CHAPTER 10
The first week of the tournament passes in a blur.
Beck and I go back to our normal state of being, which is pretending that nothing is broken in our relationship.
We both turn our attention to the tournament.
We discuss my opponents, my stats, even Aurelio’s matches.
It gives me some hope that Beck is warming up to Aurelio.
Aurelio and I take walks together most mornings, but we try not to talk about tennis.
I tell him about my mom, my surfing, my pink infested bedroom.
He laughs when I describe my vision of painting the walls tennis ball green.
He regales me with stories of his nona, who sounds like a pill, and shows me numerous pictures of his niece.
It’s usually so early in the morning that we don’t see many people out and about.
The morning of the semifinals, which we’re both playing in, we walk as the sun comes up. The golden rays are breaking apart the purple haze. Aurelio pulls my gaze away from the horizon with a surprising question. “Do you have a tattoo?” he asks, curious eyes latched onto my ribcage.
My hand instinctively goes to cover it up.
I hardly think about it anymore, shoving down the reckless, alcohol-induced decision.
Luckily, even while inebriated in Ibiza, I put the tattoo somewhere my father wouldn’t see it.
It’s just underneath my armpit, at the top of my ribcage.
I didn’t realize my tank top would let it peek out. “Yes,” I admit. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Aurelio grins. “What is it?”
I roll my eyes. “A mistake, Aurelio. That’s all.”
His face tells me he knows there’s more to the story. “When did you get it?”
I can almost feel the bass vibrating in my chest, almost hear the group of “friends” I made screaming in my ear that I needed to get a tattoo to “manifest my goals.” “Last year,” I finally say. “After I became number one in the world. I was in Ibiza.”
Aurelio raises a brow. “Your father let you go to Ibiza?”
I shrug. “It was only for the weekend. He might be ruthless with his training, but he was a young man once. Don’t forget that he impregnated my mother after meeting her at some Vegas club.”
Aurelio shakes his head. “I hate Ibiza. Too loud.”
I train my eyes on the horizon, on the sunrise.
It almost hurts to look. “That’s what I wanted.
I told Beck I deserved to celebrate becoming number one in the world, but what I really wanted was a weekend where I wasn’t thinking about Grand Slam titles or how close Fernanda was to me in the rankings.
It was perfect, at first. I took too many shots with a group of party girls around my age.
They had no idea who I was.” I remember my sticky shirt, plastered to me after someone spilled their drink.
People I had just met kept pulling me onto the dance floor.
I couldn’t hear my cellphone, pinging with texts from Beck about work I needed to do.
Instead, I lived in the loud. The first few hours were glorious.
But as always, drunken nights turn sour.
Aurelio connects the dots. “But they figured out who you were?”
I nod. “One of the girls thought I looked familiar and stalked me on social media. They were so excited to be with the number one player in the world. I was bitter—” I swallow the shame down.
“I spilled my guts to these girls I didn’t know, about Beck and Fernanda and how I still hadn’t won a Grand Slam and they all gathered around me in this club to listen.
It was like a group therapy session powered by tequila. ”
Aurelio laughs. “And this group therapy led you towards a tattoo?”
Watching him, I have to smile. “One of them, Marisol, I think her name was, told me that I just needed to believe in the “power of manifestation.” I put air quotes around the phrase. “I would win a Grand Slam if I manifested it into existence. I shouldn’t hide from it, she said. Everyone latched onto the idea, and an hour later we were at a tattoo parlor.”
Aurelio’s dark eyes widen. “Please don’t tell me you have the word “Wimbledon” or “Roland Garros” tattooed on your side, Amy.”
Now I bark a laugh. “I guess it could have been worse. Here, take a look.” I stop on the sidewalk, pull down the armhole of my tank top.
Aurelio’s gentle fingers graze the tiny tattoo. It’s an intimate touch, strange out here in the open. I try not to let the shiver that runs through me show. His eyes rise from the ink to my face. “2026,” he says quietly. “The year?”
I nod, straightening my top. “The year I’m going to win a Grand Slam. Or at least that was the plan.” I wince a little at the memory of Beck looming over me in the hotel room after losing the Australian Open. Strike one.
“There’s still a lot of the year left,” Aurelio reminds me. His fingers brush against mine, as though he wants to hold my hand. “You can still win one.”
I start walking again, eyes on the path in front of me. “It’s ridiculous. Practically a curse. I already lost one. What if I lose the other three and instead of reminding me of my dream coming true, the tattoo symbolizes my failures instead?”
Aurelio’s long legs quickly catch up to me. “There’s a lot that can happen in a year,” he says gently. “Off the court and on.”
It’s the year I met you, I almost tell him.
Instead, I switch gears. “Who are you playing today? Charles Allard?”
Aurelio nods, gracefully accepting the change in subject. “Yes. We haven’t played since I lost to him in Miami.” There’s a rare twinge of nervousness on his face. He plays the match before me on Center Court.
I bump my shoulder with his. “You’ll do great. Now you know what you’re up against.” I don’t mention that knowing isn’t the same as winning, but Aurelio loves to soak up goodness. He brightens at my words.
“And you?” he asks. “Is it Genesis Booker?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately. She just couldn’t stay retired.
” Genesis Booker recently celebrated 20 years on the tour.
She was a Grand Slam champion a decade ago but has been battling injuries for years.
She decided to come back for the French Open and has been shocking the competition.
“The crowd will definitely be against me.”
With a peek to make sure we’re alone, Aurelio wraps an arm around my shoulders. “The crowd loves you, Amy.”
I look up at his face. “Are you crazy?” He starts laughing in earnest then, throwing his head back. I cross my arms. “Oh, you were joking, huh? You won’t be laughing when I start booing during your match.”
He sobers a little, some of that anxiety creeping back into his face. “I wish you could be in the crowd,” he admits. “It would help to see you.”
I reach up to grab the hand hanging over my shoulder. “I’ll be watching the whole time,” I promise. “Just picture me being distracted during my warm-up because you’re kicking Allard’s French ass.”
Aurelio laughs again as we walk into the sunrise.
*
Aurelio loses to Charles Allard in straight sets.
Again. This time, there is no joyful run to the stands, no highlight reel of him hugging his family and kissing his niece.
He sits on the bench for a long time, rubbing his face bewilderedly with a towel.
My heart breaks watching Aurelio on the TV in the warm-up room.
I’m sitting on the stationary bike, no longer peddling.
He was anxious about this match, and it showed.
It felt like all the beautiful, shocking returns he usually makes went straight into the net.
Beck sighs next to me. “Damn, I thought the kid had it in him. Maybe he’s already reached his peak. ”
“It was one match,” I snap. “Against the number one player in the world.”
Beck looks at me like I have a screw loose. “He’ll never be the number one player in the world unless he beats the number one player in the world.”
It’s true, my mind agrees with him. I grit my teeth, stubbornly sticking with what my heart says. “It’s not his peak. Just you wait.”
Beck raises a brow but doesn’t comment on my defensiveness. “Keep pedaling, Amy. We’re up in 30.”
I swallow my irritation and try to focus on Genesis Booker.
I can see her across the room, doing stretches with her trainer.
She looks great for 40, tall and lithe. She wears her hair in tiny braids woven into a larger crown braid.
It’s her signature. She’s a queen of the court, has been for years.
The media titled this match a “Clash of Generations.” We’re both American, we’ve both been number one in the world, we both serve fast. On paper, I should demolish her.
She’s old, she’s slow, she’s had two knee surgeries in the past three years.
And yet, she was the underdog in all three of her previous rounds, and she routed them.
She has the experience and that makes her dangerous.
When we walk out onto the clay, it’s blazing.
Aurelio’s match was over quickly, quicker than expected, so we’ll have a few more hours of late afternoon heat.
Hopefully, Genesis prefers cooler temperatures.
I straighten my blood-red dress, tighten my bun, and twist my visor so it shades my eyes.
The adrenaline is already surging as we shake hands at the net.
She says some pleasantries, but all I can do is nod in return.
We take a few pictures, say hello to the umpire and ball kids, and then head to our side to hit warm-up serves.
I try not to panic when a few too many of mine hit the net.
My serve will not break me this Grand Slam. I won’t let it.
Genesis gets to serve first. She bounces her ball calmly, and I take a few steps back. Genesis became a great player because she had the fastest serve in the game. Now, mine is faster, but she can still bring the heat when needed.
The first ball slams past me. The crowd roars, especially Genesis’ wife and their toddler on her lap.
“Shit,” I mutter, twirling my racket between my hands. My father just leans back in his seat.