Page 40 of Love, Amy

Fernanda surges towards me, grabbing both of my shoulders. “Amy!” She shakes me. Her expression is wild. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

I open my mouth, flabbergasted. “You mean you haven’t noticed? It feels like every press conference he’s saying something complimentary about you! His eyes follow you every time you walk into a room!” I break free of her grasp. “Didn’t he choose you last year for that charity doubles tournament?”

She looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “That’s because I’m the best tennis player in the world!” The whole table watches our conversation like a ping-pong match. Ofelia has a picture of Francisco pulled up on her phone, showing her two friends. Fernanda’s face puckers, concerned. “Or do you think you are?”

Her expression sends me over the edge. I start laughing and then, I just can’t stop. I laugh and laugh, doubling over. It almost hurts, tears burning my eyes. Soon, Fernanda joins in, and then the rest of the table, too. Ruthie, our server, clears a few plates with a quizzical expression on her face. She can’t be that disturbed; there’s no way that Fernanda’s dinners are ever quiet.

Finally, Fernanda’s expression clears, dawning on horror. “Fernanda Navarro and Francisco Fiore? That sounds horrible!”

“You’re right,” I deadpan. “It’ll never work between you two.”

Fernanda elbows me as the whole table breaks out into giggles again. Lina cuts through the noise. “What about you, Amy?” She leans across the table, curious. “Now that you’ve helped Fernanda, we can help you. Do you have a man?”

I sense Fernanda’s watchful gaze out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t engage with her. I lean towards Lina, too. “I do, actually,” I reveal. “It’s getting serious.”

You’d think I just won a Grand Slam, the way the table reacts. Each of the girls ask a different question.

“What’s he like?” A sweet Anika asks.

“What does he do?” A shrewd Margot wants to know.

“How handsome is he on a scale of one to ten?” A practical Ofelia narrows her eyes at me.

I answer her first. “Ten,” I say firmly. “At least to me.”

Ofelia wrinkles her nose. “That makes him sound ugly.”

I grin, but Fernanda defends me. “He’s not, trust me. She’s just being modest.”

Ofelia is too smart for her own good. “Have you met him, Fernanda?”

I hide a wince. I might be ready to reveal I have a man, but it doesn’t seem wise to tell a table of a dozen women that it’s their fellow tennis player, who is currently staying a few floors above us, unless I want the whole world to know. The idea doesn’t seem as scary as it used to, but I want to get through Wimbledon first. Fortunately, Fernanda is just as quick as Ofelia. “No,” she says wistfully, “But she did show me a picture.”

Before the whole table can also ask to see a picture, I turn the question back on Lina. “What about you, Lina? You just got engaged, right?” Her blinding engagement ring and corresponding post on social media last month clued me in.

Lina happily takes back the spotlight, regaling the table with her engagement story to a handsome Parisian artist she met last year at Roland Garros. The rest of the night continues in the same way, circulating from tennis to fashion to romance and back again.

I can see the genius of Fernanda’s planning. This dinner might be tense in a few weeks, because, inevitably, some of us will play later in the tournament. Some of us will become guilty winners or bitter losers. But before the tournament begins, there’s no bad blood. Sure, there’s a hint of competition, a splash of trash talk here and there, mostly from Marisa, who is gunning for me this time around, but nothing serious.

Fernanda lingers back with the check as everyone heads up to their rooms around 11 p.m. She insisted no one stay out any later since nearly half the group has a match tomorrow. My head buzzes pleasantly from the few gulps of wine I had and the company. I wait for Fernanda.

She’s surprised to see me lingering at the table for her. She opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it. “Thanks for inviting me, Fernanda, really.”

She links her arm with me again, walking us out. “So, you’ll come again next time? Our U.S. Open dinner is the best of the year. I give out my yearly awards.”

I bark a laugh. “You make awards for everyone? Like MVP? Best serve? Best hair?”

She clicks the button for the elevator. “Of course.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “And don’t get too cocky, Amy. You can’t win MVP your first year.”

The elevator dings. I glance up at her. “What about rookie of the year?” I might not be a tennis rookie, but I am a rookie at having friends, real ones, anyway. You never realize what you’re missing until you find it.

Her mouth twists, considering me. “Maybe. But you’ll have to beat Ofelia for it.”

I laugh as we walk into the elevator and head back to reality.

*

Ten days later, the greatest match of the tournament happens. And it’s not my own. My journey through the draw has been relatively simple. I dropped the first set against Marisa in the quarter finals, but Beck reminded me that she hates a wide serve, and I absolutely dominated the final two sets. She gave me a genuine hug at the net, and I gave Beck a genuine high five after the match. My semifinal match, which I needed to get into the finals, wasn’t close. My opponent, Lauren Albin, pulled out of the match in the second set after hurting her knee. I didn’t even play for a full hour. Unfortunately, Fernanda also made it through her semifinal, so we’ll meet in two days for the final. I’m ready for her. I can feel it in the air—this tournament is mine.