes again.
“I’m truly sorry, Amy. I never want to cause you pain. I never want to cause anyone pain.”
I look up at his face, touched at the words. They’re heavy with sincerity. He means them, I realize. It’s not a platitude, not worry for himself or embarrassment at his perceived mistake. He’s thinking of others, he’s thinking of me.
As he begins to pull his hand away, his fingers brushing my cheek, a strand of my hair, I stop him. I grab his wrist, pulling his attention back to my face. “It’s okay, Aurelio,” I tell him the truth. “I know you were just trying to impress me with that body serve.”
It takes a beat before he grins. Then he laughs. It feels like the greatest victory in the world. I don’t think Aurelio does anything he doesn’t mean. Every smile, every apology, every interaction is earned.
And I love earning things.
I smile up at him, too. “Come on, let’s play the last point.
It’s still match point, Amy Bowman.” I step back from his shadow, from the Aurelio bubble.
I stare down the court, practically shimmering in the desert heat.
Even with the bruise building under my chin, I feel suddenly energized.
I want to beat Aurelio. And then I want him to laugh again as I shake his hand across the net.
“Sí, signora!” Aurelio salutes me, turning and jogging back to his side.
It suddenly occurs to me, as I stand on my own, that I didn’t hear Beck finish his tirade.
I haven’t heard him speak the past few minutes.
A quick glance his way shows he’s infuriated by Aurelio’s gentleness, at my obvious disregard of his “coaching.” His shoulders are up by his ears, his arms folded tightly.
I squat down into my receiving position, both hands back on the grip of my racket. I spin it quickly, adrenaline surging through my veins. This time, I keep my eyes on Aurelio as he bounces the ball before his serve. He’s got a glint in his eye, too, even from across the net.
I don’t look away from him, from the ball, but I do call over to my father. “Don’t worry, coach, this is the last point.”
And, it was. Aurelio smiled all the way up to the net, even though he lost.
My father hardly spoke to me the rest of the day.