Page 44 of Love, Amy

Aurelio grins. “We have to get them together. Then we can go on double dates!” He’s so excited when he says the words, but then he remembers that we’re supposed to be a secret. His grin falters a bit.

We haven’t felt like a secret all night.

“I’ll tell Beck after Wimbledon is over,” I promise him. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. There’s a long break before the next major, so it seems like a good time.”

Aurelio sighs in relief. “Good. I am glad we have a plan.”

“And I can’t sit in your box for the final this time, but I’ll meet your family afterward if you still want me to.” The words come out awkwardly, but sincerely.

He squeezes me gently. “Yes, I would like that. They can meet my girlfriend, first-time Wimbledon champion.”

I smile weakly in response, but his words haunt me the rest of the night. What other option do I have but to win this time around?

CHAPTER 15

Wimbledon: June-July 2026

Fernanda and I lie on the floor of her hotel room the night before our final against each other. Our night consisted of consuming copious amounts of pasta, Coke Zero, and gossip. Fernanda’s head brushes against mine, her feet propped up on the edge of her bed. She looks as glamorous as usual in a lace halter top and tiny skirt, as though we’re five minutes away from hitting the club. I’m wearing an oversized Wimbledon sweatshirt that used to be Beck’s in the 90s. He’s not sentimental, but I found it in his closet nearly a decade ago and wear it to sleep. I can’t quite decide if it’s a good or bad omen.

I’ve been filling Fernanda in on my sleepover with Aurelio, since she seems to get most of her energy from tales of girlish exploits. I keep the X-rated details to a minimum, but Fernanda still finds plenty to say about the evening. “So, you’re in love with him?” she asks, casually. “Like in love with him?”

Every part of me recoils. I sit up. “What? No! When did I say that?”

She rolls her eyes, making no move to get up. “You didn’t. I can just tell.”

I cross my arms. “We can’t be in love. I barely know the guy!” It sounds weak even to my ears, but what else can I do but protest? The alternative is far worse.

Fernanda raises a brow. Even on her back, she looks like a supermodel. She’s starring in a glamorous music video, and I’m the harried PA trying to follow her directions. “You’ve known Aurelio for years, Amy.”

I huff. “Sure, I’ve seen him around, but it’s not like we were friends. I knew him by reputation alone.”

Fernanda rolls on to her side, propping her head on her elbow. “But haven’t you been going out for months?” She’s acting like a patient teacher, trying to lead me to the answer.

“Three months,” I admit. “But we hardly see each other. We’ve only gone on a few dates.” I apologize to Aurelio in my mind. I would never say these things to him. I know he’d be hurt. But the Amy in a relationship with Aurelio isn’t the same Amy everyone else gets.

Fernanda waves her hand as if to say go on. “I hear you, tennis schedules are a bitch, but when the ATP and WTA have the same tournaments, you see each other every day. You go on romantic walks every morning for God’s sake. Be serious, Amy.” She softens her tone a little. “It’s okay if you love him. More than okay, probably. From all I’ve heard, he’s a good man.”

I know she’s right. If anyone deserves to be loved, it’s Aurelio. And how else can I describe the warmth that spreads through me at just the sight of him? How else can you explain me watching his matches late at night when we’re apart, even when I can barely keep my eyes open? How else can you explain the smiles, the laughter, the inside jokes?

I collapse back onto the carpet with a groan. “Enough girl talk. It’s still new to me.” Fernanda laughs. I turn halfway on the carpet to look at her. “Unless it’s about you and Francisco. F Squared.”

Fernanda groans, covering her face with her hands. “No, please. He stopped to congratulate me on making it into the final a couple of days ago, and I couldn’t even respond. He’s too beautiful, Amy!”

The idea of confident, calculating Fernanda being at a loss for words makes me laugh. She joins in, eventually, clutching her side. It feels strangely cathartic. Maybe women engage in “girl talk” because it’s such a wonderful distraction from real life. From the final looming over us. Looming over this whole evening.

Fernanda must be thinking the same thing. Her laughter slowly fades as she lies flat again. “Amy,” she says seriously. She doesn’t look at me, focused on the ceiling again. “We’ll stay friends, right? No matter what happens tomorrow?”

I want so badly to be a good friend, I don’t hesitate. “Of course we will.” It’s not just me winning my first Grand Slam. If I win, I’ll stay world number one. If I lose, Fernanda will overtake me, on top of winning her second Grand Slam of the year. No one will debate who the better player is—it will be obvious.

Fernanda turns her head incrementally to look me in the eye. “Really?” she asks doubtfully. “You’re not just saying that?”

I pause, thinking about it. “I really hope not,” I finally say. There’s a strange lump in my throat. “But I want to win, Fernanda. I need to. It feels like it’s my last chance.”

She must hear it in my voice, the desperation, the edge of sadness. Her hand reaches for mine on the carpet. She grips it tightly. “Don’t say that.” She narrows her dark eyes at me. “This is not your last chance. Far from it.”

I don’t tell her that if I lose tomorrow, I’m afraid Beck will give up on me. That the world will give up on me. That Aurelio will see a different girl standing across the court from him, one that doesn’t match his passion. That I’ll keep fading so fast and so far that even Fernanda’s posse of girls won’t accept me anymore. I won’t fit. Because if I’m not the greatest tennis player in the world, what the hell am I?

I blink back the dread. I squeeze Fernanda’s hand reassuringly before letting it go. I make it light. “But you better not go easy on me. I want a fair fight.”