Page 18 of Love, Amy

And then we play.

Aurelio is my age, 24, so it’s a little shocking to see how much he’s improved in the span of a few months. He’s been in and out of the top twenty the last few years, but this is his first time in the top ten. His game is really coming together at the right time. He’s always been an incredible mover with great reach. Every ball you think is about to bounce past him is returned at the last second. But now, his serve has improved dramatically.

On the fourth ace he rockets past me, I can only stand in disbelief. I point a hand at the radar. “141 mph, Aurelio!” I yell across the court. “That has to be a career high.” Typically, women don’t serve higher than 125 or 130 miles per hour. Even for the men, anything over 140 is fast. I think I could get used to the speed if I saw it more often, but the shock factor alone leaves me one step behind.

“My apologies, signora!” Aurelio mock bows. “You did tell me to bring my best.”

I’m already thinking about how I can change my return position to hit the serve back into play. I smile viscously. “Do it again!” I respond. “I think I can get it with a few more tries.”

Aurelio grins, too. “Of course—”

I know I’m having a good match when my father fades away. When I forget that he’s even watching and all I see is my opponent. That’s why I’m a little surprised when I hear him chuckling. Aurelio and I both look at him at the same time. “Amy.” He puts his hands out. “Let’s not waste the man’s time.”

“Waste his time?” I wipe some of the sweat off my brow. “What are you talking about?” I shift on my heels impatiently. My body hums, ready to play. I hate the interruption, the coldness that seeps into my bones when he speaks to me this way.

Beck crosses his arms. “There’s no point, Amy. Women aren’t fast enough to return serves like that. Let’s not get distracted.”

I grit my teeth. “I know it will be difficult, but it’s great practice. Aurelio doesn’t mind. It’s only about 10 miles an hour faster than I’m used to. Maybe if I just change my court positioning—”

He barks a laugh. “Court positioning? It’s not a strategy issue, Amy, it’s biology.”

My body is humming in a different way now. I struggle to keep my voice even. “So what exactly are you saying?” I walk a little closer to him. I can see the sweat on his brow, too. “That even though I’m your daughter, biologically yours, I’ll never be as great as the men’s players? Never as great as you were?”

Beck crosses his arms, impatient. “It’s just a fact that women can’t hit as hard, run as fast, compete as well as men can. If you haven’t noticed, that’s on you.”

I laugh, sharp as a razor. I can feel Aurelio drifting behind me, unsure of what to do. “If I haven’t noticed?” I throw out my arms. “How can I not notice my deficiencies when I’m in the presence of the great Beck Bowman? How can I not feel in these moments like you wanted a son instead of me?” I take another step towards him, desperately wanting his face to disagree with my words. For him to show some loyalty, some possessiveness towards me. Instead, he watches me impassively. Once we’re face to face, I lower my voice. The words still come out laced in anger. “How can I not feel like you’ll always resent me for tearing you away from the court?”

Beck lays a calming hand on my shoulder. I look up into his face, at the wrinkles making themselves known in his forehead. He has very few smile lines around his eyes. “Amy.” He leans in, confident that he can make things right between us. “I don’t regret working with you all these years. You’ve shown that you have the Bowman fighting spirit.” His second sentence softens me a little, some of the anger draining away. He rarely acknowledges that he’s my father. That we have anything in common at all.

The corner of Beck’s mouth tilts up in a smile. “I certainly won’t regret it once you win a Grand Slam.”

My blood runs cold. I step out of his grip. “You almost had me,” I murmur, already turning away. “Thanks, Dad.”

I walk right off the court, past the bench with my things, out through the gate. I don’t look back, but I hear Aurelio following me. It reminds me that he and his team witnessed the entire argument. They heard what my father said to me. The anger finally dissipates, leaving something lonely and shamed in its place.

Aurelio catches up to me, looking over his shoulder guardedly. “Amy?” His fingers brush against mine as we walk to nowhere. “What can I do?”

I swerve around a reporter, trying to keep my head down. “I just need a second.” I clench and unclench my fists. My chest feels tight. “Away from all the people.” It dawns on me that other players, coaches, tennis commentators—they might have heard our argument. They could be talking about this on ESPN later today. It will look even worse if I fall to pieces on the sidewalk.

Aurelio is already scanning the area, looking for a private spot. He grabs my hand, still warm from practice. “This way.” I keep my eyes on my feet, counting my steps until Aurelio is pulling me through a door after a swipe of the key card he pulls from his pocket. It feels cool inside, and blessedly dim. Aurelio tugs me towards the wall, where a bench juts out underneath a row of lockers. “Here, Amy. Sit.” He gently pushes my shoulders.

I breathe in the quiet air. There’s no one with us, just a few soft lights and the cool metal of a locker at my back. Aurelio stands above me, watching the door in case someone comes inside. Lockers are mostly used during matches, so the early days of the tournament shouldn’t bring too many visitors.

After a few more breaths, my body feels like my own again. I can’t remember ever being so angry at Beck. What’s strange is—he’s said those types of things before. I just usually ignore them. Ignore him. Was it the fact that we had witnesses? Was it that one of those witnesses was Aurelio who is exactly the opposite of my father in every way? I can’t even imagine Aurelio saying those things.

I scan the room. “Is this the men’s locker room?”

Aurelio shrugs. “It was the first place I thought of.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence between us. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since those weeks ago in the media room. I break it first. “I’m sorry,” I say, plucking at my tennis skirt. “I shouldn’t let him get to me.”

Aurelio shakes his head, hurrying to sit beside me on the bench. His knee brushes mine. “Amy.” I love the way he says my name. Urgently. Hopefully. “Your father is wrong. You don’t need a Grand Slam to be great.”

I huff a laugh. “How can you say that? He’s the greatest tennis player the world’s ever seen and it’s because he won 18 Grand Slams. Men like you will chase his shadow for years and may never find it.”

“I’m chasing me,” Aurelio says firmly. Surprised by his tone, I meet his gaze. “I know some men like your father chase greatness by comparing themselves to other players, past and present. By obsessing over how to beat them, how to break their records, how to make them victims of his dominance. He wants you to be that way, too. How often does he talk to you about Fernanda?” My silence says it all. He takes a deep breath. “Do you know how I’ve gotten better this year? Because I’m playing for that version of me that loves tennis. That loves running on the open court, chasing down a ball, sliding across the clay. I’m not playing to win; I’m playing to feel.”

I want to understand what he’s saying, but I don’t. “Winning matters, Aurelio. It’s all that matters. No one talks about losers.”