CHAPTER 14
The night before the tournament begins and I play my first match, I tell my father, “I’m going to dinner with the girls.”
“A few of us WTA girls are celebrating the start of the tournament,” I say breezily. “I think Fernanda organized it.” I know she did, of course. She threatened to “strangle me with one of my visors” if I didn’t attend. I pretended reluctance, but I’m looking forward to it.
“Your match tomorrow—”
“Isn’t until the evening,” I interrupt cheerfully. “Glad we agree that this is the perfect time for a night out. I won’t have another chance once the tournament really gets going!”
And without waiting for him to respond, I shut the door between us.
I head downstairs to the lobby where everyone is meeting.
Fernanda thought there would be almost a dozen of us.
She strong-armed the hotel into letting us have a private party in their in-house Italian restaurant so that everyone can stumble up to bed right afterwards.
I’m a little early, showing my embarrassing eagerness for the dinner to start.
I shift from foot to foot, staring at my phone. I start when I hear my name. “Amy?”
I expect it to be Fernanda, or one of her posse, so I’m surprised to hear Vince’s deep baritone.
He walks towards me, seemingly exiting the hotel bar.
He’s dressed a little nicer than usual, with a collared shirt and a pair of very expensive-looking Jordans.
“Hi, Vince.” I wave as he approaches. “Were you having a nightcap?” I glance over his shoulder to see if he’s with anyone.
“Was it first night jitters?” If there’s anyone who doesn’t seem bowled over by the grandness of Grand Slams, it’s Vince.
His sister won plenty of them when he was still in high school.
Vince grins, scanning my outfit. “Where are you headed, Amy?” He lowers his voice, leaning my way. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Italian gentleman, would it?”
I roll my eyes. “Not tonight. Fernanda invited me to her girls’ night.” I tip my head towards Parma, our hotel’s Michelin-star-level restaurant. “We’re meeting there in a few minutes. I’m early.”
Vince’s joking demeanor softens a bit. “What did Beck think? Or does he know you’re here?”
“He knows,” I confirm. “I didn’t really give him a chance to protest.”
Vince whistles. “Good for you, Amy.” He gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder. “I think you made the right choice. You deserve some time with your friends.”
I’m strangely proud to have Vince’s approval. I smile at him. “I think so, too. Have a good night, Vince. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gives me a salute and wanders towards the elevators.
Just as he gets on, Fernanda gets off. I walk over to meet her, taking in her outfit.
She makes my night-out efforts look tame.
I should have known. She wears a gold sequined top that slides elegantly off one shoulder and four-inch heels.
She towers over me. “Amy!” She beams, linking her arm with me.
“You came!” She gives me the same once-over.
“And you’re wearing another tennis dress! ”
“It has a bow in the back!” I protest, twisting a little to show her.
“Ah,” she eyes me, “I should have noticed.”
I laugh as we head into the restaurant. It’s clear I’m the new addition to their girls-only tradition because everyone has congregated in the restaurant, not out in the lobby.
Fernanda walks in like a queen, dragging me along behind her.
I find I don’t mind when there’s a blended chorus of “hellos,” and “you girls look great,” and “Amy, I’m so glad you came! ”
I smile nervously as I take my seat between Fernanda and her best friend, Marisa.
Anika once again sits across from me, decked out in a beautiful green and pink embroidered top.
She has even more piercings than I do, including a nose ring that I’m jealous of.
I see the twins, Jasmine and Justine, a few seats down in matching satin dresses.
They’ve changed their braids from their typical dark brown to a copper color that catches the light nicely.
I recognize almost everyone at the table, mostly from playing against them.
Lina Vadym, a Ukrainian player in the top 20, sits across from Fernanda.
American Halle Kendall sits at the end, a veteran of the WTA at almost 34 years old.
She chats animatedly with her girlfriend, Australian Margot Pennerman, who is the only other person at the table beside me wearing athleisure.
She almost looks like she’s about to play a match, though her bright blond hair is down, falling softly around her shoulders.
Halle and Margot came out last year during an interview with Daniel Chan and now the WTA circuit is peppered with rainbow flags at their matches.
It’s a nice change. There are a few other young players at the table from Spain who switch effortlessly from Spanish to English and seem to hang on Fernanda’s every word. I’m not surprised she invited them.
Fernanda introduces me to everyone at the table. “Girls, big news this year.” Her eyes sparkle at whatever punchline she has in her head. “I finally got the Amy Bowman to come to our dinner!”
I laugh when they all start applauding. “Thank you, thank you.” I look around the table. “This is really nice.”
Halle seems to notice my sincerity, raising an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you come before?”
I shrug. “My father, my coach, doesn’t like me going out the night before a match.
He thinks it’s an unnecessary distraction.
” There’s a little discomfort at my statement, all the women taking a sip out of their wine glasses or buttering a piece of bread.
Before Fernanda can intercede on my behalf, I throw my hands up. “But what does he know?”
A few of the older women look at me like they know what it cost me to say it.
Halle, Margot, even Fernanda, smile gently.
It’s Jasmine, Justine, and the young Spanish girls that start applauding again.
One of the Spanish girls, Ofelia, who’s barely 18, rolls her eyes in agreement.
“My coach almost didn’t let me wear this top tonight!
” She pulls emphatically at her halter top. “I told her that it’s Gucci!”
Fernanda and I glance at each other and then burst into laughter. “Hear, hear!” She looks behind her for our waitress. “Ruthie, can you please get Amy a glass of wine?” She points over at Ofelia. “And more water for Senorita Ofelia, please!”
Of course, Fernanda knows our server’s name. “Only one glass,” I tell her. “I have a match tomorrow.”
Fernanda shakes her head. “Stop worrying, Amy. We all only have one glass. We’re some of the greatest athletes in the world, you know.
” Fernanda is trying to teach me moderation, but my other teacher, Beck Bowman, has never heard of the concept.
“And,” she swings her gaze towards Ofelia and her two friends, “Ofelia and her girls only get a glass under my direct supervision.”
Ofelia mocks pouts, but I know she secretly loves Fernanda’s attention. It seems like everyone does, myself included.
Apparently, Parma is a family-style restaurant which explains why the table is soon laden with huge dishes of pasta, chicken, and salad.
There are even a few pizzas. The women begin carb-loading for tomorrow’s matches and gossiping.
Fernanda regales the table with her dating woes.
She appeals to the only couple at the table, Margot and Halle.
“I want what you two have!” She sighs dramatically, leaning forward on one hand and morosely spinning spaghetti with the other.
“You get to travel together, see the world together, win together, play doubles together!”
Halle smirks. “You even save on hotel rooms.”
Fernanda begins talking animatedly with her hands, including the one with the fork in it. I have to duck more than once. “Exactly! Dating another tennis player is ideal, but not a single ATP man worth a damn is interested in me.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask her, my brow crinkling in disbelief. “Francisco Fiore has been in love with you for years!”
Every single gaze turns in my direction. Fernanda looks like I’ve smacked her in the face. “Francisco Fiore?” Her question is faint. “The Francisco Fiore who looks like an Italian god? Who has gorgeous dark eyes and dark hair and was unanimously voted the most handsome man in the ATP last year?”
“Um, yeah, I guess that’s him.” I don’t mention that I prefer my Italians a little taller and blonder. Wrong crowd.
Fernanda surges towards me, grabbing both of my shoulders. “Amy!” She shakes me. Her expression is wild. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
I open my mouth, flabbergasted. “You mean you haven’t noticed? It feels like every press conference he’s saying something complimentary about you! His eyes follow you every time you walk into a room!” I break free of her grasp. “Didn’t he choose you last year for that charity doubles tournament?”
She looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.
“That’s because I’m the best tennis player in the world!
” The whole table watches our conversation like a ping-pong match.
Ofelia has a picture of Francisco pulled up on her phone, showing her two friends.
Fernanda’s face puckers, concerned. “Or do you think you are?”
Her expression sends me over the edge. I start laughing and then, I just can’t stop.
I laugh and laugh, doubling over. It almost hurts, tears burning my eyes.
Soon, Fernanda joins in, and then the rest of the table, too.
Ruthie, our server, clears a few plates with a quizzical expression on her face.
She can’t be that disturbed; there’s no way that Fernanda’s dinners are ever quiet.
Finally, Fernanda’s expression clears, dawning on horror. “Fernanda Navarro and Francisco Fiore? That sounds horrible!”
“You’re right,” I deadpan. “It’ll never work between you two.”