Page 1 of Love, Amy

CHAPTER 1

Australian Open: January 2026

My father says real losers cry. So, when I lose the Australian Open Grand Slam, I don’t cry. I don’t cry when I sit on the bench after the match, face blank, mechanically wiping the sweat off my brow with a towel. I can’t even look across the net at the qualifier who beat me, a young woman of 18 who is currently ranked 176 in the world. When I shake her hand, I stare just past her cheekbone and blink a few extra times. I know I should wave at the crowd as I leave the stadium, but my gaze stays on the ground. My father, my coach, is watching.

And I’m not a loser. Except for today, when I, Amy Bowman, the number one player in the world, lost her first Grand Slam Final 6-2, 6-2. It wasn’t even close.

I don’t cry when my father, a former number one player himself, grabs my elbow a little too hard outside the locker room. I don’t cry when he reminds me that he has “no idea what to say at a losing press conference” as he won all 18 of the Grand Slam Finals he played in. I check my phone before it’s my turn in front of the microphone and see a “Good Luck” text sent by my mom before the match. She doesn’t say anything now that I’ve lost, which is exactly like her. I don’t cry when I talk to the press, relying on my media training to vomit out cliches and promises to improve. I don’t cry a minute after the match, ten minutes after the match, an hour after the match. It’s getting easier to pretend that it’s impossible for me to do so. My father hasn’t seen me cry since I was ten years old and broke my ankle riding a friend’s skateboard. I didn’t cry when I saw the white flash of bone, but when my father tore into me for missing time on the court.

I don’t cry as I pack up in the locker room because, even there, I have an audience. The qualifier who beat me, Lyra, is nervously doing the same. I wonder if she’s afraid of me. Amy Bowman, the golden daughter of tennis, muscled and bronze. Blond hair in a perfect slicked-back bun, green eyes burning into the floor. I must slam my locker door too hard when I walk out because Lyra flinches. I should say something congratulatory, something kind. She just achieved the hardest win in tennis, the notorious Grand Slam victory. She won millions of dollars in front of the world. Even better, she’s a lovable underdog who experiences none of the pressure and criticism the top ten do. For that very reason, I walk right by her.

Lucky bitch.

I don’t even cry when I’m locked up with my father in our hotel room. He’s never liked being called Dad, as he says being a father is secondary to his coaching. I’ve only ever called him “Coach” or “Beck” from the moment I was dropped off at his doorstep at age four. I don’t think the overwhelmed, 24-year-old cocktail waitress that was my mom even looked back. We’re the same age now. I’m a millionaire many times over, thanks to numerous tournament wins and brand deals. I’m sponsored by Nike, use Wilson rackets with a custom design, wear Cartier jewelry, and drive a BMW. She was a cocktail waitress surviving off tips from scuzzy celebrities and wannabes at a Vegas club who caught my father’s eye on one of his nights off. Our differences are the only reason I even pick up the phone every few months when she feels guilty and calls.

Beck paces the floor, practically wearing a hole through the beige carpet with his heavy steps. He stands at a menacing 6’6”, still in good shape at 60 years old. No one tells him that his hair is thinning, that his eight pack is more like a four pack. He’s Beck motherfucking Bowman, the greatest tennis player to ever live. In the realm of tennis, you have to act like he’s made of gold.

Even if you’re his only daughter.

“What happened to your serve, Amy?” he demands, wheeling to face me, sitting calmly on the bed. “Sixteen double faults? Most of them went straight into the net. You think you’re going to beat some shitty backwater Lithuanian player with a serve like that?”

“Estonian,” I correct without thinking. His menacing expression makes me mutter the rest. “Lyra’s Estonian.”

He throws his hands up. “Do you want to be a joke, Amy? Do you want to be a footnote in my story forever? Or do you want to join me up here and become one of the greatest players who ever lived?” His arrogance knows no bounds, but neither did his talent or skill. Most of the ATP players, which is the men’s professional tennis league, have been trying to poach him from me for years. I should be grateful he sticks around.

Most of the time, I am.

I inhale, but don’t let it out. The pressure of the captive breath is the only pain I should feel. Not Beck’s words. It’s not like I haven’t heard them before. His coach was hard on him, relentlessly so. He knows it will only help me in the end. I wonder if I’ll bleed out, death from a thousand cuts, before we get there. “I’m only 24,” I finally say to him, keeping my voice even, my body perfectly still. “There’s still time—”

Beck barks a laugh. “24? You turn 25 in September. In tennis, you’re already middle-aged, and you have nothing to show for it. No Grand Slam titles. No junior Grand Slam titles. I already had five titles by your age and three junior titles. If anything, you’re behind!” He shakes his head at me. “Your serve has abandoned you a few times before, Amy, and let’s face it, your forehand and backhand are average. You need that serve. How are you going to fix it?”

My skin begins to itch a bit, as though I’m trapped in my body against my will. Maybe it’s anger, buzzing just below the surface. But I know my father, my coach, and anger is nothing to him. Anger only feeds him. He’s the greatest tennis player there ever was. How can you argue with a god?

How can you argue when you want to be a god, too?

Even so, there’s a touch of iciness in my voice when I say, “I might have lost this final, but I won eight titles last year—”

Beck flaps his hand dismissively. “A couple WTA 1000 and 500 tournaments are small potatoes. They don’t even pay the same as the men’s. Only the Grand Slams offer you a chance at greatness.”

Now, my blood boils. Those traitorous tears, which I thought I long starved, start to build. “And whose fault is that?” I reply hotly, standing up from the bed. “Billie Jean King fought for equality at all the tournaments, but only the Grand Slams are beholden to it. You’re a huge force in tennis, and yet I don’t see you advocating for women.”

He rolls his eyes. “Enough, Amy. I’m just reminding you that Grand Slams should be your focus. Anyone on the men’s side could beat you 6-0, 6-0. Don’t forget it.”

I throw my hands out. “How could I? Me being a girl is the biggest disappointment of your life.”

Beck crosses his arms. “No, it was probably your serve today.”

I take a half-step back at the dig. It’s not as if I don’t know how poorly I played today, but Beck is incredible at finding and stomping out weakness. Usually, it works well on me. I push back against him until, unknowingly, I’m just as strong as he wanted me to be.

Today, I’m tired.

We’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Beck’s fury mounts at the interruption. He balls his fists, knuckles white. Suzy calls through the door, “Everything alright in there, Amy?” My heart swells at my physio’s kind words. She is in charge of my wellbeing, though recently it feels like she’s been more focused on the emotional than the physical. I rush past Beck to open the door, taking in her kind, wrinkly face and graying braid. She still has on the hideous BMW tracksuit they gave my team to wear during the match. The compassion on her face is worse than anything my father could say. It’s a reminder that today, I did lose.

I am a loser.

The tears become blinding, and I’m thankful my back is to Beck. I clear my throat. “I just need a break. I’ll be ready for tomorrow morning’s flight back to L.A.” There’s a slight crack in the last word, in the mention of home, which I hope my father doesn’t hear. I push past Suzy’s gentleness and find solace exactly where my father does when he’s upset.

The bar.