Page 48 of Love, Amy

And the whole stadium watches, holding their breath, as the former number one player in the world runs away from her problems.

CHAPTER 16

Wimbledon: June-July 2026

“I need a new room. Please.” I stand at the front desk of the hotel, a tennis visor low over my eyes, as if that will hide me from the panicked expression of the front desk manager.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bowman.” She looks over my shoulder, expecting the phantom of my father to appear. “We book months in advance for Wimbledon. We don’t keep any extra rooms open.”

I want to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her. I know she watched the match. I know she saw me throw a tennis ball at my father, hitting him right over the heart. It’s been a couple of hours now, but a sick feeling burns in my stomach at the memory, a toxic pit of anger and shame. “How about a player that already left?” I ask desperately. “Someone who lost early?”

She shakes her head before I even finish asking. “Those rooms fill up immediately from fans on the waiting list who want to see the second week matches. We don’t have a single open room.”

I place my hands on the desk, leaning towards her. They tremble a little. “I can’t be around my father right now. Please.” I glance at her name tag, which says Georgie. I decide to lead with honesty. “You saw it happen, Georgie. I can’t be in a room connected to his right now. It’s not good for both of us.” She softens a little, taking in my puffy eyes and pale cheeks. I know I don’t look anything like that bright girl I saw in the mirror at Aurelio’s hotel.

Amy the tennis player has taken a beating.

Georgie leans towards me, too, surreptitiously glancing around the lobby to see if anyone is listening to us. I resist the urge to look behind me. It won’t be long before the press is camped outside the hotel, asking pointed questions about my skipped concession speech.

Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I miss the sun. I miss Aurelio.

His match will start any minute now.

Georgie lowers her voice. “You can’t leave? Head home?”

I want to laugh, but I know she’s just trying to help. She doesn’t know that home is a gated compound owned by my father. She doesn’t know that my bedroom in that house is the same one I’ve had since I moved in with him almost 20 years ago. She doesn’t know that the only home I have in Malibu is Suzy’s guest house or my surfboard and the California coast.

I pick the other obvious answer. “I have to stay for the Wimbledon Ball tomorrow. All four of the finalists are honored.”

I try not to think about my dress, already pressed and ready to go for tomorrow. Fernanda convinced me that we should go with a gold and silver combination look. I wear the silver dress. I should have realized that was an omen from the start.

Georgie looks back at her computer, unsure. “Well...” she trails off. “There’s one room that is open...”

“Please.” I try not to sound too eager. “I’ll take a supply closet at this point.”

“The penthouse is available.” She eyes me seriously. “If you’re willing to pay.”

My brow furrows. “Charles Allard isn’t staying there?” Usually, the penthouse at the tournament hotels is used by the top-ranked player in the world. Allard has held the number one position for longer than I have, so he gets first crack at it.

Now, she’s the one who’s surprised. “Mr. Allard has his own place in the area that he prefers. He likes to use the club facilities in the off-season.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t want to offend Georgie’s British sensibilities, but of course Charles Allard likes to practice at the most pretentious tennis club in the world. It almost makes too much sense. Something seems to click for Georgie the longer she looks at me. “Your father,” she says slowly, “I offered him the room for you, but he said it wasn’t suitable.”

I shake my head, a bitter smile curling on my face. Beck Bowman never ceases to amaze me. “There’s not connecting room in the penthouse is there, Georgie?”

The question is rhetorical, but it makes her sad. “No, there isn’t.”

Her sadness reminds me of my own. The memories of the match are seconds from crushing me, held back by gritted teeth and delusion. I try to smile for her, but it’s watery. Wavering. “I’ll take the penthouse.” I hear the telltale whoosh of the hotel doors open behind me and turn to look. I don’t recognize who enters, but the last thing I need is for the press to release a report saying I was arguing with hotel staff after my loss. I turn back to Georgie. “Quickly, please.”

She rummages around her desk before victoriously presenting me with a new keycard.

I take a deep breath and accept it.

*

After a quick stop at my old room to gather my things, I insert my new keycard into the penthouse door. The greatest thing about a penthouse is that there’s no reason for anyone to be on this floor. No press. No fans. No Fernanda. No Beck Bowman.

I’m alone, and it feels like I can finally breathe again.

The penthouse is as luxurious as expected, though I can hardly appreciate it in my current state. The room has windows on three sides, giving its occupant a 24-story view of the world below. I drop my suitcase and tennis bag on the floor, walking across the room to peer outside. The sun has fully dipped behind the horizon, transitioning into a dusky summer evening. The hotel looms high above Wimbledon Park. I can see the curved edge of Wimbledon’s Center Court stadium from here, where Aurelio has undoubtedly started playing the American Joaquin Esquivel. I try to picture Aurelio serving an ace from the baseline, pumping his fist and yelling, “Forza!” when he wins the point.