CHAPTER 15
I’ve been filling Fernanda in on my sleepover with Aurelio, since she seems to get most of her energy from tales of girlish exploits.
I keep the X-rated details to a minimum, but Fernanda still finds plenty to say about the evening.
“So, you’re in love with him?” she asks, casually. “Like in love with him?”
Every part of me recoils. I sit up. “What? No! When did I say that?”
She rolls her eyes, making no move to get up. “You didn’t. I can just tell.”
I cross my arms. “We can’t be in love. I barely know the guy!” It sounds weak even to my ears, but what else can I do but protest? The alternative is far worse.
Fernanda raises a brow. Even on her back, she looks like a supermodel. She’s starring in a glamorous music video, and I’m the harried PA trying to follow her directions. “You’ve known Aurelio for years, Amy.”
I huff. “Sure, I’ve seen him around, but it’s not like we were friends. I knew him by reputation alone.”
Fernanda rolls on to her side, propping her head on her elbow. “But haven’t you been going out for months?” She’s acting like a patient teacher, trying to lead me to the answer.
“Three months,” I admit. “But we hardly see each other. We’ve only gone on a few dates.” I apologize to Aurelio in my mind. I would never say these things to him. I know he’d be hurt. But the Amy in a relationship with Aurelio isn’t the same Amy everyone else gets.
Fernanda waves her hand as if to say go on.
“I hear you, tennis schedules are a bitch, but when the ATP and WTA have the same tournaments, you see each other every day. You go on romantic walks every morning for God’s sake.
Be serious, Amy.” She softens her tone a little.
“It’s okay if you love him. More than okay, probably. From all I’ve heard, he’s a good man.”
I know she’s right. If anyone deserves to be loved, it’s Aurelio.
And how else can I describe the warmth that spreads through me at just the sight of him?
How else can you explain me watching his matches late at night when we’re apart, even when I can barely keep my eyes open?
How else can you explain the smiles, the laughter, the inside jokes?
I collapse back onto the carpet with a groan. “Enough girl talk. It’s still new to me.” Fernanda laughs. I turn halfway on the carpet to look at her. “Unless it’s about you and Francisco. F Squared.”
Fernanda groans, covering her face with her hands. “No, please. He stopped to congratulate me on making it into the final a couple of days ago, and I couldn’t even respond. He’s too beautiful, Amy!”
The idea of confident, calculating Fernanda being at a loss for words makes me laugh.
She joins in, eventually, clutching her side.
It feels strangely cathartic. Maybe women engage in “girl talk” because it’s such a wonderful distraction from real life.
From the final looming over us. Looming over this whole evening.
Fernanda must be thinking the same thing. Her laughter slowly fades as she lies flat again. “Amy,” she says seriously. She doesn’t look at me, focused on the ceiling again. “We’ll stay friends, right? No matter what happens tomorrow?”
I want so badly to be a good friend, I don’t hesitate.
“Of course we will.” It’s not just me winning my first Grand Slam.
If I win, I’ll stay world number one. If I lose, Fernanda will overtake me, on top of winning her second Grand Slam of the year.
No one will debate who the better player is—it will be obvious.
Fernanda turns her head incrementally to look me in the eye. “Really?” she asks doubtfully. “You’re not just saying that?”
I pause, thinking about it. “I really hope not,” I finally say. There’s a strange lump in my throat. “But I want to win, Fernanda. I need to. It feels like it’s my last chance.”
She must hear it in my voice, the desperation, the edge of sadness. Her hand reaches for mine on the carpet. She grips it tightly. “Don’t say that.” She narrows her dark eyes at me. “This is not your last chance. Far from it.”
I don’t tell her that if I lose tomorrow, I’m afraid Beck will give up on me.
That the world will give up on me. That Aurelio will see a different girl standing across the court from him, one that doesn’t match his passion.
That I’ll keep fading so fast and so far that even Fernanda’s posse of girls won’t accept me anymore.
I won’t fit. Because if I’m not the greatest tennis player in the world, what the hell am I?
I blink back the dread. I squeeze Fernanda’s hand reassuringly before letting it go. I make it light. “But you better not go easy on me. I want a fair fight.”
My favorite Fernanda looks back at me, a warrior with a smoky eye. “Wimbledon is the biggest tennis tournament in the world, Amy. I’ll fight any way I have to.” And she means it.
I do, too.
*
Beck sits across from me at breakfast the morning of the Wimbledon Final.
We get more than one or two curious looks.
Amy Bowman on her own is a normal enough sight, but Beck rarely graces the public spaces with his kingly presence.
It should feel comforting that he wanted to join his daughter for breakfast, but I know it’s a reminder of today’s importance.
He watches me eat my small portion of eggs and toast like a hawk.
I swallow a dry bit of toast. “I watched the extra film you sent last night. I agree that Fernanda hates the body serve. She said as much a few weeks ago at dinner.” It almost feels dirty to use our friendship and the general bitching us girls do against her, but I know she’s also racking her brain for tennis tidbits I’ve dropped over the past few months.
Unfortunately for her, I trained at Beck Bowman’s school of making friends, which focuses less on making friends and more on manipulating your enemies. I doubt she’ll find many clues that differ from the film.
Beck nods. “Considering her height, you’d expect the serve to be her greatest weapon. It’s not bad, but really, it’s the return. Her footwork and timing are better than yours.”
I poke at my eggs. “She’s also calmer, more level-headed. Her demeanor won’t change, even if she loses the first set 6-0.” Beck’s still nodding, so I take a deep breath and say what’s really on my mind. “It would probably be best if we can stay calm, too. I don’t want to show her any weakness.”
“Agreed,” Beck says curtly. “No tantrums.”
I try not to bristle at his comment because there have been times when I’ve destroyed a racket or two. I wonder if he even realizes that it’s been months since that’s happened. Not since Australia. I soldier on. “Yes, I’ll hold myself in check, and so will you.”
He’s immediately defensive. “Me? I don’t have a problem. My head is always in the game.”
“Maybe to the extreme sometimes,” I confirm. “It doesn’t help me stay calm if you’re yelling and complaining. I know sometimes you’re trying to help with the umpire or my opponent...” I let out a tired exhale. “But it can be distracting.”
I don’t say that most of the time he’s yelling at me. I don’t say that some of the things he yells are mean, misogynistic, or petty. I don’t say that these days I wonder if I would play better without him in my corner at all.
Baby steps.
Beck is still chewing on my assessment of things, so I try again before he can decide he hates everything I’ve said.
I lean across the table, gently putting my hand on top of his.
That definitely catches his attention. “Please, Dad,” I say.
He’s looking right at me now, dazed at my use of the d-word.
“I want to make you proud. I want to win this one.” I try to infuse as much sincerity into the words as I can.
There’s not an ounce of dishonesty in them.
I gesture to myself with my free hand. “I feel good. I feel like this could be the right match for me, so let’s wait and see, okay? Let’s not force it.”
I must say something that resonates with him because, after a heavy beat, he nods.
“Fine.” He takes his hand out from under mine.
I go back to eating to make him feel more comfortable.
He scans the room, but there’s a slight flush on his cheeks.
I think I embarrassed him with real human emotion.
“Though I’ve never heard of just waiting for a Grand Slam title to fall into your lap.
” He grumbles under his breath, but I still hear it.
I smirk into my plate. “That’s not what you did?” I ask innocently, still poking at my eggs.
He immediately turns in his chair to face me, one finger in the air. “Certainly not, young lady. My focus was—” He realizes I’m joking when he sees my shoulders silently shake with laughter. He throws his hands up. “Just eat your breakfast, Amy.”
I do, watching the clock over his shoulder get closer and closer to match time.
*
The scoreboard reassures me as I ready my serve.
I lost a closely contested first set to Fernanda 6-4 after missing a few too many serves.
But I didn’t panic, like I promised Beck at breakfast, and he managed to keep his word, too.
He calmly reminded me to focus on the body serve, and I was able to follow his advice, tightening up the second set.
Fernanda fought hard enough to make it to the seven-point tiebreak, but I’m ahead 6-3. One more point and I’m officially back in the match. One more point and everything will be tied. One more point and I’m guaranteed more time on the court.