CHAPTER 22 #6
The ball falls, so sadly, over to my side of the court, landing right next to the net, only a few inches separating it from Fernanda’s side.
The ball’s momentum slows, flattens, breaks.
It hardly bounces when it hits the concrete.
I’m still a few steps away, my racket outstretched, my sweat dripping onto the court.
I skid to a stop, staring at the dead ball. I’ve lost, once and for all.
20-18, Fernanda.
I fall to my knees, dropping my racket. The crowd is a mess of sounds, Fernanda’s supporters delighted and applauding, my fans shouting angrily, as well as a layer of confused murmuring at the final point.
I put my hands over my eyes. My breath hurts in my chest.
“Amy!” I catch a glimpse of Fernanda’s legs as she runs over to my side. She kneels across from me, tears already glinting in her eyes. “It’s not fair! It shouldn’t have ended that way!” Her voice breaks. “We both should have won!”
I take one more breath, then drop my hands.
I look at Fernanda, her face wet with tears, regret carved into her expression.
“We did win,” I promise her, voice low. Fernanda freezes, watching me carefully.
My eyes burn, my mouth trembles, but I smile for her, for my friend, for my best friend.
“We did win, Fernanda, I promise.” I start crying then, too, the sobs hurting my chest.
She reaches out and hugs me, both of us on our knees, both of us crying.
A cameraman runs over, capturing our intimate moment. I don’t even care. I’m too exhausted to care what anyone thinks. Some people probably think Fernanda deserved the win. Some people probably think it was unfairly taken from me.
But I think that we just played the best tennis match this year. Maybe this decade.
When I lost to Fernanda at Wimbledon, I told her, venom in my words, “You didn’t win, I lost.”
But how can I say that this time around? I broke every bad habit of mine. I threw Beck out. I kept my racket intact and in my hands rather than smashing it to bits after the second set. I smiled and shook my head when Fernanda made an incredible play. I didn’t double fault and self-destruct.
I just lost.
At our hug, the animosity and confusion in the crowd dissipates. We get to our feet, still clinging to each other. I can sense Fernanda doesn’t want to let me go, so I gently break her hold.
I wipe a few of the tears off my face. “I told you that I would forgive you if you won,” I remind her. Fernanda smiles, wiping away a few tears of her own. “And you promised the same for me.” I grin at her. “I’m holding you to that, Navarro. We still have a lot of years left.”
She smiles back, a beautiful, snotty mess. “Until next time, Bowman.”
I grab her hand and lift it in the air for the second time this year. “Fernanda Navarro, everyone! The greatest tennis player in the world!”
The crowd roars. She waves, happy and exhausted. ESPN’s interview team and the tournament director descend on the court, getting everything ready for the trophy ceremony.
I stand for a moment, unsure and hesitant.
Until I hear his voice. “Amy!” I turn towards my box. Aurelio hangs over the side, arms open. “Amy!”
I start crying again, like a big baby. I run over to him, executing an adrenaline-induced leap to land in his arms. He lifts me into a hug, my feet dangling in the air, the railing between us.
I throw my arms around his neck, cry into his shoulder.
I’m talking, but Aurelio can’t understand me. “What, mia dolce? What did you say?”
I lift my head from his shoulder. There’s a wet spot on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” I repeat myself. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Aurelio squeezes me tighter. “What? Why are you sorry?”
My mouth trembles, but I manage to get the words out. “I wanted to win for you.” I look over his shoulder at Suzy and Barbara and Vince and Aurelio’s family. My voice breaks. “For all of you.”
Aurelio looks at me seriously, love and belief shining on his face. “You’ll always be a champion to us,” he says. “That will never change.”
I gently touch my forehead to his. “I love you, Aurelio.”
He smiles, relieved. “I love you, too, Amy.”
Vince appears over his shoulder and helps lift me up into the box completely. I open my mouth to say sorry again, to apologize for letting them down, when something nearly knocks me back onto the court.
It’s Bianca. She hugs me tightly, little arms wrapped around my hips. “You were amazing!” She peeks up at me, eyes shining.
I look at the rest of the box, disarmed. “You really were,” Barbara says, smiling kindly at Bianca. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
I study her face for traces of disappointment, but I don’t see any. I don’t see any on Vince’s face either. I don’t see any on Aurelio’s family, or Tyrese’s, or the fans sitting nearby.
Suzy isn’t disappointed at all. She’s beaming at me, tears in her eyes.
Sometimes, my best isn’t the best. But things change. There will be other Grand Slams, other opportunities, other matches.
What matters is that I love playing. I love putting in the work. I love these people.
And so, when everyone crowds in for a group hug, Aurelio and Barbara and Vince and Tyrese and Aurelio’s dad and Alessandro joining Bianca, I burst into fresh tears.
Not like a loser, but like a champion.