CHAPTER 14 #2
Fernanda elbows me as the whole table breaks out into giggles again. Lina cuts through the noise. “What about you, Amy?” She leans across the table, curious. “Now that you’ve helped Fernanda, we can help you. Do you have a man?”
I sense Fernanda’s watchful gaze out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t engage with her. I lean towards Lina, too. “I do, actually,” I reveal. “It’s getting serious.”
You’d think I just won a Grand Slam, the way the table reacts. Each of the girls ask a different question.
“What’s he like?” A sweet Anika asks.
“What does he do?” A shrewd Margot wants to know.
“How handsome is he on a scale of one to ten?” A practical Ofelia narrows her eyes at me.
I answer her first. “Ten,” I say firmly. “At least to me.”
Ofelia wrinkles her nose. “That makes him sound ugly.”
I grin, but Fernanda defends me. “He’s not, trust me. She’s just being modest.”
Ofelia is too smart for her own good. “Have you met him, Fernanda?”
I hide a wince. I might be ready to reveal I have a man, but it doesn’t seem wise to tell a table of a dozen women that it’s their fellow tennis player, who is currently staying a few floors above us, unless I want the whole world to know.
The idea doesn’t seem as scary as it used to, but I want to get through Wimbledon first. Fortunately, Fernanda is just as quick as Ofelia.
“No,” she says wistfully, “But she did show me a picture.”
Before the whole table can also ask to see a picture, I turn the question back on Lina. “What about you, Lina? You just got engaged, right?” Her blinding engagement ring and corresponding post on social media last month clued me in.
Lina happily takes back the spotlight, regaling the table with her engagement story to a handsome Parisian artist she met last year at Roland Garros. The rest of the night continues in the same way, circulating from tennis to fashion to romance and back again.
I can see the genius of Fernanda’s planning.
This dinner might be tense in a few weeks, because, inevitably, some of us will play later in the tournament.
Some of us will become guilty winners or bitter losers.
But before the tournament begins, there’s no bad blood.
Sure, there’s a hint of competition, a splash of trash talk here and there, mostly from Marisa, who is gunning for me this time around, but nothing serious.
Fernanda lingers back with the check as everyone heads up to their rooms around 11 p.m. She insisted no one stay out any later since nearly half the group has a match tomorrow. My head buzzes pleasantly from the few gulps of wine I had and the company. I wait for Fernanda.
She’s surprised to see me lingering at the table for her. She opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it. “Thanks for inviting me, Fernanda, really.”
She links her arm with me again, walking us out. “So, you’ll come again next time? Our U.S. Open dinner is the best of the year. I give out my yearly awards.”
I bark a laugh. “You make awards for everyone? Like MVP? Best serve? Best hair?”
She clicks the button for the elevator. “Of course.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “And don’t get too cocky, Amy. You can’t win MVP your first year.”
The elevator dings. I glance up at her. “What about rookie of the year?” I might not be a tennis rookie, but I am a rookie at having friends, real ones, anyway. You never realize what you’re missing until you find it.
Her mouth twists, considering me. “Maybe. But you’ll have to beat Ofelia for it.”
I laugh as we walk into the elevator and head back to reality.
*
Ten days later, the greatest match of the tournament happens.
And it’s not my own. My journey through the draw has been relatively simple.
I dropped the first set against Marisa in the quarter finals, but Beck reminded me that she hates a wide serve, and I absolutely dominated the final two sets.
She gave me a genuine hug at the net, and I gave Beck a genuine high five after the match.
My semifinal match, which I needed to get into the finals, wasn’t close.
My opponent, Lauren Albin, pulled out of the match in the second set after hurting her knee.
I didn’t even play for a full hour. Unfortunately, Fernanda also made it through her semifinal, so we’ll meet in two days for the final.
I’m ready for her. I can feel it in the air—this tournament is mine.
Mine and Aurelio’s.
The greatest match of the tournament ended a couple of hours ago on Center Court.
Aurelio faced down his nemesis, the Frenchman and world number one, Charles Allard.
My match was before his, so I cooled down on the stationary bike and bit my lip savagely as I watched them on the TV.
As soon as the match started, I could tell the crowd was on Aurelio’s side.
Charles has the experience, though. He broke Aurelio’s serve early and it felt like deja vu.
It would be tight, but Aurelio would lose.
Even the commentators started praising Aurelio for just “keeping it close.”
Aurelio lost the first set pretty handily.
He looked more defeated than I had ever seen him.
He went to sit on his bench, wiping his face with a Wimbledon towel.
The stadium lights beamed down on him, blocking out the stars.
I desperately wished I was sitting beside him on the bench, saying the right things to buck him up.
But I should have known better. He didn’t need any love from me.
He found love elsewhere. The cameras caught it perfectly.
His little niece, Bianca, interrupted the relative quiet to call out to her uncle.
She stood up in the box, her father’s restraining hand on her shoulder.
She was once again wearing the sunglasses Aurelio bought her in Miami, looking like the coolest, bossest six-year-old in the world.
“Uncle Aurelio!” she shouted. Her English was impeccable, just faintly accented.
He turned around to look at her. He dropped the towel to his lap, brow furrowed.
She clenched her little fist, stared right at him. “You can do it! Forza!”
It took a beat for Aurelio to understand, to comprehend, but then a smile broke on his face. He started laughing. He stood up, put up both hands in an exaggerated shrug, and shouted back, “I’m working on it, Coach Bianca!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and the commentators for ESPN complimented Bianca’s pep talk. Even Charles Allard smiled at the exchange. Bianca watched shrewdly as Aurelio marched back out to the court, a new focus on his face. She stayed standing as he won the next set.
And the next.
And the next.
When he won the match, he shook Allard’s hand professionally, not a hint of joy leaking through.
He shook the umpire’s hand, sharing his thanks.
He nodded and waved to the ball kids. Finally, he turned and ran over to his box.
His brother handed Bianca down to him. And even though she was a little too big to be held, he carried her in his arms and did a joint interview after the match.
I teared up a little watching them. I had to blink a few times when I caught Rafe watching me strangely from the corner of the gym.
Aurelio and I are going to the finals of Wimbledon. Together.
I lounge on Aurelio’s bed waiting for him to come back to the hotel so we can celebrate properly.
I figure a surprise sleepover with the world number one is an appropriate prize after beating the world number one.
The clock says that it’s well after midnight, but we get to sleep in tomorrow.
Two days from now, I’ll play my final against Fernanda for my first Grand Slam win.
Right after, Aurelio will play the American hotshot, Joaquin Esquivel, for his first Grand Slam win. It feels like fate.
I told Beck that I was going out to “blow off some steam,” which strangely, he approved of.
It probably reminded him of himself, sleeping with cocktail waitresses and not using protection.
Even if I don’t come home until very late or very early, he won’t pass judgement.
No strings attached romance is the only type he approves of.
I know all of the lies will come back to bite me eventually, but Aurelio and I deserve a few more days of joy before having to confront the joy-killer that is Beck Bowman.
It takes Aurelio a while to escape the grips of the media, so much so that I almost doze off waiting for him. I sit up with a start when I hear the door opening. I take my contraband bag off the nightstand and fling some of its contents at Aurelio.
He cringes at the assault. “Agh.” He looks around in bewilderment, taking in the mess I have now made of the hotel floor and me sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Amy?” His gaze snags on the bag in my hand. “Why are you throwing rice at me? And how did you get in here?”
I shrug. “I took the extra keycard from your bag yesterday. And the kitchen gave me the rice. I didn’t have any confetti, so rice was the next best option.”
Aurelio’s confusion remains. “Next best option?” He starts walking over to me, dropping his bag on the ground as he goes. “Next best option for what?”
I stand up on the bed, for once several inches taller than Aurelio.
He looks up at me, tired and befuddled. It’s the sweetest expression I’ve ever seen.
I can’t hold it in anymore. “To celebrate!” I throw out my arms. “Or did you miss the fact that we’re both in the Wimbledon final for the first time? ”
Aurelio cracks immediately, starting to laugh, and I jump into his arms. He shuffles back a step, surprised, before his warm arms wrap around me.
I’m laughing, too, blinking back happy tears that hopefully he doesn’t see.
Aurelio twirls us around, my feet swinging easily through the air.
I loop my arms around his neck. “Can you believe it?” I ask him. “You were amazing today!”