CHAPTER 22
Despite losing in the All-Star event, Fernanda, Aurelio, and I each sail through the first three rounds of the U.S.
Open. Working with Barbara feels entirely different than working with Beck, beyond the obvious.
She claps approvingly when I do something well during a match.
She asks me what I think when I’m about to serve.
She agrees to let me practice with Aurelio, Fernanda, and even a very eager Ofelia.
She speaks calmly and confidently to all media people.
She’s like the anti-Beck.
I don’t see my father often in the first week of the tournament.
There are too many players, too many coaches, too many matches going on.
But as players are eliminated and we get down to the quarters, only the elite are left.
And Beck would never coach a player that isn’t elite.
After a particularly grueling session with Barbara in which she has me run so many sprints my legs feel like jelly, I guzzle water as I walk off the court to meet Fernanda for a quick lunch.
I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk when I see both Charles Allard and my father blocking my path.
They must have been practicing as well, both with tennis bags slung over their shoulders.
Charles seems to be complaining about something, his face red from the heat and his frustration.
Beck stands with his arms crossed, listening passively to Charles’ complaints.
I can only watch them, frozen, not sure if I’m relieved or disgusted to see that no one can truly fold to Beck’s way.
It wasn’t just me. In fact, Charles has been working with my father for days.
I worked with the man for years. I prayed at his goddamn church every day.
I straighten my spine and resolve to walk by them. I can’t hide from my father forever. He won’t give up tennis, well, neither will I.
Charles is the first one to notice me, looking over my father’s shoulder. His eyes widen, and he cuts off his venting. Beck hesitates, maybe wondering if it’s me, maybe hoping it is, before slowly turning around.
“Gentlemen,” I say cheerfully. “Good practice?”
Beck doesn’t answer me, just watches me walk over. Charles fills the uncomfortable silence with his own probing question. “I hear you’re working with Barbara Dade, Amy.” He glances between me and my father. “Is that true?”
It’s not that I want to hurt my father, to twist the knife in his back. But I refuse to flinch first. “Yes,” I say, truthfully. “She’s been a great role model.”
Beck’s hands tighten on his elbows, his knuckles whitening, but that’s the only tell that he’s heard me. I suddenly feel enormous pity for the man. Who does he have in his life? What family, what friends does he rely on? Isn’t that why I hung on so long, because he said he chose me?
I look between Charles and Beck, two sides of the same coin. “I hope it works out,” I tell them. I look at Beck. “Really.”
And then I step past them, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.
*
Fernanda and I each win our quarterfinals, heading closer and closer to a rematch in the finals. I can tell from the way the media asks us questions that everyone in the tennis world is itching for a rematch of our epic showdown at Wimbledon.
Aurelio, unfortunately, isn’t so lucky. He wins his quarterfinal but pays a price.
I find him in the media room, just like always.
Throughout the tournament, if we’re not playing at the same time, we sit in each other’s boxes.
I knew from my courtside seat that Aurelio hurt himself running down a wide serve in the final set, as he came up from the chase limping.
He did his best to continue, but his face lost all its color.
He was able to wave to the crowd, humble and genial as always when he won, but even that felt muted.
His trainer, Jacopo, was with him in the locker room for a long time after the match.
That’s never good.
Aurelio sits on one of the leather couches they have in the U.S.
Open media room, his head tipped back, his eyes closed.
He wears a boot on his right foot. The media asked about a dozen variations of the same question about the injury, but Aurelio just tiredly explained that he has a high ankle sprain and would be in the boot for a month or two.
He would not be able to compete in the rest of the U.S. Open.
I sit next to him on the couch, our legs brushing together. “Amy,” he says without opening his eyes. My name falls out of his mouth like a sigh.
I can sense his sadness. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know you wanted to keep playing.” To any tennis player, an injury is the true nightmare.
Sure, losing is embarrassing, but with the right mindset you can convince yourself you’ll win the next one.
An injury means you can’t play the game you love.
For lower-level players it can also mean a loss of funds or even insurance if it goes on long enough.
Fortunately, Aurelio’s injury seems minor.
I lean my head on his shoulder. “At least it’s the end of the season,” I tell him.
“Not the worst timing in the world.” The U.S.
Open is the last Grand Slam tournament of the year, with only a few smaller tournaments between August and October.
After that, we have a month or two off around the holidays.
Aurelio finally opens his eyes, looking down at me through his lashes. “I felt like I had the... momentum,” he admits. “To keep winning, to keep playing my best. It seemed like everything had fallen into place.”
I nod, the top of my head rubbing against his cheek. “It’s a little harder to say that all you need is love when you can’t even play, huh?” I’m trying to make him smile, and it works.
He huffs a laugh. “Maybe I just need more love.”
I frown. “What exactly are you thinking, Fabio? I’m not giving you permission to make us a throuple or something.”
I’m really rewarded then, Aurelio tipping his head back to laugh. I smile, too, though I don’t think he can see it the way we’re sitting. He finally gets himself under control. “Throuple, hm?” he muses. “I think that is the first time I have said that word.”
“An American classic,” I say dryly.
“I was thinking more like a trip,” he suggests. “Just you and me.”
I sit up so I can look at his face. “A trip? Where would we go?”
“Well,” he brainstorms, “I could show you the rest of Italy. You’ve been to Rome many times with the tournament there, but what about Tuscany, Milan, or Florence?”
“How about all three?” It sounds lovely, walking hand-in-hand down cobblestone streets. Then my brow furrows. “Though Bianca may need to give me a few more Italian lessons before we go.”
“I can supplement her teaching,” Aurelio offers, a twinkle in his eye. He still looks physically tired, a little pale, a little weak, but I’ll take all of that for a genuine smile.
“I’ll go to Italy,” I promise. “If you’ll come on a surfing trip with me.”
His face twists, conflicted. “Surfing?” he asks skeptically. “I’ve never been before.”
“It’s the best,” I reassure him. “And I’ve never been to any of the best places to surf, just Malibu. I’ve heard Portugal is amazing, Tahiti, even Hawaii—”
Aurelio shakes his head, a smile on his face. “I’d love to, but Antonio would kill me for even considering it. I’d probably come back with more injuries than I have now.”
I scoff. “I can convince Antonio, don’t you worry. You’re not getting out of this. I’ll just promise him we’ll stay on the baby waves.”
Aurelio tries a different approach. “And what about Barbara? Would she love this surfing trip to Portugal, the land of a hundred-foot waves? Or would she rather I took you to Italian villas and churches and force-fed you wine?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. You win this time around. We can do Italy this winter, during our time off.” I offer him a hand up so we can head back to our hotel room. “But when we’re retired, we’re doing the surfing trip.”
Aurelio takes my hand. “Deal,” he agrees easily. I pick up his tennis bag, and we head out hand-in-hand.
*
The night before I play the U.S. Open final against Fernanda, just as the fans wanted, Aurelio offers to get a different hotel room. “Why?” I ask him, confused. We’ve been sharing a room and a bed since we arrived in London.
“I don’t want to be a distraction.” He rubs an agitated hand through his hair. “Maybe your old routine would be best.”
I raise a brow. “I lost those finals when I had my old routine.”
“Right, right.” Aurelio begins to pace at the foot of the bed, ignoring instructions to put his foot up. It’s late, nearly 10 p.m., and I’m already wearing my pajamas.
I watch Aurelio pace for a minute before asking, “What’s wrong?”
“I just...” he starts, then stops. I wait patiently as he works through it. He sighs, sitting at the foot of the bed, back to me. “I just don’t want to prove your father right,” he finally admits, voice low. “I don’t want you to lose your ambition because of me.”
I crawl across the bed so I can sit beside him. “Do I seem like I lost my ambition?” I ask mildly. “Have I stopped going to practice, watching film, improving myself? Have I thrown out my diet, my stretching routine, my time with Vince? Have I treated this final like a throwaway?”
Aurelio patiently listens, nodding along, but he’s ready as soon as I’m finished.
“No, of course not,” he answers immediately.
“But,” he emphasizes, “You’re acting so calm!
” He throws up his hands. “It’s not like you.
I’m worried that you’re accepting your fate. That you believe you’ll lose tomorrow.”