Page 11 of Love, Amy

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My father and I have connecting hotel rooms for most tournaments. It’s useful for our training, as he can just knock and wake me up in the morning before we head to practice. We’ve had some of our best strategy sessions as the sun rises. Tennis matches last as long as they last, so maintaining a consistent sleep schedule is nearly impossible.

The connecting rooms are less useful when I’m trying to sneak out of said room to meet Aurelio for dinner.

Fortunately, my match yesterday on Center Court was an easy win, as expected. There was nothing in particular to analyze besides preparation for tomorrow’s match, which is against Alexandrina Markova, a Czech player, ranked 79 in the world. She’s a wonderful doubles player, so she’ll constantly try to drag me up to the net. We watched some film on her, Vince and I stretched while playing Scrabble, and then I was sternly told by my father to “get some rest.”

Instead, I double check my reflection in the hotel bathroom’s mirror. I hadn’t packed my suitcase with a date in mind. As a tennis player, you become an expert at carelessly throwing a few athleisure outfits in a suitcase and then very carefully packing your rackets and equipment. Luckily for me, Nike always sends a bundle of free clothes and tennis kits to each tournament. This tournament, I’m wearing a pale yellow tennis dress that is nicely offset by my tan. They also packed a few extra skirts and dresses for casual wear and sponsored posts on my social media. There’s a black one that is clearly not meant for competing, as the Spandex dips low in the back and high in the front. The skirt flits out around my hips, light and airy for the Miami breeze. I pin my blond hair up in a loose updo, a few tendrils framing my face. I only have sneakers or slides, so I decide on a classic pair of white dunks. With a little shimmering lip gloss and my signature three gold hoops in each ear, I have to admit the truth.

I look good.

I twirl in front of the mirror, smiling as the skirt expertly flutters in the air. I leave the bathroom and grab my purse, hotel keycard, and cellphone off the dresser. I tiptoe to Beck’s connecting door, listening for his telltale snores. Beck wakes up every morning at 5 a.m., so that means he’s sound asleep by 9 p.m. Sometimes earlier.

Sure enough, I can hear his rumbling breath and razor-saw snore through the door. Usually it helps me sleep, like white noise. I try not to imagine how he’d react if he knew I was leaving. To go on a date the night before a match. To go on a date with Aurelio Santoro, a constant presence and distraction on tour.

Instead, I walk quietly out of my room and imagine Aurelio’s smile when I said he was warm. He’s unlike any other man I’ve gone out with. While Beck has never encouraged dating, that hasn’t stopped me from dipping my toe in the pool in the past behind his back. However, in the past, there were lines even I wouldn’t cross. No ATP men’s players. No relationships that lasted longer than a month. No dates during a tournament.

I’m breaking every one of those tonight.

I take a car the hotel acquires for me to the restaurant Aurelio chose. He promised me he would get us a private table, away from prying eyes. I offered to ride with him to the restaurant, as we’re both staying at the same hotel, but he explained that he and his team were exploring the city during the afternoon. Beck is like a hermit on off days, liable to stay within the limits of the gym and his hotel room. I’m a little surprised when we pull up to the seaside restaurant. It’s cute and colorful, right on the water. The stone path to the front door is surrounded by cool sand. I almost wish I was wearing my slides after all, so I could feel it between my toes. I wish I had my surfboard and was hitting the waves. The salt on the breeze smells intoxicating, fooling me and letting my shoulders fall.

By the time I enter the Cuban restaurant, I’m buzzing with excitement and curiosity. I give the hostess his name. The young woman, dressed in all black, is very used to tennis stars this time of year. She smiles at me. “He’s already seated, Ms. Bowman.” She gestures for me to follow. Over her shoulder, she says casually, “Good match yesterday, by the way.”

I smile at her. It feels different to get attention without Beck beside me. More genuine, in a way. “Thank you.” She leads me to an intimate table in the restaurant’s back corner. There’s a gorgeous light fixture hanging over it, as though to mark it as exclusive. The lightbulbs refract off of bits of colored glass, touching Aurelio’s handsome face with glimmers of the rainbow. He wears black slacks and a white button-down shirt. I wish I could have stood there a moment longer, counting Aurelio’s freckles as he stared intently at the menu. Instead, the hostess gives me a little nudge and pulls out my chair opposite him.

His eyes snap to me. I expect him to trace me up and down, appreciate my smooth tanned skin, my sculpted legs, my collarbones and slim waist. I’ve received those types of looks before. Instead, his warm gaze never moves off my face. “Amy.”

“Aurelio.” I try to stop my smile, but it’s taken over my face. The hostess leaves us with an incline of her head. I gratefully sink into my seat, if only to be closer to him. “I’m surprised.” His brow furrows. I lean in. “No Italian tonight?”

A laugh bursts out of him, clean and clear. He shakes his head, grinning. “No, no Italian tonight. It makes me miss home when Americans get it wrong.” I hang my purse over the back of the chair, and pick up the menu, scanning the options. My diet under Beck Bowman, arranged now by Vince, is very boring and spartan. I hope Aurelio wants dessert.

There’s no movement across the table. I look back up at him. “Did you already decide what you want?”

His gaze is soft, affectionate even. “I’m glad you came,” he admits. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

I wonder if beneath the kind words, there’s a criticism of my father. I take on the compliment but change the subject. “How was your day? Is Miami one of your favorite stops on the tour?” The question is basically a tennis player’s version of small talk since we’re always traveling. I’m partial to a tournament with abundant sunshine and a lot of beach in front of my feet. I wonder if Aurelio’s favorite is the one where the stars shine brightest.

Aurelio launches into an impassioned speech about all the sights he saw in Miami. His enthusiasm is endearing. It turns even more so when he pulls out a little plastic souvenir bag, carefully showing me what he bought for each of his family members back in Rome. Big, sparkly sunglasses for his niece Bianca who’s only six years old. A Miami baseball cap for his dad to add to his international collection. A Christmas tree ornament for his nona, who’s in her 90s. A pink Lionel Messi jersey for his older brother, Alessandro.

“Let me see those.” I snatch up the glittery sunglasses. Aurelio smiles as I put them on. I tilt my head to the side, posing for him. “How do they look?”

He laughs at the sight of the children’s sunglasses squeezing my head. “Very bella, Amy. Very bella.”

Our private table has one huge flaw: it’s next to the bathroom. A few people wander past our intimate corner table towards it, and I do my best to avoid their gazes. I fail spectacularly when I see a familiar, tall figure walking our way. “Amy.” Vince slows when he sees me, confusion coloring his face.

I quickly pull the sunglasses off. They clatter too loudly against the table. My mouth opens and closes twice, unsure what to say. Will he tell Beck I was here? Will he text him as soon as he gets to the bathroom? Will he wait until tomorrow morning, ambush me when we’re all together? Maybe Vince reads the panic on my face because he immediately reaches and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. He turns to face Aurelio, who watches us with a concerned expression. “Aurelio, right?” He reaches out a hand and they shake. “I know your coach, Antonio. He played around the same time as my sister did.”

It takes Aurelio a moment to connect the dots. His next few words rush out in excitement. “Your sister was Barbara Dade? I had a poster of her on my wall growing up!”

Vince’s smile grows. “Really? In Italy?”

Aurelio leans back in his seat. The rainbow light falls right over his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “She was big even there,” he confirms. “I’ve watched her four-hour match at Wimbledon many times. It was very inspiring.”

Vince is moved by Aurelio’s genuine compliments, I can tell. He pats me on the shoulder, not noticing how stiff I’ve become. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” Vince turns away, heading towards the bathroom.

The panic surges through my veins again. “Just one second,” I tell Aurelio, getting up from my seat to follow Vince. “Vince!” I trail a few steps behind him in the dim bathroom hallway. I have to step around a few servers. “Vince!”

He turns to look at me, confused. “Amy?”