Page 84 of Love, Amy

I grit my teeth, breathe in through my nose. There’s so much I don’t want to inherit from Beck, but I’ll admit he made me tough. I channel his fierceness, his anger, his desire. It’s the best thing about him, when he uses it right. On the tennis court, it’s always right.

Fernanda readies to serve, steady and sure.

I watch her body language, anticipate where she’s going to send the ball. I guess right, able to swing fully and send a bracing return back to Fernanda. Her footwork is pure and beautiful, unwilling to give this point back to me. She sends one to the corner, sends me chasing. I manage to reach it, hitting a high defensive lob in the air. Fernanda has always hated those high balls, awkward in her overhead slams. She watches it hesitantly, letting it bounce before hitting a regular return. It essentially resets the point, puts us back on even footing. She had a chance to hit the big overhead, to win it there, but she didn’t feel comfortable.

The ball goes back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

I refuse to give. I refuse to break. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

I send a ball straight down the line, and I think I have her, but it must be a slower ball than I thought. She manages to reach it, sending a solid return back my way. I want to scream. I go back to the same spot, hitting it hard, willing it past her.

She’s surprised, standing out of position. She raises her racket at the last second, awkwardly hitting the ball off the frame. It’s not clean. It’s an ugly chip. The ball spins, and I track it in the air, heading to the side of the court where it should land. Once it’s there, I’ll send one winner back to the opposite sideline, where Fernanda can’t reach it. I’ll win, once and for all.

But the ball doesn’t land where I anticipated.

It hits the top of the tape, the top of the net, slowing completely. I can see it happening, I can sense the loss falling at my feet. I race to the front of the court, hoping I can reach it, praying it won’t end this way.

The ball falls, so sadly, over to my side of the court, landing right next to the net, only a few inches separating it from Fernanda’s side. The ball’s momentum slows, flattens, breaks. It hardly bounces when it hits the concrete. I’m still a few steps away, my racket outstretched, my sweat dripping onto the court. I skid to a stop, staring at the dead ball. I’ve lost, once and for all.

20-18, Fernanda.

I fall to my knees, dropping my racket. The crowd is a mess of sounds, Fernanda’s supporters delighted and applauding, my fans shouting angrily, as well as a layer of confused murmuring at the final point.

I put my hands over my eyes. My breath hurts in my chest.

“Amy!” I catch a glimpse of Fernanda’s legs as she runs over to my side. She kneels across from me, tears already glinting in her eyes. “It’s not fair! It shouldn’t have ended that way!” Her voice breaks. “We both should have won!”

I take one more breath, then drop my hands. I look at Fernanda, her face wet with tears, regret carved into her expression. “We did win,” I promise her, voice low. Fernanda freezes, watching me carefully. My eyes burn, my mouth trembles, but I smile for her, for my friend, for my best friend. “We did win, Fernanda, I promise.” I start crying then, too, the sobs hurting my chest.

She reaches out and hugs me, both of us on our knees, both of us crying.

A cameraman runs over, capturing our intimate moment. I don’t even care. I’m too exhausted to care what anyone thinks. Some people probably think Fernanda deserved the win. Some people probably think it was unfairly taken from me.

But I think that we just played the best tennis match this year. Maybe this decade.

When I lost to Fernanda at Wimbledon, I told her, venom in my words, “You didn’t win, I lost.”

But how can I say that this time around? I broke every bad habit of mine. I threw Beck out. I kept my racket intact and in my hands rather than smashing it to bits after the second set. I smiled and shook my head when Fernanda made an incredible play. I didn’t double fault and self-destruct.

I just lost.

At our hug, the animosity and confusion in the crowd dissipates. We get to our feet, still clinging to each other. I can sense Fernanda doesn’t want to let me go, so I gently break her hold.

I wipe a few of the tears off my face. “I told you that I would forgive you if you won,” I remind her. Fernanda smiles, wiping away a few tears of her own. “And you promised the same for me.” I grin at her. “I’m holding you to that, Navarro. We still have a lot of years left.”

She smiles back, a beautiful, snotty mess. “Until next time, Bowman.”

I grab her hand and lift it in the air for the second time this year. “Fernanda Navarro, everyone! The greatest tennis player in the world!”

The crowd roars. She waves, happy and exhausted. ESPN’s interview team and the tournament director descend on the court, getting everything ready for the trophy ceremony.

I stand for a moment, unsure and hesitant.

Until I hear his voice. “Amy!” I turn towards my box. Aurelio hangs over the side, arms open. “Amy!”

I start crying again, like a big baby. I run over to him, executing an adrenaline-induced leap to land in his arms. He lifts me into a hug, my feet dangling in the air, the railing between us. I throw my arms around his neck, cry into his shoulder. I’m talking, but Aurelio can’t understand me. “What, mia dolce? What did you say?”

I lift my head from his shoulder. There’s a wet spot on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” I repeat myself. “I’m so, so sorry.”