Page 7 of Love, Amy

Before I can get the words out, a golden figure steps in between us. He’s so tall he blots out the sun. “I’m sorry, Amy.” Aurelio is gentle, sincere. I drop my hand from my face, staring up at him. His honey curls glow in the sun. “I should have noticed you weren’t ready.” Aurelio cautiously lifts a freckled hand between us. I watch it curiously, hardly breathing, until it just grazes my chin. “Are you alright?” His voice is quieter, so only I can hear. His fingers dance across my chin, skimming underneath it, pressing softly. I inhale sharply at the tender spot. His brow furrows, gently tipping my chin up. “It’s red,” he confirms, “Probably will leave a bruise.” I’ll have to wear makeup the next couple of days, or else the media will make a huge scene about it. Even an accident like this will be fodder for competitors, pundits, and coaches. You’ll never see perfect Fernanda with a bruise under her chin. Hopefully, Josie’s cameraman was too focused on her to film the hit. Something must pass on my face, irritation or regret, because Aurelio apologizes again. “I’m truly sorry, Amy. I never want to cause you pain. I never want to cause anyone pain.”

I look up at his face, touched at the words. They’re heavy with sincerity. He means them, I realize. It’s not a platitude, not worry for himself or embarrassment at his perceived mistake. He’s thinking of others, he’s thinking of me.

As he begins to pull his hand away, his fingers brushing my cheek, a strand of my hair, I stop him. I grab his wrist, pulling his attention back to my face. “It’s okay, Aurelio,” I tell him the truth. “I know you were just trying to impress me with that body serve.”

It takes a beat before he grins. Then he laughs. It feels like the greatest victory in the world. I don’t think Aurelio does anything he doesn’t mean. Every smile, every apology, every interaction is earned.

And I love earning things.

I smile up at him, too. “Come on, let’s play the last point. It’s still match point, Amy Bowman.” I step back from his shadow, from the Aurelio bubble. I stare down the court, practically shimmering in the desert heat. Even with the bruise building under my chin, I feel suddenly energized. I want to beat Aurelio. And then I want him to laugh again as I shake his hand across the net.

“Sí, signora!” Aurelio salutes me, turning and jogging back to his side.

It suddenly occurs to me, as I stand on my own, that I didn’t hear Beck finish his tirade. I haven’t heard him speak the past few minutes. A quick glance his way shows he’s infuriated by Aurelio’s gentleness, at my obvious disregard of his “coaching.” His shoulders are up by his ears, his arms folded tightly.

I squat down into my receiving position, both hands back on the grip of my racket. I spin it quickly, adrenaline surging through my veins. This time, I keep my eyes on Aurelio as he bounces the ball before his serve. He’s got a glint in his eye, too, even from across the net.

I don’t look away from him, from the ball, but I do call over to my father. “Don’t worry, coach, this is the last point.”

And, it was. Aurelio smiled all the way up to the net, even though he lost.

My father hardly spoke to me the rest of the day.

CHAPTER 4

Indian Wells Tournament: March 2026

It’s already the third time this year I’ve played Fernanda fucking Navarro in a tournament final. She’s everything I’m not—consistent, tall, and equipped with a variety of weapons. She’s also calm as a cucumber, no matter the circumstances. I once saw her play four hours at a match in China, throw up due to the 100-degree heat, and then calmly blot her lips with a towel, grab a piece of gum, and head back on court with a wave to the crowd. She’s an exhausting creature. I watch her during our changeover, taking a few easy swigs of water and joking with one of the ball kids. I grip the top of my knees, glaring at the scoreboard. I won the first set easily, 6-3. She battled back in the second one, and now with us locked at 6-6, we have to play a first to 7 points tiebreak.

The tournament has passed by smoothly, with straight set wins in all of my previous four matches. I haven’t lost my serve once. Sometimes, my epic loss at the Grand Slam in Melbourne feels like a dream. An improbable blip. Either way, I’m thankful my game has lined back up. Beck reclines in his seat in the courtside coach’s box most of my matches, finding no reason to yell and berate when I’m winning so easily. Neither of us mention the strange practice with Aurelio, though it has not been repeated.

Even though I always keep an eye on the other matches on the men’s side, I can’t pretend that I’m not more interested than usual as Aurelio continues his winning ways. He made it to the semifinals, or final four, this year, beating the number two and three players on his way. His ranking will be close to the top 10 once the tournament is over. He probably has already left Indian Wells, heading for the next tournament of the year. It didn’t stop my hungry eyes from searching the crowd for him during the warm-up. I pretended there wasn’t a twinge of disappointment when I didn’t see him. Recently, it feels like he crops up in the last place I expect. I guess I thought this might be another example.

“Time!” The chair umpire calls to Fernanda and me. “Bowman serves first.”

Beck is already calling out a multitude of instructions. “Stick to her backhand side. Give her heat when you can. Start with a,” he gestures a hand signal to me that indicates a T-serve, straight down the middle and on the line, “and put her on her heels.”

I nod in confirmation, bouncing the ball as I take my spot at the baseline. Even from so far away, Fernanda looks tall. She squats deeply, ready to return my serve from behind the baseline. Most of my opponents stand there in the hope that they’ll have more time to return my serve that way. Fernanda’s coach, Angelina, is also calmly relaying some instructions from her coaching box, but I can’t hear what they are. Fernanda gives a curt nod but doesn’t take her eyes off me. That’s where people have Fernanda Navarro all wrong. She’s not sweet, calm, easygoing.

She wants to win as badly as I do. She just hides it better.

I ready to throw my toss, to absolutely lay down a serve that will send her into hiding for this tiebreak. Right as I’m going through my motion, a competitive fire sizzling in my veins, I notice Fernanda moving. It distracts me, throws me off my rhythm, as I watch her take three huge steps forward.

Forward. On the best fucking serve on tour?

But maybe she’s thinking of my loss in Melbourne. Of how my serve went offline when it really mattered. My serve rockets onto her side of the court, smacking the hard surface and ricocheting into the stands.

The Chair Umpire calls it out. Fault.

I turn away from Fernanda, steaming. That’s probably what Angelina was whispering to her. They wanted to throw me off, to make me doubt my serve. I take a centering breath, lucky that I don’t hear Beck voicing his opinion behind me. Fortunately, I have another serve. I bounce the new ball the ball kid handed to me, eyeing her. Logic dictates that the second serve be slower and steadier than the first, to make sure that you at least have a chance to get the ball in play.

Fernanda smiles at me.

I can’t resist the fury snarling through me, and I hit the second serve way too hard, way too wild. I can tell it’ll be out before the Umpire even calls it. Double fault.

The tiebreak score is 1-0, Fernanda. Now, it’s her serve.

Beck rips into me as she readies herself across the court. Tennis is typically quiet, especially in tense moments. His voice cuts through like a knife. “She’s playing with you, Amy! Don’t let her inside your fucking head!”