CHAPTER 22 #3
My player’s box is the fullest it’s ever been, and it’s not because Beck has weaseled his way in.
Aurelio, Barbara, Vince, and Tyrese sit in the front, clapping appreciatively when I come out onto the court from the locker room.
Alessandro, Aurelio’s father, and Bianca sit right behind them.
Bianca stands on her father’s legs when I get to my bench, waving excitedly at me.
I wave back, smiling. Aurelio didn’t tell me they were coming to the match.
I thought about inviting them but wasn’t sure they’d come since Aurelio isn’t playing.
He always says that tennis isn’t their world; they only come to support him.
I guess they’re here supporting me.
There’s one more person in the box, but her back is to me, a curly, gray-streaked ponytail my only clue.
I’m squinting, trying to decipher who’s standing between Aurelio and Barbara, as I walk over to the sideline.
Aurelio nudges the stranger with his shoulder, and she turns to look at me.
Aurelio’s grin should have tipped me off.
It’s Suzy.
I drop all of my rackets on the sideline with a clatter. My tennis bag falls off my shoulder. I walk in a daze to stand below my box. “Suzy?” I look up at her in disbelief. “You’re here?”
She smiles at me, eyes twinkling. “Thank your guy, Amy. He called me earlier this week.”
Of course he did. I look at Aurelio with hearts in my eyes. I hope he knows how much I value his thoughtfulness. He winks and turns to talk to Vince, leaving Suzy and me in our own bubble.
I reach up and she meets me in the middle, leaning over the railing to hold my hand.
I squeeze hers gently. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Suzy.
I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.
” I look at her regretfully. I have to blink back a few tears.
I can’t be crying when I hit my first serve.
“I’m sorry I treated you so horribly when you left. You did nothing to deserve it.”
She’s shaking her head before I even finish.
“I’m sorry, Amy,” she tells me. “I’m sorry I left without really explaining my worries about Beck.
I see now that you had the capacity to listen.
” She glances at Aurelio, at Vince, at Barbara, at my new family.
“I’m proud of you. You’re finally surrounding yourself with the right people. ”
When she says right people, all I can think about is the wrong one, my gaze scanning the crowd behind her.
I don’t see Beck anywhere, but I hardly have the time to check every seat.
He might be here, blending in as I asked.
He might also be back on a plane to Malibu, discarding his dad-card forever.
Suzy knows me. She knows what I’m looking for, or better yet, who. “You don’t need him to win,” she reminds me, gently squeezing my hand. My gaze snaps back to her, to the woman who helped raise me.
I swallow a lump in my throat. “I invited him to come here and be my father, not my coach.” I confess to her.
“I guess a small part of me thought he might show up.” Suzy makes a sympathetic noise, but I wave her off.
“But you showed up, Suzy, and so did the rest of my family. I have everything I need.”
Her eyes soften. “I really think you do, Amy.” She squeezes my hand one more time, then drops it. “Good luck out there. I mean it.”
I take a step back from the box, wanting to look at all of them as long as I can. Only Suzy looks back at me, the rest of them talking excitedly and looking around the stadium. My chest warms at the sight, at the reminder that this could be my box for many more years to come.
Bianca finally calls me out. “Auntie Amy!” She points at me sternly from her father’s lap. “You need to go warm up!”
Everyone’s gaze turns to me. Aurelio’s is warm and sweet, just like the day we met.
I want to say something poignant, something that shows them what they mean to me. Instead, I say, too simply, “Thank you all for coming. I love you.”
And then, I turn back into Amy the tennis player. She wants to win today for her family.
Fernanda and I don’t say anything as we warm up, which is normal, but we shake hands and do the coin toss before the match. She squeezes my hand meaningfully when we shake. “Good luck, Ames,” she says, expression bittersweet.
I know the feeling. For one of us to win, the other has to lose. “Good luck, Fernanda,” I echo, stepping back from the net. We share a nod, an agreement to play our best, to put on a show for the fans, for our families, for each other.
And that’s exactly what we do.
The first set goes according to plan. Barbara and I pored over footage of the Wimbledon final, too, just as Beck did, but we came to a different conclusion.
My serve will be effective, as long as I’m hitting a high percentage, but that just means we get stuck at the tie-break where my nerves often get the best of me.
Barbara thinks I need to break Fernanda’s serve, which has never been my forte.
Against lesser opponents, I can return well enough, but Fernanda’s level is difficult to match.
Barbara developed a new strategy on return.
I’d take Fernanda’s serve early, dictating pace from the beginning.
Taking a serve early means there’s more margin for error, as you have to be quick in your decision-making.
Barbara warned me that I’d have to be mentally tough because in some games I might hit the ball out more than I hit it in.
But she explained that it only takes one game, one break point for me to get control of the set.
It happened just like she said it would.
At first, me stepping up and taking Fernanda’s serve early leads to chaos.
I hit a couple unreturnable winners, but they’re few and far between as I adjust to the speed of Fernanda’s serve.
I can see her brow furrow, wondering at my new strategy.
Her coach, Angelina, barks a few additional orders throughout the game, but I can’t understand the rapid-fire Spanish.
My chance finally arrives when we’re tied 4-4.
I rip two winners in a row right off her serve, quick and vicious.
Fernanda can’t even get to them, her racket outstretched, her feet tangled.
I’m up 40-15. I only need one more point to break Fernanda’s serve and take the lead.
She eyes me from across the court, considering where to send the serve.
I know what she’s thinking. Barbara and I already discussed it.
What to do when an opponent is creeping closer to the net? Hit it out wide.
When she does, I’m ready. I swing through the return, sending the ball cross-court, to the corner opposite Fernanda.
She curses loudly in Spanish as it zips right by her.
My heart pounds louder and louder as I step to the line to serve out the first set.
In tennis, the first person to win six games wins the set, unless there’s a tiebreaker.
Fernanda is shaken by the late break, I can tell.
My serve loves her indecision, hitting faster and faster with each point. She doesn’t return a single ball.
I win the first set 6-4. No tiebreaker needed.
Aurelio gets to his feet as the crowd roars their approval. “Forza, Amy!” He pumps his fist. “One more set!”
I grin at him from the bench, wiping sweat from my brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Fernanda and Angelina talking. Fernanda stands on the court below her box, nodding at whatever her coach is saying. Francisco looks on worriedly, arms crossed.
I look at my coach. “Anything I should be doing differently?”
Barbara also watches Fernanda and Angelina. “No,” she finally looks back at me, dark gaze glinting, “But it’ll be harder this set. They know what you’re up to now.”
I nod, guzzling my water. “Got it.”
The umpire calls us back to the court. I bounce on the balls of my feet, spinning my racket in my hands, as I wait for Fernanda to serve first this time around.
My adrenaline surges when I see that delightful green ball hit her racket, rocket over to my side.
I take it early, just like before, but this time, she’s ready.
She’s already scooted over to the opposite corner, knowing where I intend to hit it and catch her off guard.
She hits it back at me, a little late, a little shallow, but enough to keep it in play.
The point drags on, a relentless game of cat and mouse.
Finally, one of my balls skims the top of the net and lands out.
We both straighten after the point, assessing each other.
That point was long and arduous, a preview of what’s to come.
Fernanda finally breaks our stare down, heading back to the baseline.
I pull the neck of my tennis dress away from my body, sticky with sweat and effort.
The sun starts to fully disappear behind the stands, but it’s still 85 degrees and humid.
Fernanda takes a deep breath and sends the ball back over to me.
The second set drags on, each point a chore, each point bringing us closer and closer to the edge of exhaustion.
A short women’s match is usually about an hour.
An average match closer to two. When Fernanda finally breaks me due to too many slow second serves and wins the second set 6-4, the clock says we’ve already been playing for two hours and 15 minutes. Most matches don’t break three hours.
I have a feeling we’re going to today.
I put my head between my knees on the bench, breathing in deeply. Fortunately, my brutal conditioning means that I still have something in the tank for our third set. Barbara and my box wait patiently for me to catch my bearings. I finally sit up, my brain quieter, my breathing slower.
I grab my water and glance up at Barbara. “What do you got?” I ask quietly.