Page 13 of Love, Amy

Aurelio laughs at me. This time, it’s not a joyous sound. “How can there be more, Amy? We already talked about tennis for over an hour at dinner.”

The breeze picks up, raising goosebumps on my arms. I fold them tight to my chest. I turn to face him. “We are tennis players, Aurelio. At one of the biggest tennis tournaments of the year.”

At this angle, half of Aurelio’s face is in the shadows. “You’re different than I thought,” he admits, voice quiet. “Different than that night.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying. Now it’s my turn to laugh. It sounds sharp in the starry air. “The night where I lost my first Grand Slam final? The night where you found me crying in the garden?”

Aurelio shakes his head impatiently. “It wasn’t the crying, Amy. It was the openness, the vulnerability.” He seeks something in my face, but whatever it is, he doesn’t find it. He lowers his voice. “That’s what I’m missing tonight.”

I throw my arms out. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not really that pathetic girl. I’m a Bowman.”

“A Bowman?” Disgust leaks into Aurelio’s words. His accent thickens. “And what is that? A tennis player?”

I lean towards him, arms folded tightly again. “Obviously.”

Aurelio leans in, too. I can just see his eyelashes, the mole pressing into his jaw. “A tennis player? And what else?” I take a step back as though I’ve been struck. “What else do you enjoy, Amy? What else do you do? What else do you love?”

I don’t show him how much the words hurt. “Stop it, Aurelio.” The words are cold. I straighten my spine, grit my teeth. “Just stop.”

Aurelio deflates a little, sighing. “I’m sorry.” He tries to reach for me, for my hands, but I don’t let him. My face is a mask. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, expression open. “But you have to know, I love tennis, too. When I played in the juniors, I was just like you. I thought all the greats lived on tennis. That was all they needed, so that was all I needed. But...” He runs an aggravated hand through his hair, trying to find the words. “But tennis will never love you back. Never.”

He’s offered me his vulnerability, but I won’t show him mine. “So, you’re saying that I should give up on tennis and date you? Is that it?”

“No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “You’re the best in the world. You’re amazing out there. I’m just saying that tennis can’t be the only way you fulfill yourself.” He struggles with the words. “It can’t be the only thing... filling you up.”

It’s tempting. It always has been. On the days tennis isn’t working, on the days I’m losing, on the days Beck sits me down and criticizes everything I do, I consider just throwing it away. Fading into anonymity. Finding a man to marry. Working a steady job. Staying in one place. Two different versions of Amy, two different futures. There is no halfway, not in the way that Aurelio is describing. How can I possibly keep track of a boyfriend, of a partner, while I’m traveling the globe and competing? I don’t have the space. I won’t make room for him and push tennis out. I won’t fall for someone and then fall down the rankings.

I won’t win at love and lose at tennis.

Aurelio reads the conclusion I reach on my face before I even put it into words. I shake my head at him. “What did you expect? That I wanted some sort of fairytale romance? That this is a good time for me to take a risk?”

A smile just lifts the corner of his mouth. A sad one. “I thought you’d fight more against the chains.”

I bristle at the accusation. “Don’t talk to me again,” I warn him. “You don’t know anything about me or my life.”

I turn around, stomping back up the beach to the restaurant. I furiously call an Uber, surprised my screen looks blurry. Tears burn in my eyes, angry and hurt. How dare Aurelio speak to me that way? How dare he judge me for my passion, for my focus?

But even as I shiver in front of the restaurant, waiting for my ride and blinking back tears, I glance over my shoulder. I expect him to come and apologize.

He never does.

CHAPTER 7

Miami Tournament: March 2026

I don’t see or hear from Aurelio for the next week. Fernanda shocks the world by losing in the third round, leaving the tournament wide open for me. Any lingering doubts caused by Aurelio’s words have been shoved down, hidden by the rush of the game. I’m attacking better than ever, moving well in the heat. I’m mentally locked down, the rest of the world pushed away.

The night I win the tournament, under the lights and with the crowd on their feet, I stand alone. I hoist the trophy up, a heavy glass sculpture, and smile for the numerous pictures. I thank my father, Vince, and Rafe during my courtside interview. I graciously give credit to my opponent and her efforts.

It does feel a bit hollow.

“Ames!” Beck calls to me in the media room after the match. My heart lifts, surprised by his enthusiasm. He grins at me, clapping me on the shoulder as I approach. “Fernanda pulled out of Charleston. She has an abductor strain. Should be another easy win.”

I’m frozen. Did he even congratulate me before we’re talking about the next tournament? The next win? Is this how I sounded to Aurelio? Beck picks up on my confusion. “Here, kid.” He grabs the tennis bag off my shoulder, jovial. “I’ll get the car.”

He heads towards the parking lot, whistling. I sink down onto one of the couches they have for press and players to wait on. Vince finds me there, head in my hands. “You okay, Amy?” His voice immediately takes on a professional tone, searching me for injuries. “Something hurt?”

I lower my hands, looking up at him. “No, I’m fine. Just waiting for Beck to get the car.”