CHAPTER 9
My heart leaps when I see Aurelio for the first time in weeks, but I don’t let it show.
I can’t let him get a big head. Maybe he feels the same way, though, because when I walk through the gate, Beck in front of me, and Rafe behind, he smiles like the sun breaking the clouds.
It reminds me of a miserable day last year when I surfed for hours in the gray, droplets of cold water dotting my skin.
I wiped out wave after wave, the surf churning around me.
Just when I was about to leave, to stomp up the beach, the sun broke free.
It lit up the ocean, gilded the water. I paddled and paddled to meet a new wave and rode it perfectly, laughing the whole time.
Aurelio feels like that moment.
I hide my face from my father, putting my bag down and pulling out my rackets. Behind me, I hear Beck approach Aurelio. “Congrats on breaking top ten, son.” They clap hands in the way all men do. “Number seven in the world.” Beck whistles. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Aurelio might have strong opinions about my father, but he never lets them show. He’s effortlessly polite as I tie my shoes. It takes effort not to show too much interest in their conversation. “Thank you, sir. My team and I are pleased.”
Beck grunts in agreement. “You’re looking almost as good as you did when you won here seven years ago.”
My head snaps up. “You won here?” I ask Aurelio, confused. I’m sure I skimmed the headline at the time, but a young Amy Bowman only cared about her own wins, not some Italian teen’s.
He shrugs, uncomfortable. “I won the junior title here when I was seventeen. It wasn’t the real thing.”
There’s a sting in my chest when I realize Aurelio deliberately kept this from me.
We’ve been talking about the tournament all week, and he never mentioned it.
Is it because he thought I would be jealous?
A junior title is exactly how it sounds, but it’s still a sign of greatness.
Some of the best players in the world started out by winning junior titles.
I never won one. Beck won three.
I swallow past the discomfort. He has every right to keep things to himself. We’re hardly dating; we’re talking. We haven’t even kissed. “Ready to play?” I ask Aurelio, curt.
His face creases in concern, but he nods. “Whenever you are.”
We cross paths as Aurelio heads to his bench to grab his racket. His elbow just skims mine. I look up at his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he passes. “I will explain it to you. Later.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s fine.” I take another step towards my end of the court.
Aurelio reads me too well. As he always does.
He fully snags my elbow now, pulling me back a pace.
I nervously look over my shoulder at Beck, but he’s engaged in a passionate conversation with Rafe.
“Amy. Look at me.” Aurelio’s dark eyes search my face.
“That junior title only causes me pain. I try never to speak of it.”
My brow furrows. He won; he achieved his dream.
Why would thinking of that moment hurt? But I do see it, traces of exhaustion and sorrow carved into his face.
His eyes are fathomless pools. To me, Aurelio is sunshine.
But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t faced darkness.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I believe you.”
His shoulders sag in relief. He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by my father. “Is there a problem?” he calls to us.
Aurelio drops my arm like it’s burned him. “No!” I take a few steps backwards towards my side of the court. I keep my eyes on Aurelio, wanting to see him smile. “Aurelio was just begging me to go easy on him.”
Beck rolls his eyes, but Aurelio does smile, shaking his head. He looks back at my father. “She’s lying. I knew better than to ask.”
A laugh startles out of me as I step in behind the baseline.
Beck’s looking at me as though he’s never seen me.
He probably hasn’t seen me laugh too many times.
If there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no laughing in Beck Bowman’s version of tennis.
Aurelio settles into a return position on the other side, across the net from me.
He shifts on his heels, watching me dribble the ball.
“Game on!” I shout at Aurelio, smirking.
And then we play.
Aurelio is my age, 24, so it’s a little shocking to see how much he’s improved in the span of a few months.
He’s been in and out of the top twenty the last few years, but this is his first time in the top ten.
His game is really coming together at the right time.
He’s always been an incredible mover with great reach.
Every ball you think is about to bounce past him is returned at the last second.
But now, his serve has improved dramatically.
On the fourth ace he rockets past me, I can only stand in disbelief.
I point a hand at the radar. “141 mph, Aurelio!” I yell across the court.
“That has to be a career high.” Typically, women don’t serve higher than 125 or 130 miles per hour.
Even for the men, anything over 140 is fast. I think I could get used to the speed if I saw it more often, but the shock factor alone leaves me one step behind.
“My apologies, signora!” Aurelio mock bows. “You did tell me to bring my best.”
I’m already thinking about how I can change my return position to hit the serve back into play. I smile viscously. “Do it again!” I respond. “I think I can get it with a few more tries.”
Aurelio grins, too. “Of course—”
I know I’m having a good match when my father fades away. When I forget that he’s even watching and all I see is my opponent. That’s why I’m a little surprised when I hear him chuckling. Aurelio and I both look at him at the same time. “Amy.” He puts his hands out. “Let’s not waste the man’s time.”
“Waste his time?” I wipe some of the sweat off my brow. “What are you talking about?” I shift on my heels impatiently. My body hums, ready to play. I hate the interruption, the coldness that seeps into my bones when he speaks to me this way.
Beck crosses his arms. “There’s no point, Amy. Women aren’t fast enough to return serves like that. Let’s not get distracted.”
I grit my teeth. “I know it will be difficult, but it’s great practice. Aurelio doesn’t mind. It’s only about 10 miles an hour faster than I’m used to. Maybe if I just change my court positioning—”
He barks a laugh. “Court positioning? It’s not a strategy issue, Amy, it’s biology.”
My body is humming in a different way now.
I struggle to keep my voice even. “So what exactly are you saying?” I walk a little closer to him.
I can see the sweat on his brow, too. “That even though I’m your daughter, biologically yours, I’ll never be as great as the men’s players? Never as great as you were?”
Beck crosses his arms, impatient. “It’s just a fact that women can’t hit as hard, run as fast, compete as well as men can. If you haven’t noticed, that’s on you.”
I laugh, sharp as a razor. I can feel Aurelio drifting behind me, unsure of what to do.
“If I haven’t noticed?” I throw out my arms. “How can I not notice my deficiencies when I’m in the presence of the great Beck Bowman?
How can I not feel in these moments like you wanted a son instead of me?
” I take another step towards him, desperately wanting his face to disagree with my words.
For him to show some loyalty, some possessiveness towards me.
Instead, he watches me impassively. Once we’re face to face, I lower my voice.
The words still come out laced in anger.
“How can I not feel like you’ll always resent me for tearing you away from the court? ”
Beck lays a calming hand on my shoulder.
I look up into his face, at the wrinkles making themselves known in his forehead.
He has very few smile lines around his eyes.
“Amy.” He leans in, confident that he can make things right between us.
“I don’t regret working with you all these years.
You’ve shown that you have the Bowman fighting spirit.
” His second sentence softens me a little, some of the anger draining away.
He rarely acknowledges that he’s my father. That we have anything in common at all.
The corner of Beck’s mouth tilts up in a smile. “I certainly won’t regret it once you win a Grand Slam.”
My blood runs cold. I step out of his grip. “You almost had me,” I murmur, already turning away. “Thanks, Dad.”
I walk right off the court, past the bench with my things, out through the gate.
I don’t look back, but I hear Aurelio following me.
It reminds me that he and his team witnessed the entire argument.
They heard what my father said to me. The anger finally dissipates, leaving something lonely and shamed in its place.
Aurelio catches up to me, looking over his shoulder guardedly. “Amy?” His fingers brush against mine as we walk to nowhere. “What can I do?”
I swerve around a reporter, trying to keep my head down.
“I just need a second.” I clench and unclench my fists.
My chest feels tight. “Away from all the people.” It dawns on me that other players, coaches, tennis commentators—they might have heard our argument.
They could be talking about this on ESPN later today.
It will look even worse if I fall to pieces on the sidewalk.
Aurelio is already scanning the area, looking for a private spot.
He grabs my hand, still warm from practice.
“This way.” I keep my eyes on my feet, counting my steps until Aurelio is pulling me through a door after a swipe of the key card he pulls from his pocket.
It feels cool inside, and blessedly dim.
Aurelio tugs me towards the wall, where a bench juts out underneath a row of lockers.
“Here, Amy. Sit.” He gently pushes my shoulders.