Page 23 of Love, Amy

I manage to break her serve in the very first game. 1-0, Amy. Now, it’s my turn. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, beads my upper lip, coats the baby hairs sticking to my forehand. I love the feeling. I’m here, on Center Court, playing to win one of the biggest tournaments of the year.

I’m a Bowman. I’m a winner.

I rattle two aces off. Genesis hardly reacts as they careen past her. She remains laser-focused on me. She won’t be rattled, I know. She’s done this song and dance too many times. I win my first serving game easily. My serve is online, singing off my racket.

My father even gives me an approving fist pump when I look up at the box.

The first set passes in a blur. I ultimately win it 6-2, giving Genesis very little space to breathe. She can’t quite handle the speed of my forehand and serve. When I send them spinning in the empty space of the court she can’t run them down fast enough. She’s a legend, but her time is over.

It’s my time now.

On the changeover before the next set, I guzzle my water and shove a few bites of banana in my mouth. Women’s matches are best of three, so I just need to win the next set to move on to the finals. Another Grand Slam final. I glance up at Beck in my coach’s box. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he barks. “It’s working.”

I nod resolutely. That’s practically glowing praise from Beck. I spare a glance at Genesis, who’s listening intently to her coaches. She nods a few times, face determined. The umpire finally calls time, and we resume our places on the court.

Genesis starts the second set the exact same way she did the first one. She brings the heat, and I’m ready for it, hitting a solid return to the corner opposite her.

Except, she’s no longer opposite the corner. She’s in it. As I hit my return, she adjusted her position to hit it right back to me. Out of my reach. Point for Genesis.

It becomes clear as we play that Genesis’ coaches pointed out my game plan. A player as experienced as Genesis understands strategy. Now that she knows mine, she’ll do her best to thwart it. I still sneak some past her, but they’re few and far between. She ultimately ekes out a win after 11 agonizing minutes. I huff out a breath in irritation. I head to the baseline to dial up my serve. It’s still online, thank God, but Genesis is motivated by the progress she’s seen on her side. She whacks ball after ball my way. Every time she wins a point, the crowd surges to its feet. I manage to hold onto my serve, but barely.

We go back and forth, back and forth. Tie game. Tie game. Tie game.

Finally, we have to go to the tiebreaker. No more deuces, no more advantages, no more mini ties where we get stuck for minutes. Instead, it’s just first to seven points.

My father has begun his litany of directives again. “Serve it out wide, Amy! She won’t be able to get there in time.”

I toss the ball high overhead, watching it carve through the setting sun. The shadows are falling strangely over the court, and it’s difficult to see. I hit my first serve into the net, losing my opportunity to paint her into a corner. Genesis smiles beautifully across the court, smelling blood. I serve a slow second serve, an easy one for her to return.

She’s still smiling when her drop shot barely skims over my side of the net. I never had a chance. 1-0, Genesis.

The rest of the tiebreak continues in the same manner. Instead of enjoying the pleasure of heat, of sweat and effort, I’m beginning to feel cold. The same droplets of sweat that earlier seemed like proof I was going to win now feel like ice on the back of my neck. She ultimately wins the tiebreaker for the second set 7-3. My serve is a little off; my panic is off the charts.

We both head to our benches. My hands are shaking when I pick up my towel, hurrying to wipe off the icy sweat. I feel a little sick, but I can’t show that to Genesis. I carefully pick up my water bottle, attempting to hide my nerves.

Beck shouts at my back. “Keep hitting to her backhand, Ames. And serve wide as often as you can.” His voice quiets a little. “If you can get a damn first serve in.”

I don’t respond to him. There’s no point. He’s not wrong.

It feels like hours ago that Aurelio was telling me he wished I could be in the crowd at his match. Now, I desperately wish the same. Every person in this crowd is rooting for Genesis. Even Beck probably admires her. They played at the same time. She’s everything he wishes I could be.

But Aurelio, I feel sure he would be cheering for me.

The match turns into a mirage in the final set. I’m chasing and chasing the elusive promise of relief, but it’s just out of reach. My serve never returns to me. I hit more and more balls into the net or off the court completely. Genesis eggs on the crowd, rightfully so. Her braided crown looks more and more like a laurel of victory. Beck’s screams of frustration melt into the crowd’s shouts of joy when Genesis wins a point off of me. She ends up winning the match 7-6, 6-4. It’s close, exactly what the crowd wanted. David won, but Goliath put up a fight, even won a set.

Genesis throws both hands up in the air when she wins, dropping her racket in disbelief. This is her moment. Her epic comeback. At least, if I’m a loser, I’m a loser to someone as legendary as her.

Tears prick my eyes, but I don’t dare let them fall. I walk up to the net slowly, letting Genesis savor the moment. It feels nice to actually watch her enjoy it, rather than rage at my own failures. When I lost in Australia, I beat my racket to a pulp, screaming in frustration at my serve, at my mistakes. Now, I feel a strange numbness.

Genesis realizes I’m waiting at the net to shake her hand and hurries over. She pumps my hand eagerly. “Good match,” she says easily. It’s what we’re all trained to say, no matter how tense the match gets. We shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and thank the umpire. Of course, the most beloved players, like Fernanda, might say a little something extra. I usually can barely utter the words.

Today, I try to make them sound sincere. “Good match, Genesis.” She must hear the tremor in my voice because she looks away from the crowd and back to my face. Her wise eyes miss nothing.

“Oh, honey.” She squeezes my hands. “Don’t let today chase away all the good. You’re amazing, Amy. Really. My daughter likes watching you play the best. Better than her own mom.”

Our collective eyes dart to where her three-year-old is sitting and smiling in the crowd. “Really?”

Genesis nods. “Absolutely. Especially when you throw a tantrum and break your racket.”