CHAPTER 8
Always following your father’s rules helps when you finally break them.
He doesn’t seem to notice that my phone frequently pings first thing in the morning with a voice message from Aurelio, and that when he knocks on our connecting door and peeks his head in, my AirPods are in, listening to it.
It’s my favorite message of the day. Aurelio avoids texting, something he calmly explained on our first phone call.
“Amy,” he says with teasing disgust, “If I have to always speak English to you, please don’t expect me to type it as well.
” It only seemed fair, even though I felt a twinge of nervousness at the prospect of more calls and voice memos.
It’s hard to listen to a voice memo covertly, though Vince doesn’t care, so I mostly listen to them when I’m alone or with him.
This morning’s message is like all the others.
I stretch, arms above my head, my huge sleep t-shirt pulling away from my body.
Aurelio’s accent is a little thicker in the morning, the vowels stretched out.
“Amy,” he begins. I notice a little extra excitement in the way he says my name today, and I smile.
“We will finally be in the same city this morning. Antonio has teased me...” he searches for the word and then lands on it with gusto, “relentlessly about how anxious I’ve been for this tournament.
Of course, the French Open has always been one of my favorite Grand Slams. My family used to travel to Paris for Christmas, watching snow fall on the Eiffel Tower.
We stopped when Nona turned ninety, but I still have great love for the city.
And you know how Europeans love clay-court matches.
You Americans like to pretend they don’t exist.” I chuckle at his assessment, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“I landed last night, just like you. I’m already out for my morning walk.
” Another daily Aurelio ritual that he seems to enjoy, maybe because of the privacy.
I can’t even imagine. “Your father must get up earlier than you do because he invited me and my team to practice with you again this afternoon.”
That sentence has me sitting up in bed, anxiously shoving my satin sleep mask off the top of my head.
Beck invited Aurelio to practice with us, again?
Once is a coincidence, a happy accident.
Twice is premeditated. Could my father possibly suspect that Aurelio and I are dating?
Was I wrong and he’s been tallying up every text that has distracted me from his coaching?
Aurelio’s warm voice breaks through my panic.
“I will be on my best behavior. I promise. Your father will not learn anything from me.” There’s a long pause in the voice memo.
I glance down at my phone, wondering if it’s over.
Instead, Aurelio says, quieter now, “I wish we did not have to hide things, Amy. It seems best to tell him early, so he can get used to the idea. If he doesn’t hear it from you first...
” he trails off. Aurelio isn’t one to wallow in anxiety, so he makes sure to finish on a cheerful goodbye.
“I will see you soon, Amy, and for that I am very glad. Do go easy on me, per favore.”
I grin at that. The voice memo ends, and I hurry to text my reply. It’s always shorter than Aurelio’s rambling, easy voice memos, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
It’s amazing how many things about me Aurelio doesn’t seem to mind.
Amy:
I can’t promise to go easy, but I’m sure you can keep up.
I almost leave it at that, but something compels me to add:
Amy:
Snow on the Eiffel Tower sounds beautiful.
I feel silly as soon as I send it. It’s not like Aurelio and I will have time to sightsee together.
To kiss for the first time under the glittering Eiffel Tower or sit at a cafe eating chocolate éclairs.
The tournament will take up all our free time.
Even the relentless Beck Bowman knows that this Grand Slam is the one I’m least likely to win, but that won’t stop us from trying.
From desperately trying. Aurelio’s not wrong when he says that most Americans hate the red clay courts of the French Open.
The ball is slow and moves strangely, blunting my serve.
I’m not as adept at sliding around to return balls, and in general, I just don’t play very often on the surface.
Fernanda, as a Spaniard, is annoyingly wonderful on clay courts and won the French Open last year.
If she wins this one, she’ll be dangerously close to my number one ranking.
A sharp knock tells me Beck is on the way.
He opens the door without waiting for me to respond.
Slams always feel this way, rushed and pressure-filled from the moment we land.
“Amy.” He notices me sitting up in bed and grunts in approval.
“Good, you’re up. Run down and get some breakfast. No carbs until before your match tomorrow.
I already told the kitchen what to expect.
” I try not to let the surprise show on my face at the directive.
Usually, Beck doesn’t worry about the hotel’s offerings.
Dozens of tennis players stay here during the tournament, so they have a great variety to accommodate us.
It’s not a good sign that Beck is trying to micromanage me more than normal.
When I don’t immediately jump out of bed, he pushes the door open wider.
“Now, Amy! We have practice with Aurelio and his team at 11.” I already knew about this plan, of course, but it stings that he didn’t ask me about it beforehand. For all he knows, I hate Aurelio.
Things would be a lot easier if I did.
I hop out of bed, rummaging through my suitcase for a tennis dress, a visor, and my toiletry bag. I hurry to the bathroom before I say something I regret.
Beck is blessedly gone by the time I finish getting ready, so I head down to the first floor of our hotel for breakfast. It’s not just Beck’s pushiness that turns me off of hurrying to breakfast, but the likelihood of the room crawling with tennis players, coaches, and commentators.
Beck and I agree on one thing—there’s nothing worse than pretending to be friends with your competition.
Fernanda and her little posse always eat together, chatting and laughing, but it must be like brunching with a knife behind your back.
How can you eat together knowing the next match they might kill your dream?
I usually put my head down, shove my visor low enough to shadow my face, and hope no one notices me eating at a table in the back.
Luck is not on my side today, as the second I enter the breakfast buffet line, eyes glaring into the floor, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I know it’s Fernanda from the long, almond-shaped acrylic nails that just scrape my skin.
I grit my teeth, turning around. “Fernanda.” I try to smile at her, but it doesn’t feel quite right on my face.
Her smile is right out of a Crest toothpaste ad. “Amy,” she purrs. “It’s so good to see you. I’m sorry we couldn’t battle it out again in Charleston this year.”
I smart at the comment. Last year in Charleston she did win one set off of me, but I won the whole damn tournament. “Yes,” I mutter, turning to pile scrambled eggs on my plate, “What a shame.”
I don’t ask about her injury, but she answers as though I did. “I’m feeling much better, so I’m sure we’ll be able to entertain the crowd this time around.”
I narrow my eyes over my shoulder. “If we both get there.” As the number one and two seeds, the only way we’d play each other is if we both make it to the Final.
Her eyes widen a little. “I’m sure we will, Amy.
” She puts a hand to her chest. “Don’t be such a pessimist!
” It’s almost as though she’s reassuring me, not catching the dig I threw her way.
That’s the thing about Fernanda; she never rises to the bait.
The media loves her for that very same reason.
Her training is so ingrained in her that even her tears look planned ahead of time.
Thankfully, I reach the end of the buffet, swiping a cup of water in an absurdly fancy glass and a few extra napkins.
My smartwatch pings with a text and my heart leaps, wondering if it’s Aurelio.
Maybe he’ll come back from his walk and save me from Fernanda’s manicured clutches.
Instead, it’s Vince, saying he’ll meet me at the facility’s gym in thirty minutes for a warm-up before practice with Aurelio.
Fernanda steps up next to me, glancing around the room curiously.
“No Beck, today?” she asks. It’s a fake question.
Fernanda knows that Beck never comes down to breakfast. “Or Vince?” Another hint that she’s watching me just as much as I watch her.
She already knows the name of my new physio.
I smile sweetly. “Not today.” I head towards the back of the room, spying a table shoved in the corner with my name on it.
Fernanda’s hand on my shoulder stops me again.
“We can’t let you eat alone! Join us!” She gently steers me to a chain of tables that have been rearranged so Fernanda and her friends can eat together.
I spot her closest friends first, Marisa Hernandez, a Spaniard ranked 12th in the world, and Anika Singh, an Indian player ranked 29th in the world.
A pair of young doubles players and sisters, Justine and Jasmine Moore, Americans, also sit at the table.
The sight of them all, decked out in athleisure and expensive jewelry, makes my stomach turn.
I’ve never been good at making friends, and Beck’s never been good at letting me have them.
Even as a young girl, I was playing junior tennis and didn’t attend middle or high school.
I’m unused to the girl politics that women like Fernanda seem to excel at.
When we arrive at the table, I drop my plate a little too loudly and all the women turn to look at me.
Fernanda takes the lead. “Girls, look who I convinced to join us for breakfast today!” She practically shoves me into a chair next to her, and across from Anika.
All of the girls call out a chorus of hellos and welcomes.
“Hi.” I try to muster a little enthusiasm. “Good to see you all again.” I actually just beat Marisa in the semifinals of Charleston last week, but she doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, smiling at me good naturedly.
“What a welcome surprise!” She leans past Anika to look at me, flicking her long, caramel colored braid over her shoulder. “We thought you’d be in your father’s clutches the whole tournament.”
I stab viciously at the scrambled eggs on my plate. “I usually am allowed to come to breakfast, Marisa.” I’m aware that sullenness seeps into my words, but I hate all of their eager eyes on me. “I spend as much time with him as you all do with your coaches.”
Fernanda jumps in to defend me. “Of course! I can hardly get a moment without Angelina.” She glances at her watch.
“Actually, she’s meeting me on the practice courts in twenty minutes.
” She directs a smile at Anika. “At least Anika and I get to practice together today! It does make it go by faster. I know your father doesn’t allow it, Amy, but it’s my favorite type of practice.
We’ve asked him before, but he always turns us down.
” She sounds a little disappointed as she says it, sadly poking at the grapefruit on her plate.
I’m surprised. I know Beck doesn’t believe in me practicing against other women, as he thinks men will “challenge me more,” but I didn’t know that Fernanda and her team had specifically asked more than once.
It would be incredible to practice against her, to analyze her movements and strategies a bit more.
We’ve always been pretty evenly matched, so I don’t know why Beck would say no to such a high-level player.
And yet, my mouth opens to defend him. If Fernanda is media trained, I’m Beck Bowman trained. “Actually,” I say, “He’s a little more open than he used to be. We’re practicing with Aurelio Santoro this afternoon.”
I could hardly have predicted the reaction from the table.
There are squeals from the Moore twins, a dramatic back-to-back swoon from Anika and Marisa, and a dreamy sigh from Fernanda next to me.
My confusion must be clear on my face. “Sorry, Amy,” Fernanda explains, smiling mischievously, “We just all love Aurelio.”
I look around the table at their blissed-out faces. “You do?” I ask, brow furrowed. “Why?”
“He’s such a gentleman!” Jasmine pipes up.
“He’s so tall!” Marisa offers.
“Did you see that clip of him at Miami?” Anika leans in towards me. “Holding his niece? My ovaries pretty much exploded at the sight.”
I smile genuinely for the first time. “Bianca,” I confirm. “Yeah, that was pretty cute.”
Fernanda tilts her head, missing nothing. “Bianca?” she asks. The hair on my arms rises. “Have you met her?” Now the whole table is watching me, intrigued.
I only hesitate a beat. “Oh,” I say offhandedly, “He mentioned her the last time we practiced together. I think he’s close with his family.”
I must pull it off because the table fractures into enthusiastic chatter.
Anika and Marisa groan good-naturedly at the tournament draw, telling me to my face that they hate being on “my side.” Jasmine and Justine ask the table for advice on what matching kits they should wear for doubles.
The whole group then debates the merits of a new serving technique, switching effortlessly between girl talk and tennis talk.
Towards the end of breakfast, Fernanda reminds them that they’ll have a group dinner at the end of the tournament and to reach out to some of the other “WTA girlies” to see if they want to join, too.
She turns fully in her chair to invite me, as well. “We’d love for you to join us, Amy.”
I nod. “I’ll think about it.”
And, I’m surprised to realize as I walk out to meet Vince, I mean it.