CHAPTER 6
His words.
He wipes the sweat off his upper lip, surveying the court I’ll be playing my first match on later this afternoon.
It’s Center Court, where all the biggest matches are played.
It’s my third time playing on Center Court, but my first as the number one in the world.
Last year, I won both Indian Wells and Miami back-to-back, forcibly putting myself on the map.
I became number one in the world a few short weeks later.
Rafe walks around the court, picking up our stray balls.
We just spent a quick twenty minutes getting the feel of the court.
Fortunately, it’s not that different from Indian Wells in speed and force.
I love the feeling of the simmering heat and the sweat down my back.
To me, it’s proof that I’ve worked hard.
To Beck, it’s simply a nuisance. He clicks his tongue, impatient as always.
“I’m going to find James.” He’s talking about James Blake, the tournament director. “The net isn’t level.”
I follow his critical gaze towards the net, which looks perfectly taut to me. “Okay. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria for lunch?”
He grunts his confirmation, probably using the net as an excuse to find some shade or, even better, the A/C.
Rafe and I finish packing up our dozens of practice balls, and I rip off my soggy socks and tennis shoes in favor of my slides.
Just as I’m finishing, another trio of people come through the tunnel towards Center Court.
It should be the men’s players that play on Center Court after me.
We all get twenty minutes in the morning to check out where we’re playing.
I huff a laugh when I realize it’s Aurelio.
I haven’t seen him in four days, but I knew he'd be in Miami for such a big tournament. What I didn’t expect was to see him on Center Court.
I should have looked at the schedule more closely.
Now that he’s number nine in the world, there will be more matches on the world’s biggest stages.
“First time?” I call to him. It’s obvious by the way he looks around the stadium, taking in the thousands of seats and pristine court. His eyes snap to me, for once just as surprised to see me as I am to see him. I walk over, trying to fight the smile on my face.
“Amy.” He smiles, too, the one dimple popping. “Not your first time, I take it?”
I shake my head, meeting him next to the net.
His coaches take one look at the two of us and walk to the sideline, busying themselves.
“My third,” I admit. “But it doesn’t lose its shine.
” His gaze sweeps over the seats, perhaps imagining the fans cheering for him.
I’ve heard he’s quite the fan favorite. Some passionate Italian fans even follow him around from tournament to tournament.
I take in his white Nike baseball hat, his tennis ball green t-shirt, his hundreds of freckles.
He fits in with the surroundings. “This tournament suits you,” I tell him.
He snaps out of his daydream to look at me. “Really?” His brow furrows, trying to work out if I’m insulting or complimenting him. “Why?”
I shrug. “It’s warm.”
I can tell he knows what I mean when he smiles that golden Aurelio smile. “Amy.” He leans towards me, happy, eyes sparkling. “Come to dinner with me. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is our day off between matches.
It’s meant for relaxing, recovering, and if Beck Bowman is involved, relentlessly recapping the previous match.
I know he’s suspicious of Aurelio already, suspicious of a potential distraction.
I’m suspicious, too. Beck or no Beck, I have to win a Grand Slam this year.
I will not be Beck Bowman’s daughter who amounted to nothing.
If he must be my father, then I must be a winner.
Aurelio anticipated my hesitation. “One dinner, Amy. It can’t hurt.”
Now, I raise a brow. “Can’t it?”
He flashes a grin. “Not the way I do it, promise.” The way he says it is so innocent, but I catch the flash of mischief on his face. It startles a laugh out of me. He senses weakness. “Please, Amy. At nine, after your father has gone to bed.”
It’s a smart suggestion. I sober, thinking it over.
Maybe Aurelio and I can explore this... flirtation in secret?
We can get it out of our system, and Beck will never be any of the wiser.
That’s how I’ve dealt with all my infatuations in the past. Most of them never wanted to stick around after the start of things anyway.
Aurelio and I will be over long before I win the next Grand Slam in May.
I pull the marker I was using to sign autographs earlier from my pocket.
I pluck a tennis ball from the side pocket of Aurelio’s tennis bag.
I write my phone number in chunky letters and then toss it back to him.
He clutches it like it’s precious cargo.
“Text me where,” I tell Aurelio, hiding my uneven heart rate with even words. “I’ll be there.”
I hike my own bag over my shoulder and spin around, heading towards the exit tunnel. “Good luck on Center Court!” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be watching!”
Aurelio’s laugh follows me even as I walk away.
*
My father and I have connecting hotel rooms for most tournaments.
It’s useful for our training, as he can just knock and wake me up in the morning before we head to practice.
We’ve had some of our best strategy sessions as the sun rises.
Tennis matches last as long as they last, so maintaining a consistent sleep schedule is nearly impossible.
The connecting rooms are less useful when I’m trying to sneak out of said room to meet Aurelio for dinner.
Fortunately, my match yesterday on Center Court was an easy win, as expected.
There was nothing in particular to analyze besides preparation for tomorrow’s match, which is against Alexandrina Markova, a Czech player, ranked 79 in the world.
She’s a wonderful doubles player, so she’ll constantly try to drag me up to the net.
We watched some film on her, Vince and I stretched while playing Scrabble, and then I was sternly told by my father to “get some rest.”
Instead, I double check my reflection in the hotel bathroom’s mirror.
I hadn’t packed my suitcase with a date in mind.
As a tennis player, you become an expert at carelessly throwing a few athleisure outfits in a suitcase and then very carefully packing your rackets and equipment.
Luckily for me, Nike always sends a bundle of free clothes and tennis kits to each tournament.
This tournament, I’m wearing a pale yellow tennis dress that is nicely offset by my tan.
They also packed a few extra skirts and dresses for casual wear and sponsored posts on my social media.
There’s a black one that is clearly not meant for competing, as the Spandex dips low in the back and high in the front.
The skirt flits out around my hips, light and airy for the Miami breeze.
I pin my blond hair up in a loose updo, a few tendrils framing my face.
I only have sneakers or slides, so I decide on a classic pair of white dunks.
With a little shimmering lip gloss and my signature three gold hoops in each ear, I have to admit the truth.
I look good.
I twirl in front of the mirror, smiling as the skirt expertly flutters in the air.
I leave the bathroom and grab my purse, hotel keycard, and cellphone off the dresser.
I tiptoe to Beck’s connecting door, listening for his telltale snores.
Beck wakes up every morning at 5 a.m., so that means he’s sound asleep by 9 p.m. Sometimes earlier.
Sure enough, I can hear his rumbling breath and razor-saw snore through the door.
Usually it helps me sleep, like white noise.
I try not to imagine how he’d react if he knew I was leaving.
To go on a date the night before a match.
To go on a date with Aurelio Santoro, a constant presence and distraction on tour.
Instead, I walk quietly out of my room and imagine Aurelio’s smile when I said he was warm.
He’s unlike any other man I’ve gone out with.
While Beck has never encouraged dating, that hasn’t stopped me from dipping my toe in the pool in the past behind his back.
However, in the past, there were lines even I wouldn’t cross.
No ATP men’s players. No relationships that lasted longer than a month. No dates during a tournament.
I’m breaking every one of those tonight.
I take a car the hotel acquires for me to the restaurant Aurelio chose.
He promised me he would get us a private table, away from prying eyes.
I offered to ride with him to the restaurant, as we’re both staying at the same hotel, but he explained that he and his team were exploring the city during the afternoon.
Beck is like a hermit on off days, liable to stay within the limits of the gym and his hotel room.
I’m a little surprised when we pull up to the seaside restaurant.
It’s cute and colorful, right on the water.
The stone path to the front door is surrounded by cool sand.
I almost wish I was wearing my slides after all, so I could feel it between my toes.
I wish I had my surfboard and was hitting the waves.
The salt on the breeze smells intoxicating, fooling me and letting my shoulders fall.
By the time I enter the Cuban restaurant, I’m buzzing with excitement and curiosity.
I give the hostess his name. The young woman, dressed in all black, is very used to tennis stars this time of year.
She smiles at me. “He’s already seated, Ms. Bowman.
” She gestures for me to follow. Over her shoulder, she says casually, “Good match yesterday, by the way.”