CHAPTER 22 #2
I pause a moment, wondering if he’s right.
This final does feel different. There’s no strangling desperation, no buzzing beneath my skin, no tell-tale itch on my wrist. “You’re wrong,” I finally decide.
I look at him. “You’re wrong, I promise.
The reason I was so intense the last few months when I played a final wasn’t because I could imagine myself winning, holding the trophy, hugging Beck in the stands.
It’s because I couldn’t stop imagining the pain and embarrassment of losing.
” I take Aurelio’s hand. “But now, I already know what losing is like. I already know that I can keep going, I can keep playing, I can live with myself. The world won’t stop turning.
So, when I imagine tomorrow, all I picture is the joy.
All I imagine is jumping into your arms in the stands.
” I shrug. “You haven’t softened my ambition, Aurelio. You’ve only softened the fear.”
Aurelio kisses me, soft and loving. His free hand brushes my hair from my face, traces the curve of my ear, cups my cheek. I lean closer subconsciously, seeking more of his warmth. His touch feels like heaven.
I pull away, a blush on my cheeks and a stern expression on my face. “None of that,” I say firmly. “We’re going to bed. Now. In case you didn’t know, I have a final to win tomorrow night.”
I fall asleep right away, curled in the crook of Aurelio’s arm.
*
Beck texts me the morning of the final.
Beck:
I’ve been rewatching film of you and Fernanda playing at Wimbledon. I think you need to focus on hitting fastballs on serve. Her footwork is too strong if you just slowly hit your spots.
I blink at my phone, appalled. The three dots appear, showing that he’s typing.
Beck:
I know what I said before, but I was wrong. I think you can win a Grand Slam.
Another pause, another hesitation. My heart races as he ponders whether he should add more. Finally, he sends one more line.
Beck:
I know you can win a Grand Slam.
It’s the closest I’ll come to an apology for what happened in Cincinnati. I’m supposed to meet Vince downstairs in five minutes, but I stand frozen in my hotel room, tennis bag digging into my shoulder. I can hear Aurelio in the shower. I decide to respond to Beck with the truth.
Amy:
You only care because Charles lost in the semis. If he was still playing, I wouldn’t exist.
A small part of me, the little Amy that still remembers being left at Beck’s front door, wants to believe her father.
That he only said those awful things in Cincinnati because he was angry about my lies.
But the larger part, the one that can’t ignore years of Beck’s behavior, knows the truth.
He’s addicted to winning tennis matches, and I’m his next fix.
If I had lost already, he’d just say that he was right all along.
Beck replies quickly, ready for my scathing response.
Beck:
What can I do, Amy, to convince you that I care?
My fingers tighten around my phone, mirroring the rising tide of fury in my chest. What can he do? What can he do? I grit my teeth, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Amy:
You can stop trying to be my coach and just be my dad.
This time, it takes him longer to respond. Maybe because we both know how impossible my request is. He finally texts a simple question.
Beck:
What would a regular dad do?
I roll my shoulders back and release the breath I was holding. The anger in me abates, replaced by a splintering sadness. My chest aches. I throw my drowning father one last lifeline, unsure if the coach in him will let him catch it.
Amy:
Sit in the crowd and cheer for me, no matter what happens. If you can do that, maybe there’s hope.
I’m about to shove my phone in my pocket, ready to ignore him the rest of the day and focus on my match, when I decide to send one more message. One more warning.
Amy:
And stay away from Aurelio.
I snatch my hotel key off the dresser and head towards the door. “Bye, Aurelio!” I call. “I’ll see you at the match!”
I hear the shower turn off and Aurelio’s quick, wet footsteps on the tile. He sticks his head out the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, drops of water clinging to his sculpted chest. “Good luck, mia dolce.” He looks serious for once, fierce. “I believe in you.”
I walk over and press a kiss to his wet cheek. “Thank you.” I smile. “I believe it, too.”
Without giving Beck a second thought, I hurry out the door.
I have a final to win.
*
My father isn’t the only person who texts me the day of the U.S. Open Final. My mom sends a picture with a silver-haired man holding up stemless wine glasses in front of the TV.
Mom:
Paul and I are all prepped and ready for your big night!!
I’ve never heard of Paul before, but I hope it lasts for her.
She looks happy in the picture, the smile lines around her eyes more pronounced than the last time I saw her.
I remember wincing at the anger, the vitriol in her Wimbledon hit-piece.
Maybe she realized that being angry at Beck is like being angry at the sun.
He’ll exist, untouched and golden forever.
It’s better to protect yourself from being burned than wish he’ll disappear.
Maybe she saw his livestream where he said, “We hardly know the woman,” and she realized it was true.
She’s been sending more of these random texts, as though feeling me out.
I respond with a heart emoji. I’ll call her tomorrow and when I talk to her, I’ll make sure she’s getting Amy the person, not Amy the tennis god’s daughter.
The Tennis Girlies groupchat, aptly named by Fernanda, has also been blowing up all morning.
Margot:
My money’s on Amy. I think she really did want to punch Fernanda during that mixed doubles match.
Lina:
I’m for the one that has an Italian boyfriend. Oh, wait... can’t they do anything without copying each other?
Anika:
I have to go with Fernanda. Now that I’ve beaten Amy, I know all her weaknesses.
Ofelia:
Didn’t you beat her in mixed doubles? Aren’t you like 0-5 against her in singles?
I snicker at Ofelia’s response, and at Anika’s simple retort, a middle finger emoji. Vince eyes me, motioning for me to continue my stretching routine. “I’m reading and working!” I show him my phone. “It’s relaxing!” He rolls his eyes but lets me be.
Fernanda chimes in, queenly as usual.
Fernanda:
Gambling is immoral, ladies. You’re distracting us.
There’s a pause, and then she says:
Fernanda:
I’d bet on me, too, though.
I grin, fingers already flying across the keyboard. I can’t let Fernanda have the last word.
Amy:
I have a feeling there’ll be a new champion tonight. Fernanda hasn’t beaten me on a hard court yet.
It’s true. She might have the edge on clay, or even the unpredictable grass, but hard court is my domain.
It’s a power hitter’s dream. The group chat erupts into chaos, all the girls talking trash and taking sides.
Just as I’m about to put my phone away, one more message comes through, outside the group chat.
Fernanda:
You’ll forgive me, right? If I win?
The fact that she’s asking, that she’s even thinking about it at all, shows her worry. Last time she beat me at a Grand Slam final, I didn’t talk to her for two weeks. I can’t do that again. She’s done so much for me, the least I can do is reassure her that I won’t be a major dick if I lose.
And, really, I don’t think I will.
Amy:
If you do the same for me.
Fernanda:
Deal.
All the texts provide a nice distraction for a day that seems to be moving slowly.
Fernanda and I are set to play at 7 p.m., after the men this afternoon.
They changed the schedule, putting our match last due to high interest. It’s a nice change for the women to be the grand finale rather than the men.
However, it means I’m vibrating with energy all day, trying to stick to my routine so I don’t release all my adrenaline too soon.
Barbara walks into the gym as I finish my warm-up, looking at her watch. “It’s almost time,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
I stand up from my yoga mat, shaking out my hands. “Good, I think,” I admit. “Today’s been a nice change of pace.”
Vince snorts. “You can say that again.”
Barbara looks between the two of us. “What am I missing?”
I shrug. “I didn’t realize how much of my anxiety during these finals was coming from Beck.
I’m still nervous, still restless, but it’s different.
I’m also excited about the opportunity to play Fernanda again, to play under the lights, to play here in the States.
It feels like the perfect match for me.” My fingers touch my wrist, free of hives. “My redemption.”
Barbara’s smile is slow, but it’s there. “Well, the wait is over. You’re set to warm-up in ten.”
I want to reassure my new coach. “I’m ready. I remember everything we talked about.”
Barbara adjusts her visor, business-like. “I know you do,” she says briskly. “If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be your coach.” She fixes me with a look. “Now, let’s go win this, Amy.”
She heads out of the gym, determination in every step.
Vince hovers by my side. “She’s so cool,” I tell him, eyes wide. He chuckles. I put an arm around his broad shoulders and squeeze. “You are too,” I promise him. “Thanks for sticking with me.”
He shrugs under my arm. “You made it easy,” he says. A lump forms in my throat, knowing that Beck made it anything but.
“Come on.” I start pulling him towards the door. “Or we’ll lose your sister to the fans begging for an autograph.”
We walk out together.
*