CHAPTER 5
Instead, leaning casually on the far wall, is Aurelio.
He looks beautiful in dark gray chinos and a forest green sweater.
The collared shirt he wears underneath is unbuttoned at the neck.
His curls are all in disarray, as though he’s been running his fingers through them.
I’m immediately conscious of my Nike tracksuit, my slick-backed hair, still wet from the shower, my huge tennis bag weighing down my right shoulder.
I walk over to him. “Aurelio.” His eyes follow me all the way over, dark and warm. I take a deep breath. “What are you doing here?” Another cursory glance around the room reassures me that my father isn’t here, but that doesn’t mean he won’t walk through the door any minute.
Aurelio ducks his head bashfully, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “I wanted to see you play. I don’t have another match for four days. It seemed like the perfect opportunity.” He says it like it’s easy. He says it like we aren’t strangers.
Does he not consider us strangers? Do I?
“You’ve seen me play before,” I reason. “You didn’t need to stay.” I’m sure his coaches weren’t pleased by the decision.
He shakes his head. “No, not on the TV or in practice. I wanted to see you during your match. I wanted to see you really play.”
“Why?” I can’t help but ask. “Why do you want to see me?” The questions come out before I can stop myself. Maybe because they’ve been living in my head since the moment I saw him on the practice court two weeks ago. My hands tighten on my bag strap.
Aurelio’s eyes follow the movement. “Here.” He reaches out, pulling the bag off my shoulder. The weight off feels enormous. “I will walk you out.”
Before I can protest, he leads me through the Indian Wells facility, out into the cool evening.
We walk towards the parking lot, as though he knows my baby blue BMW sits there waiting.
The stars are bright above us, brighter than in Melbourne.
I almost point them out to Aurelio, since I know he loves stargazing.
In the quiet, the night sky a blanket above us, I can hear him humming.
The song is immediately familiar. I stop walking, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
It takes Aurelio a moment to realize I’m no longer following him.
His dark gaze finds me again. “Why?” I ground out.
“Why did you ask to practice with me? Why did you come to my match?” I don’t mean to sound angry, but I feel impatient.
I’m hungry for more of his sunlight, for more of his freckles, for his smooth hand on mine—and I hate it.
I’m not supposed to want anything but a trophy in my hands and my father’s hand on my shoulder.
“I hear that song everywhere,” he finally says to me. Now his fingers tighten around the strap of the bag. “I want to hear it again. Don’t you?”
I feel as though I’m in a dream. “I’m a tennis player, Aurelio. The best player in the world—”
His free hand twitches, as though resisting the urge to reach out for me. “I just want to spend more time with you, Amy. To know you better. Is that so wrong?”
I shake my head. “Time isn’t something I’m willing to give up. I want to win matches, not take walks on the beach.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. I do love the beach.
Aurelio won’t be deterred, earnest and impassioned.
He’s young and vibrant; I feel cracked and tired.
“Tennis players have relationships, Amy. There are even married couples on the tour.” I almost choke on the word married.
Aurelio ignores me. “The question is: is there room in your life for a different man?”
I tilt my head. “Different man?”
He takes a step towards me, intense, fixated. “Do you have room in your life for a man who doesn’t doubt you? Who only wants more for you? Who will cheer as you succeed and pick you up as you fall? Do you have room for a man who knows everything you can do? Who is sure you can do it?”
I stare at him in amazement. My heart stops.
“It was you,” I whisper, trembling. “It was you who started cheering for me during the match. It was you who stopped Beck.” I wasn’t really listening for Aurelio’s light accent in the moment, but now I feel silly for not hearing him.
For not realizing it as soon as I saw him in the media room. “I couldn’t find you.”
I don’t realize it’s an admission when I say it. But then Aurelio’s face curls into a smile, and I realize he knows I was looking for him. What am I doing? I don’t date. I don’t dance to Vivaldi under the stars. That Amy Bowman isn’t real.
Aurelio thinks she is.
“Amy!” I can hear my father’s voice, deep and always on the verge of anger. “Come on!” He’s pulled up in my BMW, only a few paces away. Why did he go and get the car? Why didn’t he come inside? Is he still angry about the match?
Aurelio sighs when he sees my father. Wordlessly, he hands me my bag. He asked me a question, I remember. Is there room for another man? Beck would say no. He would say that he won 18 Grand Slams without anyone dragging him down. Even having me as a daughter got in the way of him winning more.
Because Beck would say no, I walk backwards towards the car and say to Aurelio, very simply, “Yes.”
It takes him a moment to understand me. But when he does, he half smiles and starts humming Vivaldi again.
He hums it even as he walks away from me, turning his back and heading deeper into the stars.
I don’t know where he’s going, but it’s certainly not towards a car parked in the lot.
Knowing Aurelio, he’s going to stare up at the sky for a few more minutes.
I finally tear my eyes away from his retreating figure when I slide into the backseat of the car.
I’m in the back because the passenger seat already has an occupant.
He’s so big he hardly fits, knees brushing the front dashboard.
He looks a little familiar to me, but I’m not sure why.
Unfortunately, there aren’t too many Black players on the tour, so I feel like I’d remember if he was a retired player.
He can’t be much older than forty. He has a shaved head, a nice watch on, and very broad shoulders.
“Who’s this?” I ask Beck, keeping my voice light. I shut the door behind me, but he doesn’t drive away.
“Is that Aurelio?” He’s squinting into the dark, trying to follow Aurelio as he walks away.
I answer cautiously. “Yes.”
Beck eyes me in the rearview mirror. “What’s he doing here? Didn’t he lose a couple of days ago?”
The stranger in the passenger seat turns slightly, looking between Beck and me. I decide to ease him into our complicated relationship by throwing Beck an easy lie. “He finished doing some extra media work this morning and decided to stay for the match. He was just congratulating me.”
It’s close enough to the truth that Beck seems to buy it.
Our audience seems to help. “As long as that’s all he was doing,” he says gruffly.
I’m glad my father can’t see Aurelio’s face, only his retreating back.
One look at Aurelio’s expression, and I fear he would also realize just who was shouting encouragement during the match.
He would know that Aurelio has never prayed at the Bowman altar.
Beck shakes off his concern and pats the shoulder of our passenger.
“Amy, I want you to meet your new physio, Vince Dade.”
“Dade.” I want to smack myself. “You’re Barbara’s brother.” That’s why he looks familiar. A former number one player herself, Barbara Dade was the best American player for over a decade. I’ve probably seen Vince in the stands.
He smiles. “That’s me. I’m probably the most recognized tennis relative in the business, outside of yourself, of course.”
That makes me smile. I can see he’s putting in the effort to connect with me, not just Beck, which is more than the last few physios have done.
Suzy was an expert at balancing Beck and me, but the last few physios we tried hardly looked my way, too busy staring into my father’s golden face. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Beck decides he’s given us enough time for social niceties.
“Now, the match. Obviously, the win will help you maintain your ranking, but your focus was a problem. Again. Your serve goes completely haywire any time an opponent tries something new. They’ll pick up on that soon and keep throwing the kitchen sink at you.
You need your serve to be steady. Tomorrow, we’ll start serving—”
The exhaustion starts to settle in, sinking into my bones. I glance out the window, wishing I could still see Aurelio. Surprisingly, Vince saves me. “About that serve, Amy,” he interrupts. “Your father told me that sometimes you’ve been having shoulder soreness. Tell me about it.”
He gives me a meaningful nod. Beck sighs at the change in topic but finally puts the car into drive.
Vince and I get to know each other on the way home, sharing nepo-brother and nepo-daughter stories.
It’s not exactly the solitary ride home with the sunroof open that I envisioned taking, but it’s not the worst afterparty I’ve had.
This one at least has hope.