Page 57 of Love, Amy

“Maybe he rolled over and saw your text,” I suggest. “If he was sitting with her all night, would he say not to worry?”

Aurelio’s expression doesn’t change. “They said not to worry the day before my mother died.”

I lace our fingers together. “How about I go to Rome with you? After the Open? We can both check on Nona.”

His expression eases a touch. “You did promise to meet my family. My father was very disappointed he missed you at Wimbledon. He thought I was making you up.”

“Now I can meet them all at once.” I squeeze his hand. “It’s a date.” I pull him to his feet. “Come on. I think you need some rest, too. We both have a semifinal in two days.”

We walk out into the crisp darkness hand-in-hand. I can tell Aurelio is trying, a facade of cheerfulness settling on his features. He keeps glancing at his phone, even as we head towards the car.

He doesn’t look at the stars once.

*

I win a routine semifinal against Jasmine Moore. Fernanda won hers against Halle Kendall yesterday in three sets, waving easily to the crowd after an exhausting 10-point tiebreak. All four of us ate dinner together at Wimbledon a couple of weeks ago. It’s strange to hug Jasmine at the net rather than the perfunctory handshake I used to do.

Fernanda and I will face off tomorrow.

Aurelio is set to face Charles Allard again in his semifinal, something I’m sure Charles is foaming at the mouth for. Without a coach, he’ll be looking to prove himself against Aurelio and make a statement.

After my match, I watch on the gym TV as Aurelio and Charles take the court. Charles is projecting confidence, though I have to wonder if it’s fake. He clearly fired his coach because Aurelio beat him at Wimbledon, a gutsy and reckless move. Another loss to Aurelio could be fatal to his ego. Aurelio looks tired, a bit rundown, avoiding the love from the crowd. He’s been having trouble sleeping since he heard his nona was sick.

Even without Aurelio’s usual enthusiasm, the crowd is energized. There are dozens of Italian and French flags waving in the crowd, devoted fans fighting their corner. Tennis fans love the matchup, Allard the number one in the world, Aurelio up to number three. I watch Aurelio robotically get ready, warming up his serve and missing quite a few into the net. Hopefully, the crowd’s response will get him into the match.

I’m proven wrong almost immediately.

Aurelio starts by double faulting. When he makes a mistake, Aurelio usually just shakes it off and keeps going. This time, he rubs his eyes like he isn’t seeing clearly. He dribbles the ball off his foot and has to get a new one from the ball kid.

When he finally gets his serve in, it’s slow and heavy. Allard blasts it right past Aurelio on the return. Aurelio usually loves running his opponents ragged, but it’s like he’s wearing ankle weights. His step is heavy, his reactions stunted.

I’m not the only one who’s shocked when the match ends 6-1, 6-0.

Even Allard just claps Aurelio on the shoulder like an older brother would after the match. The Frenchman is no longer peacocking but instead looking at Aurelio with concern. When Aurelio walks off the court, he’s in a daze.

The match was so short Vince and I didn’t even fully finish my cooldown.

Vince voices what everyone is thinking. “What’s wrong with your boy? Do you know anything?”

I have my suspicions, but I wait until Aurelio walks into the gym. He heads towards the bike right next to mine, on autopilot. I don’t think he even sees me, eyes trained on the floor. His head coach, Antonio, trails behind him worriedly. He meets my gaze and shakes his head, unsure. Aurelio gets on the bike, pedaling slowly.

I gently tap his shoulder. “Aurelio? Are you okay?”

I’m surprised when he makes a choking noise like he’s about to cry. Antonio hovers on the other side of the bike, protectively blocking him from the view of Jasmine and her team. They get the message and start packing up their things. Fortunately for us, Charles will be on court for a few more minutes doing interviews and signing autographs. “I can’t do it,” Aurelio finally whispers, his voice shaking. He grips the handles of the bike, white knuckled.

I lean closer to him. “Do what?”

When he gazes up at me, his dark eyes are filled with tears. “I can’t play tennis again while my family dies at home. I won’t do it.”

“Aurelio.” I try to stay calm, but my heart races. “Did you hear something about Nona?”

“She’s in the hospital.” Aurelio stops pedaling, rubbing his eyes. “She has pneumonia. My father called me right before the match.”

That explains his poor play and vacant expression. Antonio surprises me by speaking up. “You should have forfeited.” His words surprise Aurelio enough that he looks over at his coach. Antonio shrugs. “Or we could have faked an injury. You were in no shape, Lio.” The nickname softens the blow, but Aurelio still winces.

“I was terrible out there. I know. He called right before I was supposed to go out. I thought I could play through it, for just one match, but my mind wasn’t on the court.”

“One match is nothing.” I wave it away. “Now we need to figure out how to get you home. Did you look at flights?”