Page 2 of Love, Amy

My swanky hotel, which always treats me and my father like royalty, has a gorgeous circular bar on the ground floor. I wipe away a few stray tears in the elevator and walk with purpose towards what I hope will be a very strong dirty martini. It’s well past midnight, but the bar is still full of numerous tennis pundits, commentators, and a few players who’ve been in Melbourne for the two-week Grand Slam tournament. I try to find a clear path to the bar unscathed but quickly jump ship when I see the most beautiful woman perched on a bar stool holding court.

Fernanda Navarro. As if my night couldn’t get any worse. Fernanda has been chasing me all year, just on my tail in the international rankings at number two in the world. She lost a couple of days ago in the semifinals, which was a relief. I hate playing her and her 6’1” frame. She makes my 5’9” height seem just as embarrassing as my father believes it to be.

He should have picked a taller cocktail waitress.

Fernanda doesn’t look like a loser. Her coach, one of the few women coaches on tour, Angelina Sanchez, is laughing at her side and sipping a fruity cocktail that looks suspiciously like a Piña Colada. I wonder if they’re laughing at me, at how badly I lost to an underdog like Lyra. If they’re chuckling at how angry I got every time my serve went straight into the net. If they're giggling at my father’s enraged antics in the box and the two different warnings he got from the umpire to quiet down.

The huge bar has a mirror behind it, and for a brief moment, I see myself in the glass. I almost forgot that I’m still scrubbed and raw from my post-game shower. My face is bare of makeup, pink from sweat and a bracing cold-water exfoliation. My spring green eyes, just a touch too large for my face, look sad and watery. I’m wearing a Nike windbreaker and joggers, plus my custom pink Nike tennis shoes that have a B for Bowman intertwined with the logo, the same ones my father wore in blue when he played in the 1990s and 2000s. What was I thinking coming down here? This isn’t oblivion in a cup, sitting on a deserted stool in the middle of a town who doesn’t give a shit about Amy Bowman, number one tennis player in the world. This is Melbourne in the middle of the “Happy Slam,” packed to the gills with tennis fans, players, and workers. I’m asking for punishment.

Fernanda notices me lingering in the doorway. “Amy!” She smiles and waves me over.

A few other heads turn my way, some Italian players and their coaches, the tournament director, Craig, and a handful of the tennis-obsessed patrons who have the money to stay in the same hotel as the players. The itchy feeling comes back in full force. My face feels stretched, naked, hot.

I do the only thing I can think of—I duck out a random side door.

I let out a sigh of relief at the cool breeze and darkness that greets me outside. I seem to have stumbled onto a tiny terrace where bar-goers can step outside to smoke or breathe in the fresh air. There are a few shadowy shrubs, a bench, and two crisscrossing strands of lights overhead. They’re just bright enough to see where you’re going, but not bright enough to make you feel seen. An outdoor speaker sitting in the mulch softly plays some innocuous classical music. I walk over to the bench and let my body unwind. It feels good, even as my mind races. Images of my father laughing smugly in the hotel room, Lyra frowning in surprise at me from across the court, Fernanda’s blinding and gorgeous smile, the whole bar turning to face me, Suzy’s pitying expression—I just need this day to end. Even if Beck is disappointed in me, he’s a work horse. He’ll come around and focus on the next big event, a WTA, or Women’s Tennis Association, tournament in Doha, Qatar in a few weeks. He’ll make me work on my serve until my arm falls off. He’ll bark and badger and only pat me on the shoulder once a week when he thinks I’ve had a “serviceable” practice. He’ll make me watch hours of footage of him playing, and sometimes, if he’s feeling humble, Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe, Roger Federer, or Rafa Nadal. When I turn on Serena Williams, he always interrupts. He’ll go back to normal, our argument forgotten. For him, the world never stops turning.

A few more unwanted tears trickle down my cheeks, and for once, I don’t fight them. Better to let them out in the relative darkness than in the blinding lights of my father’s gaze. I can just make out a few raised hives popping on my wrist, under the sleeve of my windbreaker. Suzy assures me that they’re relatively harmless, but that they’ll keep happening if I don’t lower my stress level. She wanted to talk to Beck about them, but I convinced her not to. I told her my body was adjusting to becoming number one in the world and that, soon, I would be like Beck. Confident, arrogant, ruthlessly skilled. I wonder if Suzy knew I was lying. She’s the only one of my team of three that seems to see through my facade. My hitting partner, a young man named Rafe, was handpicked by my father and talks to him more than me.

The door to the terrace opens behind me. I hear footsteps and try to hastily wipe my face. Hopefully, whoever it is won’t be able to see me clearly. I straighten and turn around.

The shadowy figure, a very tall, wiry man, is surprised to see me. “Scusi,” he says, startled. I recognize the Italian word and the lilting accent, which so many of the Italian players have. Which one is he? There are a couple of them ranked high enough to stay at this hotel. Francisco, who’s been in love with Fernanda for years? It annoys me that she won’t take pity on him. Matteo, who’s old as dirt but still manages to win a tournament here or there?

I’m relieved when it’s Aurelio who steps closer to me.

Aurelio Santoro, currently ranked 15 in the world. A gentle giant at 6’5”, he has a lot of freckles, dark eyes, and strangely golden hair for an Italian. He’s lean and spry, making him a strong mover on the court despite his height. We’ve hardly crossed paths, but I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word against him. And that’s saying something. ATP and WTA locker rooms aren’t that different from a high school’s.

He approaches me gently, as though I’m a frightened animal. I try to wipe away any evidence that I’ve been crying, but he just clucks his tongue. “No,” he says, looming above me, “It’s okay to cry.” He leans down so I can see his open face, his kind mouth. He places a soft hand on my shoulder in comfort. “It’s been a hard day, no?”

Maybe it’s his accent that makes it sound as though the words are aching. As though he saw the loss, and he feels it, too.

I make a horrifying sound, strangled and surprised, and then burst into tears again. Isn’t it funny that kindness is what ultimately makes us cry? My father should know by now that I would never cry in front of him. He’s never shown me that he can handle it.

I don’t know Aurelio, but for some reason, I know he can. He will.

Aurelio shifts awkwardly, huge in the shadows. He looks back at the door, as though wondering if I’d rather be left alone. I try to control my tears, but my breathing is uneven, ragged in my chest. I can’t remember the last time I cried like this. I’m a sponge, finally wrung out. Aurelio seems to make a decision, hurrying to sit at my side on the bench. His leg brushes mine, also clad in Nike. They sponsor half the tour. He rifles through the pockets of his sweatshirt, his joggers, cursing softly in Italian.

I watch him curiously, my tears slowing until they’re mostly sniffles. Eventually, he just looks at me with those fathomless eyes and mutely offers me his sweatshirt sleeve. I don’t make a move in protest, so he uses it to gently wipe my cheeks. He traces my jaw, catching a teardrop falling there. A shiver runs through me. I can see the white fabric of his sleeve is darker by the time he pulls away.

I feel more myself once he’s done, some of the strangeness of the evening creeping away and letting reality in again. “Were you looking for me?” I try not to sound accusatory. “Did someone send you out here?” My quick escape from the bar was hardly covert. Maybe he wanted his pound of flesh, too. Maybe he was sitting there and I didn’t even notice.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was missing home and thought I’d come out to look at the stars. I wished to go to bed earlier, but Antonio insisted we get a celebratory drink before we go.” Antonio’s his coach, I remember. The rest I don’t follow, celebrate what? The men’s final is tomorrow, and he certainly isn’t playing in it. He reads the confusion on my face and chuckles. The sound is all gentleness, all smoothness. I like it. “This is the first Grand Slam where I made the quarters. The final eight. Antonio was so happy. Though, of course, that is nothing compared to you, no?” He gently bumps my shoulder. “First finals. An amazing accomplishment.”

I snort, leaning away. “As you can see, I don’t think of it that way.” I wonder if he watched my match after all. It wasn’t something to be proud of. I know the commentators and analysts will already be politely ripping apart my match, explaining that Lyra didn’t win the match, I lost it.

Aurelio hums, thinking. “You don’t think of it that way, or the world doesn’t?”

My gaze snaps back to him in surprise. I wouldn’t think of Aurelio as someone who cares about the pressure. Every time he loses, he does it with a half-smile and a shower of compliments for his opponent. I couldn’t even pat Lyra’s back in the locker room. I change the subject, deciding I’d rather sit outside with Aurelio than go back in and face Fernanda’s plastic smile. “Where’s home?”

He looks back up at the stars, faintly visible here in Melbourne. I hardly ever see them back in L.A. Damn pollution. “Just outside of Rome. My family is there.”

I raise a brow. “They don’t come to your tournaments?” It’s not unusual for tennis families or parents to follow their child around the world. Especially if their child is good enough to pay for it with their winnings, which Aurelio certainly is.

He shakes his head, eyes still on the stars. “Tennis is not their life,” he explains. “I was the first one in my family to play. They have other pursuits. Lives. They come to the Rome tournament in May. Maybe one or two others. It’s hard for them to leave my nona behind. She’s almost ninety, and they want to spend as much time with her as they can.”

The moon and stars halo Aurelio’s face with light as he looks up at them. He seems abruptly younger than he did a few minutes ago, like a young boy searching for his family across oceans. “But you have Antonio, right?” The question comes out a bit awkwardly, stilted. My tongue is unused to sincerity. “He’s been your coach for a while?”

Aurelio finally looks back at me, smiles so I can see his teeth, the laugh lines around his eyes. I wonder if I ever smile that way. “Yes, Antonio is family, too. He has been my coach since I was in the juniors. He knows me in every way.” He sounds just as proud to be coached by Antonio as I’m sure Antonio is to coach the number 15 player in the world.