Page 25 of Love, Amy

Sunday passes in a blur of relentless training. Beck pushes me hard on the court, not allowing the usual recovery after a match. Vince protests, but only halfheartedly when he sees I want to practice, too. He makes me stay an extra hour in the gym doing stretches and massage to make up for it. I know a lot of the adrenaline coursing through me is about wanting to prove everyone wrong. To prove to them that I will win a Grand Slam. Maybe it was never going to be Roland Garros. Clay doesn't suit me. But I have a real chance to win on grass at Wimbledon. Fernanda hasn’t made it past the quarterfinals there once in her career. Her perfect attitude grows a little sour when she has to play on the green.

But, in the back of my mind, I also know I’m throwing myself into my training and into my tennis because tonight I’m going out with Aurelio. He offered to plan the date, since he knows Paris well, but I declined. I have a surprise for him, one I hope he loves. My plan also guarantees us privacy, which I know Aurelio doesn’t care much about. I’d rather avoid having fans snapping pictures of us kissing on the streets of Paris for my father to see on Twitter the next morning.

At least, I hope we’ll be kissing.

The thought has me blushing and worrying an hour before I’m supposed to leave to meet him. I stare at the few outfit options I have for tonight, laid out on the bed in a terrifying array of athleisure. Tonight, I want to look like Amy the person, not Amy the tennis player. I turn away from the Nike bombardment and pull out my phone.

I hesitate for a moment before clicking on her contact.

Amy:

Hey. Sorry to bother you, but I need some help. Fashion emergency. Can I send you some options?

I hit send but immediately regret it. It’s after 9 p.m. the night before she plays Genesis in the Roland Garros Final; she’s probably sleeping.

I shouldn’t be surprised when my phone immediately pings. Fernanda Navarro doesn’t need sleep to fuel her, just the tears of her opponents when she destroys them on court.

Fernanda:

On my way!!!!

I have to laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever used so many exclamation points in my life. If I sent a text like that to Beck, he’d check to make sure I wasn’t sick.

Even though Fernanda knocks softly, I still flinch at the noise. Fortunately for us, my father’s snoring next door doesn’t pause. I think Fernanda and I are the last two on the floor anyway. I haven’t seen Genesis here. She probably stays in a gorgeous Parisian apartment with her wife and daughter. That creeping resentment rises in my throat when I think of her little family choosing to be together when I’m shackled to my father against my will.

I cross the room to let in Fernanda. When I open the door, I don’t even see her. Instead, I’m staring into a sea of silk, chiffon, and sparkles. I only know it’s Fernanda because I can see her perfectly manicured hand holding the hangers. She pushes into my room without waiting to be greeted.

“Fernanda.” Guilt bleeds into my words. “I didn’t mean you had to come over. I just wanted to send you some pictures! You play in the Final tomorrow!”

She tosses the clothes over my bed, effectively hiding the boring tennis dresses underneath. I can immediately tell she isn’t listening to me, too interested in my room and my face. Her face is covered in a chunky green mask; her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun. When my father lets out a particularly loud snore, her dark gaze darts to the connecting door. Her eyes widen. “Amy, please don’t tell me Beck Bowman is sleeping in a connecting room attached to yours?”

I wince. Most twenty-four-year-olds don’t let their fathers breathe down their neck so obviously. I’ve never even met Fernanda’s parents, but when I see them in the audience at her matches, they clap every point whether she’s won or lost it. “Unfortunately, yes,” I grit out.

Surprisingly, Fernanda is smiling at me. “But you’re going out,” she says knowingly. “You’re going out with a man!” A thought occurs to her and she quickly adds, “Or a woman!”

I try to hide my own smile. “A man.”

Fernanda rubs her hands together. “Little Amy Bowman rebelling against her father to go on a date? In Paris?” She glances at her watch. “And it’s not even starting until after ten?”

A smile twitches on my lips at her antics, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. “It’s easier to get privacy that way,” I say pertly. “I don’t want to be hounded all day.”

Fernanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those famous athletes who pretends they hate being famous. I don’t see you hating it when they gift us Cartier watches or let us stay in these gorgeous hotels for free.”

“Privacy from my father,” I clarify. “Not the world.”

Fernanda’s brow furrows. “He doesn’t let you date. At all?” She’s rightfully skeptical. Beck certainly never settled down, but when he was at the height of his fame he jumped from supermodel to starlet to beautiful cocktail waitress without reservation.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “He doesn’t mind me dating for fun. But he certainly doesn’t want me to be in a relationship with someone he thinks is distracting. Someone that takes up my time.”

I can practically see Fernanda working through the possibilities, but she doesn’t voice them. It’s not the first time this week I appreciate her quick mind. She’s much smarter than anyone gives her credit for.

Or, at least, than I’ve ever given her credit for.

She nods resolutely. “Well, you certainly can’t wear one of those boring Nike tennis dresses I saw when I walked in.” She says it with her nose in the air.

I laugh. “You just say that because Nike didn’t want you.”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, confident. “They regret it now.”