Page 6 of Love, Amy

Indian Wells and its hard courts are in full swing when I walk onto the tournament grounds. The qualifying rounds have already begun, something I get to skip due to my high ranking. I’m set to play in two days against a player ranked around 200. Should be a no-brainer. I weave through spectators, women’s players, men’s players, and coaches that pepper the sidewalks between courts. I’m due to meet Beck at the practice courts in the back. They’re very strict about how long players can book time on them, though I know, as the top seed, they give me and Beck more leeway. Somehow, we’ve managed two full hours. I know some of the qualifying players only get fifteen minutes.

The desert of Indian Wells is already sweltering, the noon sun baking my skin. I’m fortunate to have a natural tan from hours outside. It’s what keeps my shoulder-length hair so blond, almost white in the summer months. Even so, I’m glad for the extra sunscreen I slathered on this morning and my white Nike visor. Tennis players never wear sunglasses because it limits visibility. A visor or a baseball cap is the best protection from the sun.

I’m not surprised that Beck and Rafe are already at our assigned court, scoping things out. If I could sleep in until 10 or 11 a.m. every day, I would. Tournaments run late, and I’ve never been an early riser. My father breaks that tennis stereotype, loving to be up at the same time as the tournament directors. I wonder if it’s so he can establish dominance by the time I arrive.

As I push open the gate to our court, I’m shocked to see men on the other side. I stomp over to my father. “Did they read the schedule wrong?” I demand. “This is our slot. They have no righ—” I cut off abruptly when one of the men straightens from where he was looking in his bag.

It’s Aurelio.

Beck takes the opportunity to respond as I stand frozen. “Aurelio and his team approached this morning asking if we could practice together. He wants to work on his power hitting, which he thinks you and I are a good match for. It seemed like a good opportunity to hit against a man other than Rafe.”

Maybe I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about Melbourne, the stars, Vivaldi. Or maybe I’m just the wedge Aurelio uses to pry the door open between him and the Beck Bowman. Which reason is the real reason Aurelio is here?

My mouth is open, but I don’t know what to say. Aurelio never spoke to me before our impromptu dance in Australia. I haven’t heard from him since, though that could be because the women’s and men’s tournaments don’t always follow the same schedule. It’s not unusual for top players to scrimmage together, though Beck usually dismisses those opportunities at every turn.

To be fair, it’s usually other women’s players who ask.

“Fine,” I say shortly, heading to my bench. “We can play.” As I get ready, I try not to look at Aurelio. He’s stretching innocently, tossing some gentle Italian words back and forth with his coach and hitting partner. He even dribbles a soccer ball around while I test my rackets, balls, and set up my numerous fluids.

Beck finally claps his hands, impatient with me. “Let’s go, Amy. We only have this court for so long.” It shouldn’t sting, the way he’s looking over at Aurelio and his team with admiration, but it does. I’m ranked higher than Aurelio. I’ve won way more tournaments. I’m number one in the goddamn world.

But Aurelio’s a man, so my manly father thinks he’s a better player than me.

Unable to tame the swirling feelings heating my chest, I stomp over to the net. “Ready, Aurelio?” I grind out his name like it pains me.

Aurelio’s face clouds at my tone. He seems surprised at my reaction, but I don’t appreciate the ambush. Especially in front of my father. With a furrowed brow, Aurelio gives a measured reply, “Sì, signora.” He backs away from me, towards his side, but doesn’t break my gaze.

I eventually do it for him, spinning towards my baseline to serve. My bright blue manicure clutches the tennis ball tightly. Beck, Rafe, and Aurelio’s team watch from the sideline. I bounce the ball a few times, readying my first serve. I’m mentally calculating what I know about Aurelio’s game, and it’s shockingly little. I know a lot more about his dancing abilities, his hand gentle in mine, his sweatshirt sleeve wiping away my tears—I blink back the memory. Aurelio has long reach, an average serve, and an amazing ability to move on the court. He returns a lot of balls, but rarely for winners. I have to strike first, and hard, if I don’t want to embarrass myself.

My first serve goes into the net. Aurelio calmly spins his racket in reaction, waiting for the next, but my father can’t wait to interject. “Sorry, son!” he calls to Aurelio. “Sometimes it takes a second!”

It’s not the worst thing he could have said, though I’m only too pleased when Aurelio ignores him entirely.

The next serve rockets over the net. Easily 120 mph.

For the men, it’s a decent serve, but not top of the game like it would be on the women’s side. Aurelio takes the ball on the forehand, casually returning it back to me. The lazy spin he puts on the ball is infuriating. Is he going easy on me? In front of my father?

I step into the ball’s bounce, taking it as early as I can and hitting it hard to the right corner. Aurelio is an incredible mover, but he wasn’t ready for me to hit such an aggressive return. The electric green ball skips past him, just out of reach of his racket. He watches it go in surprise, face slackening for a moment. Beck lets out a sharp clap of approval at my attack, but Aurelio’s coaches begin muttering on the sideline.

My gaze lingers on Aurelio, waiting for his response. The surprise on his face dissipates, replaced with a smile. He already has sweat glistening on his freckled cheeks, dripping from his golden curls. His warm brown eyes find me. “I see you, signora.” The words are soft but laced with admiration. “I see your game.” The compliment suits me, and he knows it, his smile deepening to reveal a half dimple on his right cheek. We stare at each other across the court. It feels like miles separate us and like he’s standing right next to me. One big step and we could be dancing again.

Beck tosses me a clean ball, breaking the moment.

We don’t play a whole game, which would be an absurd waste of energy, but we do put on a show. I’m soaring high throughout—high on my wins in Doha and Dubai, high on how the level of play has quieted my father, high on how Aurelio whistles or smiles every time I hit a winning ball. I’d like to say I handle his winning shots just as well, but that would be a lie. Fortunately, his are few and far between. His style is much more cat-and-mouse, waiting for the predator to mistake him for dead. He’ll hit a lazy ball back and back and back until you grit your teeth and let it fly. He preys on his opponent’s impatience, but once you realize that you can pull away. I only need one more point to win our scrimmage when I notice a few reporters and media members filming and watching us. They stand outside the court’s fence, gesturing our way.

I can just make out Josie Anderson’s voice reporting for ESPN. “It’s unusual for Amy’s coach, her father and famed tennis legend, Beck Bowman, to allow her to scrimmage with other players. Aurelio’s team reached out with the offer this morning and quickly rearranged their schedule to practice with the Bowmans. Aurelio has been on the rise recently, but it’s still a surprising choice for the famously selective number one player in the world. People speculate their connection began in Melbourne...”

My head snaps in her direction. Melbourne? Does that mean someone saw us dancing? Even worse—saw me crying? I dart a look at my father and notice that his gaze has strayed from Aurelio’s serve over to Josie, squinting at her. I brace for Josie to continue, baring my soft underbelly to the world.

I expect the words to hit me in the face, leaving me defenseless. I don’t expect it to be Aurelio’s serve, continuing on the far side of the court, away from Josie and her wandering words. I don’t expect to not even hear him serve, to not even know the neon green ball is on its way. I don’t expect him to show some competitive muscle here at the end; he hits a bracing body serve that bounces hard near my feet and then slams right up under my chin.

I’m proud to say that I keep my feet, clutching my chin soundlessly. The ball bounces a few more times past me. I blink at the serve speed, displayed behind Aurelio. 136 miles per hour. Maybe that’s why I can’t breathe.

Aurelio’s eyes widen. “Amy!” he calls in concern, dropping his racket. He hurries towards me, passing the net. I try to swallow, but the whole bottom of my face feels numb.

Another, harder voice says my name. “Amy!” Beck’s voice is at a level six. The snide comment he made earlier was a two. It glanced off me and the armor I always wear as his daughter. The wistful way he talks about the men’s players is a four. It worms its way under my skin, invisibly digging in further and further, but never making itself known to my father. A six means neither of us will let this go right away. We’ll circle each other, sure our little coaching experiment has failed, and we should call it quits. Until, inevitably, we’re both drawn back into the intoxicating spotlight of being the number one tennis player in the world. I wince a little at the pain, and Beck’s words. “It’s like you don’t remember a single word I say. Tennis is a mental game. Focus is everything. You think I won 18 Grand Slams by letting the outside world in while I played? Maybe that’s why everything went so wrong in Melbourne—” He’s overdoing it, embarrassed in front of Aurelio’s coaches. He turns toward me on the sideline, arms folded, disappointment in his gaze. Aurelio’s coaches shift awkwardly on their feet, so I try to divert Beck’s wrath.

“It won’t happen again.” I rub my aching chin. My eyes are perfectly dry; my voice is steady. Since my mistake distracted the group from Josie’s report, I’ll take the embarrassment on the chin. Literally. “I’m sorr—”