Page 12 of Love, Amy

I’m flustered, which I hate. “Can...” I take a deep breath. “Can you please not tell my father about this?”

Vince tilts his head, considering me. “Tell him about what?”

I huff. “About Aurelio? Please?” It’s hard to tell with Vince whose side he’s on. My father hired him, found him for us. However, he spends much more time with me.

Vince’s expression grows more serious as he catches on to my anxiety. My wrist itches, a tell-tale sign that I’m minutes away from angry hives climbing up my body. “I know your father is strict, Amy. But that should only apply to the tennis court. You’re 24 years old. You should be allowed to make your own choices.”

I don’t have time to explain my relationship with my father to Vince. Instead, I keep my gaze on him. “Just keep this between us, okay? Aurelio is nothing serious, I promise.” The words feel like a lie when they leave my lips, but I don’t know why.

Vince nods slowly. “Sure, Amy. If that’s what you want.”

I sigh in relief. “Thank you. Seriously.” I give him an awkward wave and then hurry back to Aurelio. Fortunately, no hives erupted. Thank God Vince is efficient on and off the court.

Aurelio packed up the souvenirs, his worried gaze following me back to the table. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.” I plop back into my seat, trying to remain at ease. “I was just explaining to Vince what this is.”

I know it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as I say it.

Aurelio raises a brow. “What this is?” he repeats.

My hand finds the silverware on the table, aimlessly spinning the knife around on the tablecloth. I don’t look at him. “I explained that we’re too busy for anything serious.” I peek up at him, but he doesn’t give me much. “It’s just a date.”

Aurelio opens his mouth to reply, a furrow between his brows, but our server stops by the table to ask for our drink orders. “Sangria,” I blurt out. “A pitcher, please.”

The server nods competently, turning to Aurelio. “And for you, sir?”

Aurelio is still looking at me coolly. “We’ll share.”

When the server leaves us, I try to steer the conversation back to familiar territory. “Your match yesterday went well,” I offer him. “Matas can be a tricky opponent. His ranking is only so low because of his wrist surgery last year.”

Aurelio nods slowly. “Yes, my coaches and I were pleased. Everything went smoothly.”

He sounds like he’s talking to the media, not a fellow tennis player. I dig deeper, eager to talk strategy with someone of his level. “Was the plan going in to attack his second serve? Or did you decide on the day when you saw he was struggling?”

Beck hates when I switch gears in the middle of a match, but sometimes it’s needed. Aurelio tilts his head, thinking. “It was always the plan. His serving hasn’t been as strong since the surgery.”

Conversation flows easier over the next hour as we sip our sangria and eat our meal. I love all the tennis talk. It feels familiar and safe. It’s the only kind of talk I’m used to. Usually, when I went on dates in the past, there was little talk at all, just excuses to leave early and make out in a shared Uber.

Maybe there are pros to dating a tennis player.

Once we’ve finished our dessert, a delicious tres leches cake, Aurelio asks, “Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. I glance outside at the crashing surf. The cool March air outside does look inviting.

I smile. “Let’s do it.” Outside on the terrace, I strip off my socks and sneakers. The sand feels gentle under my feet. This is what Beck doesn’t appreciate about Miami. The nights are perfect.

Aurelio searches the sky again, gaze always skyward. “Is there a particular star you’re looking for?” I ask him. We walk along the beach, getting as close as we can to the waves without getting wet. There aren’t too many people outside. Perhaps townies find the March air too cold. It suits me just fine.

Aurelio glances down at me. His elbow brushes mine. “The first one I learned from my mother was Perseus.” He scans the sky. “It’s easier to see in the winter.”

I know Perseus is a hero from Greek Mythology, but not much else. It’s the first time I’ve heard Aurelio mention his mother. “What did Perseus do?”

Aurelio’s expression is strangely far away. “He’s probably most famous for killing Medusa. But I’ve always liked the story about Perseus slaying the sea beast. His future wife, Andromeda, was chained to a rock by her parents as a sacrifice to the beast. Perseus, a child of Zeus, beheaded the beast with a harpe.”

“Not bad.” I shrug. “Though if I was Andromeda, I would fight tooth and nail not to be chained in the first place.”

Aurelio chuckles lowly. “Would you, Amy?” It’s harder to see his face out here in the relative darkness. The warm glow from the restaurant and the stars above barely glance off his cheekbones, light his hair. His hand bumps me, and I jump. I feel strange. Out of control, in a way. My dates in the past never felt this way. There’s been little flirtation, innuendo, swapping of hotel keys. There’s been more listening, charged silence, my heartbeat too loud in my ear.

I try to drown it out. “What’s the strategy for tomorrow? Rollins is a harder opponent. American, like me. He’s been on the tour for over a decade. I’d recommend—”